Heed the Thunder

by Jim Thompson

  An uneasy, angry stirring filled the room.

  Stufflebean mopped his face again.

  “Well—well, thanks, Grant,” he said. “I’m sure sorry about everything and I hope we ain’t disturbed you. I mean—well, I’m the county attorney and Jake’s the sheriff, and we—we got to know these things.”

  “I could have told you everything he told you,” said Lincoln.

  “Yes, but—well, anyway—”

  “I think we’d better go,” said Jake, roundly, arising from his chair.

  “I’m sure sorry,” said Ned, rising with him.

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” said Sherman. “You boys was just doing your duty. We don’t hold nothing against ’em for that, do we, Pa?”

  Lincoln said no, not at all. He liked to see a man do his duty. Jake said he’d always done his duty; he’d always tried to, anyhow. Ned said he guessed they’d better be getting along.

  The two officers went out the gate silently, as though they were under some injunction not to speak. It took the chattering of the lizzie and a quarter of a mile of jouncing to give them back their voices.

  “Well,” said Jake, grimly, looking straight ahead through the windshield, “I guess you showed ’em what was what, Ned.”

  “Uh”—the county attorney kept his eyes straight ahead also—“you really think I did, Jake?”

  “You’re durn tootin’ you did. You’re one man that can say he stood up to the Fargoes and told ’em where to get off at. They didn’t get very far tryin’ to keep you out!”

  Stufflebean shoved back his hat and crossed his legs. “You didn’t do so bad yourself, Jake. It’s a comfort to have a man like you along on a thing like that.”

  “I only done my duty,” Jake pointed out. “Leastways—”

  “O’ course, it was just a rot—a routine questioning. Wasn’t any call for any of us to get up in the air.”

  “Sure not.”

  “We had some questions to ask, and we asked them, and Grant answered ’em; and that was all there was to it.”

  “And now we’re going to wind the thing up, once and for all.”

  “Once and for all,” the county attorney nodded.

  They jogged along the sandy road, comfortably, tried and proven officers of the law, each fully cognizant of the other’s worth.

  Jake chuckled. “Say, ain’t them Fargoes a bunch of tartars, though?”

  “Ain’t they,” Stufflebean nodded back.

  Near the bridge, Jake brought the lizzie to a stop, reached the bucket out of the rear end, and fed the steaming radiator from a bayou. Then they rode on across, mounted into hilly pasture land for a mile or so, eventually reaching the bluffs which looked out over the Calamus. They got out there, and, cautiously—for the bank had caved—peered down the forty-odd feet to the river.

  The big red car lay on its top in the water and sand, with little more than part of its great wire wheels showing. A cable had been hooked around the rear axle and attached to a dead-man in the bank to hold it against complete disappearance until proper salvage equipment could be obtained.

  Jake shook his head. “Well, it looks like it happened just like Grant said it did.”

  “Don’t see how it could have happened any other way,” the county attorney agreed. “It’s a cinch he couldn’t have thrown the car over there.”

  The sheriff looked around and dropped his voice to a whisper, fearing, no doubt, that the herd of Holsteins near-by might overhear him.

  “I’ll tell you something, Ned. It ain’t like me to run down the dead, and I don’t mean it that way; but that Bella Barkley was just about the wildest thing on the road. Many’s a time she’s almost run me off in the ditch.”

  Stufflebean shook his head shrewdly. “Well, she was a woman, Jake. And I don’t care what you say, there’s just one place for a woman, and that’s to home.”

  “I’ll stand up with you on that,” said Jake. “One hundred per cent.”

  On the way back to town they passed an unusually large expanse of ripening wheat. And, as if by mutual consent, the sheriff brought the lizzie to a stop and they got out. Stufflebean straddled over the fence, then pulled one wire up and pushed another down with his foot for the sheriff to crawl through.

  They walked into the edge of the field, frowning.

  “By God,” said the county attorney, “I’d never take this for any of old Deutsch’s grain, would you?”

  “Why, hell, it ain’t his!” exclaimed the sheriff. “It’s Sherman Fargo’s. Don’t you remember, he took it over from Deutsch.”

  “That’s right, by gadfrey! So he did.”

  Stufflebean stooped, dug up a divot of soil with his finger, and touched it with his tongue.

  “Just taste of that,” he said, spitting.

