“Etha feels the same.”
“Not you?”
Temple grinned. “In my way of thinking, moving on means moving west. I started in Pennsylvania and never have looked back. If you don’t move on, move forward, you get mired down. But Etha and I have never seen eye to eye on that.” After a pause, he settled his hat back on his head. “Guess I best get going before Mr. Darnell comes a-looking for me.”
Hazel said, “You don’t want to cross that man. You want a banker on your side. Believe me. I’ve learned that lesson.”
As Temple ambled around the side of the house, Bob Ellis, a farmer from down the road, waved him over. The two men shook hands.
“What can I do for you, Bob?”
Bob’s wind-burned face seemed to deepen a shade. “I don’t know how to . . . Well, I believe in letting a man know how I stand. So as while I think you are a good person, I won’t be voting for you this time around. It’s nothing personal. Just, Doll might do more for the farmer. Wanted you to hear it from me.”
“Appreciate that,” Temple said slowly, the pleasant expression frozen on his face. “I’m not thinking we’re in agreement on this!”
“Har har!” the other man barked.
“What exactly do you believe Doll can do that I can’t?”
Bob turned aside politely and discharged a jet of tobacco juice. “I just think he will have more pull in the statehouse and such. He’s one of the town founders. Been here his whole life. Jackson County is hurting and we need to use every connection we got. Sorry, but that’s a fact.”
Temple inhaled heavily. “I appreciate your honesty though I hope you might rethink this. But anyways, give Cora my regards,” he said, turning away.
Temple passed into the front yard, his spirits low. How many other farmers thought as Bob did but didn’t have the courage to say so? The raked dirt that passed for a lawn was alive with women pecking through the detritus of Hazel Fuller’s cupboards. The scene was oddly jarring, like the house had its innards busted open. He’d seen this kind of thing before. Not just at auctions either, but back in Johnstown when he was a boy; the day after the big flood. He thought about that morning, when he’d slogged alongside his father, down from the safety of the hill where his family had sheltered during the night, and into the valley. Where businesses, shops, the courthouse, and his grandfather’s hardware store had once stood. On that morning it was nothing more than a grotesque welter of chairs, roofing, chamber pots, baby carriages, and sodden bedding. There was hardly a landmark that remained standing except the sturdy brick offices of Cambria Iron and a couple of houses washed off their foundations and leaning at crazy angles. Temple’s legs shook as he and his father picked their way through a foul stew of smashed and torn debris. They had turned left toward the river and come upon a pile of shattered window frames and bricks. A single bloody leg with shreds of skin and arteries dangling sat atop the heap, a bit of stocking clinging to the naked skin. The bile had risen in Temple’s throat and then the vomit gushed out, spattering his shoes.
“Come on, son,” his father had said. “Hands are needed down at the bridge.”
The massive stone railroad bridge, with burning debris jammed against its pylons, loomed in Temple’s inner eye. From deep within the mass, voices had screamed out for relief, their agonized wails pouring into his ears. In the distance, someone hollered his name. At first, Temple imagined the cry rose from the pyre. But as he pulled himself away from the nightmare, he recognized the banker’s voice.
“Temple? Where you been at?” Darnell asked.
“Sorry. Lost in thought,” Temple mumbled.
In a cleared area beside the barn, the auctioneer had set up shop on Hazel’s kitchen table. He was instructing two teenage boys: “Bring the household goods up first. Then we’ll move on to the machinery.”
McGreevy smacked his gavel and waved the crowd of a hundred or more forward. Temple eyed the side of the barn, which was shady and a prime spot to rest your back against. But standing prominently next to the banker was his job. It telegraphed the message that these were legal proceedings. He straightened the brass star on his shirt pocket.
“We’re about ready to start,” McGreevy called out. “But first Vince Doll has an announcement.”
Temple frowned. There was movement in the sea of hats before Doll emerged. Licking his lips in the way of a trumpet player preparing for his solo, the candidate took the gavel in hand and pounded twice.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I just want to take a moment of your time. As you all know, I’ve been a proud resident of Jackson County since it was incorporated. Here from the beginning. A pioneer settler, as they say. And I’ve been hearing about other towns in these parts boasting how they’re prepared to tough out these hard times. That their spirits are higher than any. Well, I’m here to show them they’re wrong! None are as hard-nosed as us! Hard-nosed, ornery, stubborn, and just mean old cusses! We can outlast any drought, any . . .”
