Heed the Thunder

by Jim Thompson

  “Ain’t been up to nothin’, eh?”

  “Huh-uh.”

  “I’ll bet, by God! Was you pulling some stunt out of that window?”

  “Huh-uh.” The boy twisted and avoided his grandfather’s eyes.

  Lincoln quizzed him for a few minutes, but finally gave up. “Well, come on, goddamit. Hang on to my hand. I won’t let ’em kill you. This time.”

  Bob took his grandfather’s horny hand, hesitantly, and allowed himself to be dragged along behind him. They reached the landing and went out upon the walk.

  The crowd was still there. Even Wilhelm Deutsch’s buggy still stood upon the walk. Bob looked around fearfully, then boldly, then with annoyance. For no one paid the slightest attention to him. They seemed actually to avoid looking at him.

  He looked up at Lincoln, and saw the old man’s accipitrine face suddenly grow more hawklike than ever. Roughly, Lincoln flung their hands apart and shouldered his way into a group.

  “What’s that you said?” he demanded. “What’d you say about Grant?”

  “Nothin’, Link.” The man dropped his eyes uneasily. “I just said he was with her.”

  “With who?”

  “Well…you know.…The Barkley girl.”

  Lincoln rolled his cigar in his mouth. His hand slid down below the crook of his cane. His other hand went out and knitted itself into the man’s shirtfront.

  “Why the hell shouldn’t he be with her?…Kind of short on something to talk about, ain’t you?” he inquired.

  “Honest to Gawd, Link, I didn’t say nothing against Grant.”

  “Just what did you say, anyhow?”

  “Nothin’. Honest to—”

  “Want me to cane you?”

  “But I ain’t said nothing, Link! All I done was mention that Grant was with her when she got drowned.…”

  21

  There was slow quicksand at the foot of the bluff which the car had gone over, and it was morning before they recovered the girl’s body and brought it into town.

  An hour or so later, in the basement of the Ludlow Furniture and Undertaking Emporium, Coroner Doc Jones finished his autopsy and drew a white sheet over what had once been the town belle. He looked over to the wall where County Attorney Ned Stufflebean and Sheriff Jake Phillips sat, their hats in their laps, and gave them an imperceptible shake of his head. Then he turned and went over to the opposite wall and sat down by Philo Barkley.

  “I’m sorry, Bark. There wasn’t anything I could do.”

  Barkley nodded dumbly. “I know you would have if you could, Doc.”

  “I’m sorry. I know there’s not much you can say at a time like this.…”

  “Do you—do you think it was very hard for her?”

  “I know it wasn’t, Bark. A broken neck; she was killed instantly.”

  The ex-banker shuddered. His lips moved silently for a moment.

  “Was she in—was there any reason why…?”

  Jones laid a hand upon Barkley’s knee. “I know what you’re trying to say, Bark. No, Bella wasn’t in a family way.”

  It was the truth, and Barkley recognized it. Some vestige of peace seemed to come into his serried stolid face.

  He got up, slowly, fidgeting with his hat.

  “Well…I guess there’s nothing more.…I guess I better be going on home. It’ll sure seem funny…”

  Doc Jones shook his head, at a loss for anything to say.

  Barkley hesitated. “She was a—a good girl, Doc?”

  “Absolutely,” lied Jones.

  “I knew she was. I knew she would be.”

  Brokenly, the old man turned and went up the steps.

  Jake and Ned Stufflebean stood up. Yawning, the county attorney came over to the table.

  “Well, what’s the low-down, Doc?”

  “You heard what I told Bark.” He was not overfond of the county attorney. Stufflebean had a son in Omaha who was studying medicine.

  “Oh, shucks,” said the county attorney. “I know you wanted to save Bark’s feelings. I’ve got to know the truth, though. Jake and me have.”

  “You know it. If you doubt my word, you’d better send over to Wheat City for another doctor.”

  Stufflebean frowned uncomfortably. He was a big mild-natured man, and he didn’t like trouble any more than the next one. But he hated the idea of being told off by Doc Jones.

