Big Wheat

by Richard A. Thompson

  Five miles later, the motor sputtered and almost died. Since it didn’t quit completely, he figured it must be the bad sparkplug wire. Just what he needed. He had figured a wire was loose when he was first starting the bike up, back at the Wick place. Now he thought it might actually have a break in it, under the insulation. He looked at the road behind him. The pickup was still out of sight, but it wouldn’t be for long.

  He couldn’t fix anything if he didn’t know which wire had the problem. He reached down and pulled the wire off the front plug, and the motor died completely. So it was the rear one. He put the bike up on its stand and began frantically searching through a saddlebag. Was it still there?

  In the road behind him, a tiny dot came into view.

  He rummaged some more. Please, please, please. And suddenly there it was: the magneto wire he had pulled off the Model T in Minot. He looked again at the road behind him. If he didn’t get the Indian working in another five minutes, he would just have to take his chances in a straightforward gunfight. And he had no illusions about how good a shot he was. But if he died fighting, at least the people at the Ark should be safe.

  He cleaned up the wire ends with his bayonet, put the sparkplug clip from the old wire onto the end of the new one, and replaced the wire. Then he put the plug end of the front wire back where it had been before he had pulled it off, and he kicked over the motor. The pickup was a quarter of a mile away now, and he could see the driver pointing a revolver around the windshield. He kicked the Indian over again. The pickup driver was shooting now. On the third try, the Indian fired, settling into as smooth an idle as he had ever heard. He threw it in gear and opened it up. The evil chugged along behind him, again falling behind.

  The evil? Give it a name. He didn’t know the name of the bindlestiff pretending to be a lawman. He had heard the other sheriff call him Hollander, but he knew that to be completely phony. He decided to call him The Hound, as in the game, “foxes and hounds” that he and his brother had once played in the snow. And that, of course, made him the fox. And indeed, he would need all the sly cunning he could muster, if he was going to survive, since, as his brother had told him so long ago, he did not have the instincts of a fighter.

  Or did he? He had spent so much time being mad at himself for not defending Emily from Stringbean, that it had never occurred to him that he might have changed since then. And when she was being threatened again, this time by a deputy, Charlie had run the man through with his bayonet without a second thought. It had all happened so fast, he hadn’t even had time to digest it yet. When his woman was threatened, he had been able to swallow all his fears and do the necessary deed. Did it also mean the fox could turn the hound into the quarry? It at least seemed possible.

  Fifty miles later, the land turned rocky and barren again, and the farms were few and far between. Ahead of him, on the left, he saw a lone man with a pack on a bindle stick. He was about Charlie’s age and build, and he walked with a bad limp. Would he know a place to get gas? It couldn’t hurt to ask. And if he left him on the road, the Hound could well shoot him by mistake. He slowed to a stop.

  “Where you headed?” said Charlie.

  “Home.”

  “Is that far?”

  “Only about five more miles. I’ll make it before dark, all right.”

  “Why don’t you hop on, and you’ll make it for sure.”

  “I would surely appreciate that, mister.”

  “Charlie.”

  “Lee,” said the other man. His handshake was firm without overdoing it. He climbed on behind Charlie, and they were off.

  “What’s wrong with your leg, Lee?”

  “Ahh, I got stabbed with a pitchfork.”

  “Nasty. Threshing?”

  “Yeah. I do it every year after our own crop is in. Brings in a little extra cash. The guy who stuck me didn’t mean anything by it; he was just careless.”

  “Bad place to be careless, on a threshing crew.”

  “Ain’t it, though?”

  Ten minutes later, they were pulling into the yard of a farm with a small, run-down house and a barn with a shed addition on only one side. Charlie stopped in front of the house.

  “I don’t suppose your folks would have some gasoline they would sell me?”

  “Hell, if Pa knows you brung me home, he’ll give it to you, sure as anything.”

  “I’m in kind of a hurry.”