Why, the man was hijacking the auction and whipping up the crowd with a campaign speech! Temple wondered if he should try to put a stop to this or would that make him seem as if he was afraid of some competition? Coming down on the side of the law, Temple stepped toward Doll as he switched gears.
“. . . and to show our neighbors we are fighting back as hard as they are. Harder! We all know that the jackrabbit population is out of control. This season’s small-crop production is being made even smaller by these menaces. And next season, when the rains come back, the jackrabbits will too, unless we do something about it. That’s why I’m sponsoring Jackson County’s first jackrabbit drive next Wednesday. Bring your bats, your shovels, and your thirst. We will rid our land of these hordes and be prepared for a good strong crop next year.”
At this, a burst of whooping and hollering commenced.
“My boys and I will corral a three-acre pen of rabbits for you to smash and bring something to wet your whistle afterward. Spread the word. Ten a.m. at the Campbell farm. See you there!”
Doll waved his hat at the throng, who answered with more cheering. As he passed Temple, he said in a low voice, “You don’t need to be there. My boys will make sure things are under control.”
Temple put on a tight smile. “Appreciate that, but it’s my duty to keep the peace.”
As Doll strutted away, Temple removed his hat and pushed back his sweat-damp hair. McGreevy had returned to the table, clipboard in hand. “Let’s get this rolling. Boys, bring in lot number one.”
The auctioneer’s two assistants trotted up with several filled crates.
“Lot one is miscellaneous household goods. Everything your little lady would want or need to set up a house or replenish her cupboards. Don’t miss out on this one.” McGreevy now launched into his chant: “I’ll take a quarter for the lot, a quarter for the lot. I see I have a quarter, how about fifty? Will someone give me fifty? Fifty cents, now seventy-five. Will someone give me seventy-five? Seventy-five? Once, twice, gone for fifty cents.”
And so it went, with the dregs of the Fullers’ life on the plains sold off. The sun boiled thickly through a copper haze. Hazel sat on the porch step alongside Mrs. Rayburn, waving a palmetto fan. Hazel had sent her boy off to the Jewel with two precious nickels and told him and a neighbor kid not to come back before suppertime. No reason he had to see this.
Finally her oak sideboard was carried up front.
“Here you go,” Mrs. Rayburn said, nudging Hazel’s ribs.
The auctioneer started in: “Purdy is as purdy does. What husband wouldn’t want to make his wife a gift of this sideboard? Practical as it is refined. She can put all her best tableware inside and display knickknacks on top. Take note of the inset mirror. That’s a nice touch, don’t you think?”
He paused, then sprang into his chant: “I’ll take nothing less than a hundred dollars for this fine piece. Hundred for it. You know it’s worth twice as much. Hundred now, looking for a hundred. Now who’ll give me a hundred? All right. Who’ll g
ive me ninety-five? Ninety-five? Do I hear ninety? Who’ll give ninety?”
And so the numbers slid until Hazel was pressing the hem of her dress to her eyes and Mrs. Rayburn put an arm around her shoulders.
With a crack of the gavel, McGreevy finally announced, “Sold for $4.25. You got a good buy, sir. Now, let’s move on to the farm equipment.”
Shame rolled over Hazel, as if she had done something foolish and been caught out. Foolish to think that her best piece wasn’t anything better than cheap pine covered in veneer and tarted up with a mirror. “My stomach’s turned,” she said, then stood and walked away from the house, out back to the truck, tilting under its burden of trunks, chairs, rolled mattresses, the galvanized washtub. She sat on the running board, eyes shut, fingers tight in her ears to block the noise of the auction.
From his vantage point beside the banker, Temple noticed Hazel slinking away, same as a wounded cat. Beside him, Darnell hummed something jaunty under his breath, his hands deep in his trouser pockets. Sure this is legal, Temple thought, but is it right? Until recently, he had assumed the two went hand in hand. But now he thought differently. He moved away from Darnell out to the shady place he’d spotted earlier. Close enough, he decided. He joined a man in frayed overalls and a greasy hunting cap.