  “I don’t see any reason for you to take that line,” he said; and fat, worried-looking Jake Phillips spoke up:

  “We ain’t doubtin’ your word, Doc. But we got to have an official statement. It’s just—just hearsay what you told Bark.”

  “Well, she wasn’t pregnant.”

  “Had she been tampered with?”

  “I don’t see that that has any bearing on the case,” said Jones.

  “It looks to me like it might have a great deal,” said the county attorney. “If Grant had been playing around with her and she got to fussing at him for a wedding…”

  He broke off, his words seemingly pushed back into his mouth by the doctor’s hard stare.

  “What you want to do,” said Jones, “is to defame this poor dead girl’s good name. Is that it?”

  “You know damned well it ain’t. This is a matter of plain justice—”

  “Well, don’t try to tell me my duty. I’m an officer of this county the same as you are. If you’re going to make something out of a girl being free with herself, you’ve got a job cut out for you. It’s my guess that about half of ’em in the county have had their skirts raised at one time or another.”

  “You ain’t going to answer my question?” insisted Ned.

  “Oh, hell,” said Jake, “he’s answered it. Don’t keep trying to pin him down, Ned.”

  The county attorney slammed his hat on his head.

  “What are your recommendations?” he demanded formally.

  “I don’t think I understand you, Stufflebean.”

  “You’re the coroner. Shall we let this matter drop or—er—shall we proceed on it?”

  A sour-sweet smile curled the doctor’s lips. “You’d like to shuffle everything off on me, wouldn’t you? Well, you’re not going to. You’re the county attorney. It’s your and Jake’s place to dig up evidence. Before you ask me for an opinion, get out and get me something to work on.”

  “But, goddamit, we—what do you expect us to get?”

  “That’s up to you. If there ain’t anything, well then—there ain’t anything.”

  Smiling thinly, Doc Jones began packing his instruments as the discomfited county attorney and sheriff went up the steps. That was one little deal he’d outsmarted ’em on, and he was perfectly within his rights, too. Just let old Stuff stick his neck out with the Fargoes. It would be damned few patients his son would have when he came to practice in Verdon.

  Meanwhile, the sheriff and Stufflebean had reached the sidewalk, and were immediately surrounded by a group of curious townspeople.

  Jake held up a hand importantly. “We don’t know a thing more than you do, folks. All we can tell you right now is that the poor girl died of a broken neck.”

  “But we may have some news before long,” said the county attorney, significantly. And he was rewarded by a murmur of excited conjecture.

  Jake shot him a worried look. “Just maybe,” he qualified. “Come on, Ned.”

  They managed to get through the crowd to the sheriff’s tin lizzie. Stufflebean was also looking worried as they drove away.

  “I guess I shouldn’t have said that,” he ventured.

  “Well, I don’t believe I would have, Ned.”

  “It’s just that that damned Doc gets me so riled, sometimes, I ain’t responsible.”

  Jake emitted an ambiguous grunt, managing to nod and shake his head at the same time. He had nothing at all against Doc. He didn’t want Doc to have anything against him. At the same time, his work forced him to get along with the county attorney.

  “Me and the Fargoes have always got along all
right,” Stufflebean continued. “You know I’d be the last person in the world to say anything against them.”

  “They’re mighty fine people,” the sheriff agreed.

  “But I’m an officer of this here county. The people elected me to do a certain job, and by gadfrey I’m a-goin’ to do it!”

  “Well, so am I,” said Jake virtuously, dodging a pig that ran across the road. “I’m sure going to try to, anyway.”

  “I’m expecting you to stick by me on this thing, Jake.”

  “Uh…uh, how do you mean, Ned?”

  “Now, you know what I mean, Jake.” The county attorney ducked his head curtly, jerking at the brim of his hat.

  They jogged across the railroad tracks and went sputtering past the cattle pens.

  “Well,” said Jake, “I always do my duty. I always try to, anyhow.”

  Rounding a bend, they struck the straight stretch of road that led to Lincoln Fargo’s place. It was only a little more than a quarter of a mile from the corner, and they could see the cluster of teams, with their buggies and wagons, drawn up along the fence in front of the house. Jake thrust up the hand accelerator a trifle, slowing the speed of the lizzie.