  The sheriff tasted and also spat. “Sour as billy-hell, ain’t it?”

  They shucked samples of the grain and chewed them reflectively. Again they frowned. And, then, Jake uprooted a plant and confirmed his direst forebodings.

  “By God,” he whispered, “do you see that?”

  “Rust!”

  Jake nodded somberly and dropped the plant, giving it a look of unconscious horror.

  “By God,” he whispered again, and left whatever he had been about to say unsaid.

  Stufflebean likewise was too moved for words. They walked back to their vehicle in silence, speechless in the face of the tragedy of the rusted wheat.

  “Reckon we ought to tell Sherm about it?” asked Stufflebean, when they were well away from the scene of the disaster.

  “Maybe he already knows.”

  “He don’t act like a man that knows he’s got rust in his wheat,” said the county attorney. “I know I’d be plumb out of my mind if it happened to me.”

  He agreed, however, that it might not be best to tell Sherman.

  Sherman was kind of funny about being told things.

  As they passed Lincoln Fargo’s house, they honked and waved and even called out to the old man and his son. The greeting would have been considered boisterous ordinarily. But, today, Lincoln and Sherman took it as it was meant, and they waved and shouted back. With a flirt of their hands and a hoarse “Ned” and “Jake,” they expressed their understanding and gratitude; they promised their fealty at future elections.

  And the two officers, proud of this gain which had been obtained without compromise, chugged happily on down the dusty road.

  “That’s that,” said Lincoln, propping up his feet again. “You willing to drive him in to the train in the morning?”

  “I guess so,” said Sherman. “I guess I can make it. You figure he’ll be able to travel tomorrow?”

  “He won’t be able to travel after tomorrow,” said Lincoln.

  Sherman laughed sourly, and Lincoln stared off across the garden, his veiled eyes bitter with disgust. He wished there had been some way of hanging Grant without disgracing the name of Fargo. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his son was guilty of murder.

  So that was gone, too—his pride; and there was no pretense that would take the place of it. And there was so little left, now, so very little of the brimming handful with which he had started life.

  22

  In his room at the Verdon Hotel, Jeff Parker was trying to prepare himself for the most important event in his career. Tonight the thing he had dreaded and tried so long to avoid was going to take place. He was being brought to book at last for selling out to the railroad.

  There was no way he could lie out of it. They had the goods on him in the form of curtailed Sunday train service and the shortening of the time allowed for loading and unloading before demurrage began. That last was what they were really sore about, and he could not blame them in the least. It meant thousands of dollars to the railroad and just that many thousands less to their patrons. Jeff knew exactly how much it meant, for he had demanded and received a fourth of the loot for his share. And he would continue to receive that much—as long as he remained
in a position to collect it.

  He stood before the window, his hands folded behind him, and rocked on his heels, his quick mind racing at its utmost speed. His blue eyes were as ingenuous as always, but there were little crow’s-feet at the corners. His face, now quite filled out and plump, was more a mask of impish innocence than ever. His increased weight would have made him appear dumpier, but he had compensated for that by reassuming his boots and increasing the height of the heels. Briefly, he looked very much the same old Jeff Parker, the sand-hill upstart who had hustled pool and lived on gingersnaps and cheese and been the butt of the town.

  He wasn’t, though. Gol-lee, he wasn’t. He looked out upon the dusky street with its familiar, unchanging characters and places, and he shivered. Gosh, how did people stand it here? How had he ever stood it? And where would he go to, if not back here, if he did not win tonight’s battle? He’d saved very little money. His family had needed and asked for help, and he had given it to them lavishly, boyishly proud of his ability to do so. And now…gol-lee!

  Of course, he could say that he hadn’t been able to help himself. The railroad was strong and smart, and he was just a country boy who had been taken in. He could say that and he might be able to convince them of it. And if he did, well, then, that would be the finish of him. They might tolerate sharpness, if there was some way of making it appeal to them. But dumbness, no. These shrewd phlegmatic Yankees had a dislike for stupidity which amounted to abhorrence. One had only to visit one of their institutions for the feebleminded to see how little their pity was aroused by the mentally helpless.

  So that was out of the question. He would have to admit to being a crook, knowingly and willingly. And he would have to show them how…show them how…

  There was a knock on the door.