“How do,” the man said as a formality, not a question.
Temple nodded. It was a relief to lean against the barn’s rough planks. After a bit he turned to the man. “Don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Not lived here long. They call me Trot,” he said.
Jess was driving a hog to the auction table, the first of the livestock to be sold off.
“Took a gander at her. Sound,” Trot said.
“That so?”
“Yep.” A week’s worth of stubble overlaid a gaunt face. The farther Temple traveled west and away from Johnstown, the more monosyllabic the natives became. He found that refreshing. Not true of everyone, of course. Doll and his kind, the townsfolk, talked a blue streak while holding back their cards. Farmers were different. Temple inhaled the air, which smelled a tad clearer.
“Seems as if more folks are moving out of here than coming in,” Temple said.
“Yep.”
In a voice like a megaphone, McGreevy rattled off the hog’s attributes and then slid into his pitch. “Starting at forty dollars. Who will give me forty for this fine sow? Looking for forty.” He kept at it for a while. A phalanx of local farmers was at the front of the crowd. McGreevy pointed to members of this group. “How about you, sir? Give me forty dollars? Will you give me forty dollars?”
The young farmer, a man by the name of Hartsell, shook his head.
McGreevy cocked a finger at the next man. “You there, I’ll take thirty-five. Take thirty-five. Will you give me thirty-five for this fine specimen?”
Instead of bidding, the fellow studied his boots.
Jess, who up until this point had been taking no interest in the auction, only in the hog that was wallowing in the dust at his feet, glanced up with a confused expression.
For the next five minutes, McGreevy kept the patter going, giving ground inch by inch until, with a worried glance at Darnell, he called, “Rock-bottom price. Ten dollars. Rock-bottom.”
Far back among the throng, an arm came up but it quickly retracted, as if its owner had been encouraged to rethink his position.
Jess turned to McGreevy and, after a pause, raised his hand. “Two dollars.”
McGreevy balked; then continued as if Jess hadn’t spoken: “Ten, who will give me ten?”
Nothing but silence until a stern voice called out, “Take it. Take the bid.”
In an instant, the starch went out of the auctioneer. His mouth, the tool of his trade, hung open. Finally, he pronounced, “Sold.” The formality of the gavel was forgotten.
Darnell swore under his breath, then waved McGreevy and Temple over. “What the hell is going on?” The banker looked from McGreevy to Temple and back. “Is this legal?”
McGreevy, apparently stupefied, was mute. Temple answered, “As far as I know, there’s no law that says a man can’t bid at his own auction.”
Darnell, his cheeks scarlet, whipped around to McGreevy. “You agree?”
“I, ah . . .” His tongue stalled, then caught hold: “Never seen anything like it. But I’ve heard rumors from Iowa and thereabouts of farmers colluding to, you know, help out a neighbor.”
“But is it legal?”
“Not sure,” McGreevy said, flinching, as if anticipating a blow.
Darnell glanced away, his jaws clenching and unclenching. “All right. I’m not calling this off. That will give these troublemakers more to yammer about. But as soon as Doll is elected, and he will be, Temple, he will get the law set right. He’ll put a stop to this tomfoolery.”
Temple bristled. “I’m still sheriff and intend to stay so. And you know as well as I do that sheriffs don’t make the laws. We enforce them.”
The auction resumed. Temple retired to the shade.
“Mutiny?” Trot asked.
Temple laughed grimly and lit a cigarette. He needed to parse this thing out. There was the fact that the bank had loaned Jess money that he hadn’t paid back. When you can’t make your mortgage, the bank has a right to foreclose. That was clear-cut. But what if hundreds of folks couldn’t pay back what they owed? And all due to the same hard times that were pulling everyone down? No one could argue that every single one of those belly-up homesteads was the fault of poor farming. And what good did it serve to push people off the land? If they stayed on, at least most of them were still able to feed their families. Listen to me, he thought. I’m sounding like a socialist. Will Rogers was right. Nothing makes a man broad-minded more than adversity. Or watching your fellow man lose everything. Temple flicked the cigarette butt.