  “Looks like they got company,” he said.

  “Yes,” said the county attorney.

  “Kind of hate to go barging in on folks when they got company.”

  Stufflebean stroked his chin, annoyed at this turn of events which, he realized now, he might well have anticipated.

  “I kind of figure,” he said, “that that company’ll be there until we see Grant.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “It’s our job, Jake. We’re only doing what we’re paid to do. They can’t hold it against a man for doing his job.”

  “Well, they hadn’t ought to. But them Fargoes are mighty funny people. Awful good people, but funny.”

  The county attorney scowled uncertainly.

  “It’s our duty,” he insisted. “We couldn’t get out of it even if we wanted to.”

  “Well, I ain’t trying to.” The sheriff’s voice took on an unaccustomed edge. “I know my duty and I do it. Leastways, I always try to.”

  To avoid frightening the horses, he brought the lizzie to a stop well before they reached the gate. He squeezed his body through the door after the county attorney. The latter stood on the walk waiting for him until he had climbed up through the weed-grown ditch. They went down the path and through the gate, brushing at their clothes self-consciously.

  On the porch, Lincoln and Sherman Fargo exchanged a glance. Then they went on talking quietly, seemingly unaware of the approach of the two officers. Not until Jake and the county attorney were virtually standing in front of them did the old man and his son disturb their quiet, unruffled conversation.

  When, at last, Lincoln did take notice of the self-conscious minions of the law, he permitted himself a snort of scornful wonder, which, by an obvious effort, he managed to tail off into an expression of pleasure. He took his feet down from the post and put out his hand without arising.

  “How are you, Jake—Ned? Glad to see you.”

  “Just fine, Link.” They shook hands.

  Sherman shook hands, too, half-lifting himself from his chair. His voice, his words, rather, announced a gladness at the meeting which was not fulfilled by anything in his face.

  “Where you been keeping yourself, Jake? Ain’t seen much of you lately.”

  “Oh, I manage to keep busy, Sherm.”

  “You farmin’ this year?”

  “No. No, I ain’t farming,” admitted the sheriff. “But I keep busy, though.”

  Sherman flicked an eyebrow up in polite incredulity and nodded at the county attorney.

  “How’s your wheat look this year, Ned? Someone was tellin’ me you had a mighty nice stand.”

  “Why, I think it’s going to be all right, Sherm,” said the county attorney, meeting Sherman’s gaze with one every bit as level.

  “Well, that’s good,” said Sherman, equably. “A man that’s been farming as long as you have ought to be doing all right, though.”

  “That’s true,” Stufflebean admitted. “I’ve been farming quite a while.”

  Sherman nodded. “That’s what it takes, in farming or anything else. Experience. That’s what I was telling this fellow the other day.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, I guess I’m talking out of school,” said Sherman deprecatingly.

  “Was someone sayin’ something against me?”

  “Oh, no. Not really against you.”

  “What was it?” Stufflebean bristled.

  “Well, it really wasn’t nothing,” said Sherman. “I guess I shouldn’t have brought it up. He was just saying he didn’t think you were any great shakes as a county attorney, and I just politely up and asked him how did he know. I said, hell, Ned’s only been in two terms and he ain’t never had a proper case, so you don’t know whether he’d be able to handle one or not. But, I says, I know this: you just leave old Ned Stufflebean in there a few terms more and give him a chance to get some experience and he’ll be every bit as good a county attorney as he is a farmer!”

  “Well,” said Stufflebean, somehow disturbed by the backhanded flattery, yet not knowing how to take objection to it.

  Sherman Fargo leaned forward and knocked the dottle from his pipe. As if the action had been a signal, Lincoln cleared his throat.

  “Won’t you gents sit down? It’s right nice here in the shade.”

  Jake and Ned looked at each other.

  “I—I guess not,” faltered the sheriff.

  “I’d ask you inside,” said Lincoln, gravely. “But you know about the tragedy we’ve had here in the family. We’re all pretty much broken up about it.”

  “Sure. Sure, we know you must be, Link,” said Jake, earnestly.