  “I’ll tell him so.” He disappeared into the house. The forty-something man who came back out with him introduced himself as Oscar Loman, and together they went to a machine shed on the side of a corn crib, where they filled Charlie’s tank out of a fifty-five gallon drum that was up on a steel frame. They also filled the oil tank.

  “I surely do appreciate you bringing my boy home, mister.”

  “It seemed like the right thing to do.”

  “It’s too bad he had to quit the harvest early, of course, but he’s a fine lad and I’m just happy he made it back. Every time he does, it’s a celebration. Will you stay to lunch?”

  “I wish I could. But I’ve got a long ways to go and a short time to get gone.”

  “Well, just take a bag of food with you, then. I’d be insulted if you didn’t.”

  “I really can’t take the time.”

  “You got somebody after you?”

  Charlie nodded.

  “Then, we’ll be really quick.” He called into the house. “Mother, fetch this fine young man a bag of food, toot sweet. I think he’s got some mighty hard traveling to do.”

  Inside the house, Mrs. Loman made sandwiches while Charlie met three of Lee’s sisters of various ages and a brother who was much younger. They were all seated around a kitchen table that was already set with some kind of coiled sausage on a platter and a bowl full of boiled potatoes. It didn’t look like enough food for three people, let alone seven, but nobody looked disappointed. There were candles on the table. “We don’t really need the extra light,” she said as she stuffed food into a small burlap bag, “but I like the candles on special occasions. Don’t you, Mr…?”

  “Bacon. Charlie Bacon.”

  “Is your family from around here, Mr. Bacon?”

  “My family? No. My family travels. We’re sort of like Gypsies.”

  “Then you must hurry and catch up to them. Will you say grace for us, before you go?”

  “Huh?”

  “Anything at all.”

  “Oh. Okay.” They had never said grace at Charlie’s home, and he was amazed at how easily the words came out of his mouth. He continued to stand, but he took off his snap-brim hat and lowered his head.

  “Lord, for the bounty of the earth and the joys of family and friends, may we always be truly grateful.”

  Oscar Loman added, “And may those alone on the road find guidance and comfort.”

  By the time people had finished saying “amen,” Charlie was already out the door and running for the Indian.

  ***

  As he pulled back onto the main road, he could see the Model T, maybe a mile and a half away. This was good. Because even though he was well into another county by now, he definitely wanted to be followed. He watched the distant vehicle for a moment, waiting to be sure it was close enough to get a look at him. As he watched, it started to snow, first light, dust-like flakes and then puffy, thick ones. This was even better. He wanted to leave a track that the Hound couldn’t miss. He had told Mrs. Loman the truth about his family. His true family, the one that mattered, traveled. And it was up to him to do whatever it took to make sure the Hound never followed them again.

  Chapter 30

  Way Station

  Charlie risked a look over his shoulder, always a chancy maneuver, as it threatened to upset his already precarious balance. The single line of his own tire track stretched back through the new snow as far as he could see, a wavy black line on pristine white. Better and better. With no chance of Hound missing the track, he didn
’t have to hold back on his speed to keep the Model T from losing him. He held the throttle open as far as it would go, keeping alert for every tiniest change in traction and balance, and he didn’t look back for the next two hours. When the sky began to change from merely dark gray to genuine black, he again started looking for a place to get gasoline.

  Just as he was easing down on the throttle to conserve the last of his tank, he saw a light ahead, maybe two or three miles off. He cruised smoothly up to it, saw that it was a store of some kind, and pulled off the road.

  The sign said Hale’s Corners Store, and it was, appropriately enough, at a crossroads corner. If there had ever been a Hale’s Corners town, it was nowhere to be seen. Much more likely, somebody named Hale thought there ought to be a town there and had built a store to get in on the ground floor market.

  A smaller sign said, “If we don’t have it, you don’t need it.” Are you sure? he thought. I need just one hell of a lot.