And so the remainder of the afternoon churned on, a rowboat in rough seas. Five heads of cattle went to Jess for one dollar each. The plow, tractor, and baler were sold back to their owner for $6.25. Machinery, hand tools, sacks of feed corn, a half-consumed salt lick, lengths of irrigation hose, two rusty pitchforks, and the disk seeder were all paraded out of the barn, greeted with silence until Jess spoke up in a bewildered voice, and then returned to their places.
By late afternoon it was all over. Darnell stomped off to his flivver. The tight group of farmers that Temple had noticed as he talked with Hazel before the auction, mostly locals, surrounded Jess, slapping him on the back with their big rough hands and handing him wrinkled bills to cover his bids for the equipment and the land. Jess himself had the slack-jawed expression of a man taken by surprise.
Temple found Hazel sitting on the running board.
“All over but the shouting?” she asked, her face grim.
“As a matter of fact, the farm’s still yours. Seems that your neighbors had a plan. No one bid except Jess. You should have seen Darnell’s face, it was . . .” Temple’s voice trailed off as Hazel jumped to her feet, throwing her hat on the ground.
“I’m not staying. You know that, don’t you? I don’t care if someone hands this place to Jess on a silver platter. There is nothing here for us but heartache, and if he don’t see that, then he is just fooling himself. Stay out here long enough and you get delirious.”
Temple hung his head. “I’m sorry, Hazel,” he said softly.
Ten minutes later, as he swung the sedan around to head out, Temple observed Jess and Hazel beside the loaded truck. Jess leaned toward her, flinging his hands to make a point, his face knotted in anger while Hazel’s fingers struggled to untie a bundle from the roof. It was a single bedroll. She tossed it at her husband’s feet. Temple wanted to leap out of the car and shake Jess’s shoulders hard, to tell him to listen to his level-headed wife. He wanted to shout, Wake up, man! But instead, he stepped on the gas pedal. Not ready to face the office, he drove west, away from town; shadows of telephone poles zippered across the roof of the car.
Not a quarter of a mile down the road, he sp
otted Trot walking back toward the Fullers’. Temple pulled over.
“Forget something?”
Trot leaned into the open passenger window. “Nope. Car troubles.”
“Need a lift?”
“Appreciate it. If you could just get me home, I’ll go back later and fix the rattletrap.”
“Sure thing.” Temple pulled the gear knob and off they went.
“See there?” Trot said as they passed a Model T parked cockeyed at the edge of the road. The man exuded the sour odor of sweaty clothes and unwashed hair that Temple associated with lifelong bachelors. There was no chatter on the ride, which was fine by him. Trot directed Temple by pointing this way and that until they ended up at a soddie at the tail end of a lane. Temple recalled a couple with a large brood of kiddies farming here not long before.
Trot raised the door handle. “Thank you kindly.”
“You’re welcome. Can you could spare a glass of water before I head back?”
Temple followed Trot. Inside, his hat brushed against yellowed newspapers covering the low ceiling. The essentials—a chair, table, a rag rug, and narrow bed—were worn but clean.
Trot removed a glass from a cupboard in the kitchen area. There was the inhale-exhale of a rusted pump handle. Temple examined a photo propped on a rough shelf. It showed a young man wearing the tunic, cinched belt, and puttees of a soldier in the Great War—the spitting image of Trot. So he has a son, Temple thought. Wrong about the bachelor part.
Trot handed the filled glass to Temple.
The sheriff gulped it down. “That hit the spot.”
“Can’t believe that boneshaker broke down again. Thought I had her all fixed up. She did the same after the fireworks. Had to walk all the way back to town that night.”
“You mean the rainmaker’s demonstration? You were there?”
Trot shrugged. “Something to do.”
“I’m working on a case. He was killed the next day.”
“Heard that.”
“Did you notice any harsh words exchanged?”
“Not that I can say.” Trot’s lips worked in and out over his mostly bare gums. “Nope. Purdy sure not.”
Death of a Rainmaker Page 17