  “Grant’s took to his bed with grief and shock,” the old man went on. “You know he had a pretty narrow escape, himself, and he thought the world of Bella.”

  “Yeah…yes,” said the sheriff, licking his lips. “I know he did.”

  “I—we want to talk to him,” said Ned Stufflebean.

  Lincoln’s yellow eyes widened; then they drooped back into their lids.

  “You mean you’d like to call through the screen to him?” he said.

  “No, that ain’t what I mean.”

  “Ned…” said Jake, half-heartedly, but the county attorney shook his head stubbornly.

  “We want to go inside. We want to talk to him.”

  Lincoln looked at his son. Sherman shrugged.

  “Why, I think that’ll be all right, Pa. Grant’s always glad to see his friends. If Jake and Ned want to drop in and pay their respects, I don’t see no reason why they shouldn’t.”

  Stufflebean’s mouth opened angrily, but Sherman had already stood up and was holding the door open.

  “Come right on in, boys, and make yourself to home.”

  Red of face, the county attorney passed inside, and fat Jake Phillips, after an apologetic glance at the two Fargoes, sidled through after him. At the entrance to the living room, he was brought up short by the pausing of his colleague, who suddenly seemed to have been stricken with paralysis of the legs.

  Jake peered over his shoulder and found himself entirely in sympathy with Stufflebean’s hesitation.

  The lounge had been moved out near the center of the room, and Grant lay on it, on his side, a sheet drawn over him.

  Gathered around him, lining the walls and filling the doorways, were the Fargoes and their kin. In addition to Mrs. Lincoln Fargo, there was Edie and Bob Dillon, Alf and Myrtle Courtland, and Josephine Fargo and her brood. She sat in the largest rocker in the house, with little Ruthie on her lap, and on each side of her stood her two mean-eyed sons, and, flanking them, the two older girls. Her sand-hill kin were there, too (Jake counted eight of voting age), and in the center of them, forming the apex of their hard-faced phalanx, stood Jeff Parker. His face was solemn and his thumbs were
hooked in his vest, and he looked Ned Stufflebean up and down as if taking his measure. Then there were the O’Fargoes, from far up the valley, and the Pennsylvania Dutch branch, the Faugutes—all fiery, purposeful, and influential people. People with stern tempers and long memories.

  Only two of the clan were missing. One didn’t amount to much any more, and the other lay in the basement of the undertaking parlor with a broken neck.

  There was no room for the county attorney and the sheriff to sit down within the family circle proper, so Sherman and Lincoln set their chairs a little toward the center of the room. The two men sat down, grimacing howdy-do’s to the implacable circle. Jake brushed a cocklebur from his overalls, then hastily picked it up and stuck it in his pocket. Stufflebean coughed and wiped his scarlet face with a bandanna. He ran a finger around his collar and looked angrily at Jake. The sheriff looked the other way.

  No one said anything.

  The county attorney turned in his chair—he had to turn for Sherman and Lincoln were standing slightly behind him.

  “You know why we’re here,” he blurted out.

  “Why, sure,” said Lincoln; and Sherman added:

  “You wanted to see Grant.”

  “We want to talk to him!” declared Stufflebean.

  “Well…why don’t you?”

  Stufflebean turned around again. “Grant!” he said.

  “What?” Grant stirred feebly.

  “I want to ask you some questions. I want to know how the accident—how it happened, Grant!”

  The dude looked at him listlessly. “I’ve already told everyone.”

  “Well…well, I want you to tell me. Us.”

  Grant shuddered and closed his eyes, and Mrs. Lincoln Fargo looked resentfully at the officers.

  “Can’t you see he ain’t fit to do no talkin’?” she demanded.

  “Oh, I’ll tell ’em, Ma,” said Grant, his voice peevish. “We were driving along—she was driving—and she was going awfully fast, and I told her she’d better slow down. She just laughed, and I reached over to push up on the gas, and she kind of jerked the wheel, and the next thing I knew we were—she was—I jumped and she was—”

  His voice broke, and he buried his face in the pillow, sobbing. And whatever might have prompted the sobs, there could be no doubting their genuineness.