  He pulled the bike up on its bipod stand near a gas pump, climbed off, and took stock. His body was not happy about the long ride. Or maybe it was still complaining about the night in the Starving Rooster. Whatever the reason, it didn’t move all that well. In another time, he might have paid attention to it. Now, he just moved a little awkwardly. He opened the pack that was strapped to the top of the rear fender of the bike and took inventory.

  The first thing that he found was the Luger. He pulled out the magazine and worked the action a few times. Avery had not only retrieved it, he had cleaned and oiled it, too. The magazine had six rounds left. That fit. It would have started with nine, with no extra in the chamber. Then two were used to kill Stump, and—

  He was suddenly racked with deep, retching sobs. He gave himself over to them for a moment, then found himself, hands on his knees, bent over, looking again at the road he had just traveled and his telltale track. When he thought about the enormity of what he still had to do, it seemed certain that it would kill him.

  What would your brother say? Shape up, soldier. You chose the road; now see it to the end.

  And suddenly he knew he could do exactly that. His brother was gone and would never be back, and that would always be a sad thing. But it was also okay. He was his own father now, and his own brother, too. And with what he had learned from Rob and George Ravenwing and Jim Avery, and even from himself, he could do what had to be done. And for the first time since he had left the Wick farm, maybe even for the first time since he had left the home of his childhood, he knew exactly where he was going. He must have known as soon as he had turned south. He was going back to the sacred grove. And if Wakan Tanka wouldn’t help him, then the strange god would just have to accept Charlie’s blood as a sacrifice, because he was going to kill the Hound or die trying.

  He went back to taking inventory, and he noted that his hands had stopped shaking. So he had a Luger with six bullets, a revolver with—well, how many? None, he found. All empties. Not much of an arsenal.

  “You look to me like a highway robber.”

  Charlie turned to see a big bear of a man with a full black beard, wearing an oddly incongruous red vest over a white shirt with teller’s sleeve garters. He didn’t seem to care about the snow or the cold. He was holding a lever action rifle at waist height, pointed straight at Charlie, but his manner seemed more curious than menacing, almost jovial. Maybe he was happy to see a customer at long last.

  “You must be Mr. Hale, if the sign is right.”

  “That’s me. Jacob Hale. Direct descendant of Nathan, for what it’s worth. Are you impressed? You better be. And who the hell are you?”

  “Charlie Bacon.” He put the Luger back in the pack and tried for a sincere look with just a touch of a smile. “And I’m not a highway robber, or a robber of country stores, either.”

  “Then what’s all the hardware for?”

  Charlie couldn’t see any percentage in telling the man the strange truth. He settled for something simple and plausible.

  “I’m carrying the cash from a whole season of running a separator, and I don’t want some stiff shanking me for it.”

  “You got a big knife, I see. Not good enough for you?”

  “Some men are a lot better than me with a knife. But nobody with a knife is better than somebody with a gun.”

  Jacob Hale looked at him for a long moment, staring into his eyes, which did not look away. Then he broke into a grin, and he lowered the rifle and extended his hand. Charlie shook it.

  “I wouldn’t mind relieving you of some of that crop cash, but only if you need some of my fine merchandise.”

  “You got any camping gear at your store?”

  “Camping gear, hunting gear, farming gear, trapping gear, you name it. We ain’t got a lake within fifty miles of here, but believe it or not, I sell a fair bit of fishing gear, too. Come on in.”

  “I need some gas in my Indian, too.”

  “Sure, sure. We’ll get to that.”

  “And some bullets for my revolver.”

  “I don’t know what size it takes, but I’ve got them, too.”

  “I figure I need to be out of here in fifteen minutes, tops.”

  The grin faded a bit. “It’s like that, is it?”

  “No, it’s not ‘like that,’ but it’s not good, either.”

  “And?”

  “Fifteen minutes, or else I’m gone right now.”

  “Got it. Come back someday and tell me the whole story, hey? Now, what do you need?”

  Charlie told him.

  ***

  Eleven minutes later, he was back on the bike, with a full tank of gas, a new, bigger pack on the back fender, and a cup of hastily gulped coffee and a doughnut in his belly. The two hundred dollars he had gotten from the banker was still back in his pack at the Wick place, but he had his share of the threshing fees in his pocket. It turned out to be more than enough for all his wants. He paid Jacob Hale and shook his hand again. “If I take the road north from here, where will it get me?”

  “It peters out to damn near nothing in thirty miles or so. Just a trail after that, really, up into the Turtle Mountains. It’s not the Indian Nations, but it’s their territory, all the same. It’s sacred to them. Lakota Sioux. Nasty critters, I hear, if there’s any of them still there.”

  “Sounds like the place I’ve been looking for.”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  “If somebody comes here looking for me, feel free to tell him I went that way.”

  “If you say so.” He offered his hand again, and his grip was firm and reassuring. “You take care out there among those injuns, you hear?”

  “Count on it.” He kicked the bike back into life, skidded around in a tight two-seventy to the left, and headed north.

  Chapter 31

  The Night of the Fox

  The Windmill Man cruised at an easy thirty-five, not taking any chances on skidding out of control. The Krueger kid had led him on a hell of a chase, he had to give him that. And he was a hell of a motorcycle rider. But he had left a trail that a myopic clerk with cataracts could follow, and now that it was dark, the kid wouldn’t be able to go as fast. His fate was sealed. This time, there would be no missed departure or empty campsite. The shopkeeper had said he was headed into the foothills of some little mountains. What an idiot. He was running into a dead end.

  The road blended into the rest of the countryside now, and if it hadn’t been for the track of the motorcycle, he wouldn’t have been able to tell where it was anymore. The new snow told him that Providence was back on his side again. It had to be. He slowed down to thirty, then twenty-five. The track wandered back and forth for a while, as if the rider had been looking for something. Then it straightened out again, and in the distance, maybe two miles ahead and a hundred feet above him, he saw a fire. So the kid had finally stopped for a rest. And the pathetic fool had built a campfire! Well, why not? He must be damned cold and tired by now. Might as well die in comf
ort.

  The Windmill Man killed his headlights, drove perhaps another mile, and then stopped. He would sneak up to the camp on foot, and Krueger would be dead before he knew what hit him. No bleeding for this one. He might survive a mere bleeding. This one would be fast and sure. He felt his temples throb.

  ***

  The fire was in a stone ring in the center of a small grove of mature hardwoods. There was a pup tent pitched there, too, with its end open to the warmth. Ten yards behind the tent, the motorcycle lay on its side in a small ditch. It had a tarp over it, which had already accumulated a heavy coating of snow. Had the idiot seriously thought he could hide it there? Even with the new snow over them, the tracks between it and the fire ring were easy to read.

  The kid must be really tired, he decided. He must have been hoping the snow would hide both the motorcycle and the white pup tent, and he had probably promised himself he would only have the fire for a short time. And then, of course, he had fallen asleep. That was exactly how it would have happened. He was sure of it. He began to feel hot, and he opened his coat.

  He circled the outer perimeter of the entire grove, shotgun at his shoulder, looking in all directions, careful to make no sound. Finally, satisfied there was nobody else up and about, he approached the pup tent from the end that was away from the fire and toward the dumped motorcycle. Inside, he saw a sleeping bag with a body in it. Without the slightest hesitation, he emptied both barrels into it. Then he reloaded, went up much closer, and did it again. He hated denying himself the pleasure of the full fugue, but he was taking no chances. He was about to draw his pistol, to deliver a final coup de grace, when he heard an odd hissing sound behind him, followed by a voice.

  “I figured that was about how you would do it.”

  “Krueger?” He whirled around. The kid was maybe twenty feet away, and he had a pistol aimed squarely at him. The Windmill Man realized with some chagrin that he must have been under the tarp, with the motorcycle. He had underestimated him, badly. But a face-off would still go to the one who could kill without hesitation or remorse, and he certainly knew who that was.