  Jeff whirled, strode across the floor, smiling, hand extended, and flung the door open.

  Edie Dillon stood there. She smiled at him with tender amusement, and Jeff dropped his hand, abashed.

  “Oh,” he said, grinning, “I thought it was—”

  “I know, Jeff,” said Edie apologetically. “I just stopped by to see if you had plenty of chairs.”

  “Why, yes. Everything’s fine, Edie.”

  “Well, that’s all, I guess,” said Mrs. Dillon, patting wearily at her hair. “It’s sure been hot, hasn’t it?”

  “It certainly has.”

  “Well, I guess I better be getting back to the kitchen. I’ve got to get things ready for morning.”

  Giving him a hesitant look, she started to turn away; but Jeff, ever a keen reader of moods, stopped her. His mind was racing with his own troubles, but he liked Edie, and she was a Fargo, and he considered himself now very much a part of the Fargo clan.

  “Was there…uh…something on your mind, Edie?”

  “Why, yes, Jeff. Sort of. I hate to bother you, though.”

  “Well, now, that’s perfectly all right,” declared the attorney. “I’ve got a few minutes yet. Come in and sit down.”

  He closed the door after her and pulled a chair close to hers, in the manner of a lawyer administering to a client.

  “Now, what is it, Edie?”

  “It’s about Bob—no, not Bobbie. I mean my husband.”

  “Oh?” said Jeff, genuinely interested. “You’ve heard from him?”

  “Not exactly. I’ve heard of him. I got a letter some time ago from a man who used to be associated with him in the law business. He said he’d seen Bob in El Paso, Texas.…”

  She stopped, her eyes lowered, twisting at her hands.

  “Go on, Edie.”

  “Well, he said Bob wouldn’t even speak to him. Pretended like he didn’t know him. He just looked him up and down and walked away.”

  “He was sure it was Bob?”

  “Yes. Positive of it. And he knew him so well he couldn’t be mistaken.”

  The little attorney shook his head. “Well, gosh, Edie. I hardly know what to say. Was there—did you want me to do something about it? To see if I could do something?”

  “What could you do, Jeff?”

  “Quite a bit,” Jeff declared. “I’ve made a good many contacts in my position; and he’s still your husband. We could stick him for non-support—”

  “Oh, no! I wouldn’t want you to do that!” Edie raised her head proudly.

  “I see. Well, perhaps you’d like a divorce, then. You’re still young, and—”

  “No. I don’t want a divorce.”

  The attorney spread his hands. “What do you want, Edie?”

  “Well, I don’t know exactly. I thought, perhaps, he might be in trouble of some kind, and if he was—well—”

  “Don’t you think you’ve just about got your hands full as it is?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Dillon sighed, “I suppose I have. But I just thought…”

  She shook her head, smiled gamely, and arose. Jeff, glancing at his watch, hastily arose with her.

  “We’ll talk about this again,” he promised. “Anything you want to do, I’ll try to work out for you.”

  “Thanks a lot, Jeff. It always kind of cheers me up to talk to you.”

  She turned and hurried down the hall toward the back stairs as Jeff’s guests began to arrive. They were the most important men in town, and she didn’t want to have them see her looking like she did.

  Jeff remained in the doorway to greet his constituents: the wheel-horses of the party that had elected him. He offered his hand only once, to the first one. After that, he merely stood there, replying to their grim looks with grave and polite nods. Alfred Courtland came last, and Jeff guessed that he would have shaken hands. But the attorney did not offer to with him. Much as he needed all the support he could muster, he had never forgiven the banker’s insults.

  He closed the door at last, seated himself against the wall near the window, and shot a quick glance around the room. Besides Courtland, there was Tom Epps, the hardware and Chandler dealer; Newt Ludlow of the furniture and undertaking emporium; old Simp, of groceries and dry goods; Tod Myers, the grain-elevator man; Postmaster Frank Henshaw; and Wilhelm Deutsch. Next to Courtland, the old German seemed less vindictive than any of the others. His attitude, Jeff guessed, was merely a reflection of his desire to conform.

  For a moment, as all eyes centered on Jeff, there was a dead silence. Then the room burst into an uproar as everyone tried to talk at once.

  Old Simp’s cracked voice finally prevailed.

  “I reckon you know why we’re here, Jeff. We know you sold us out, and there ain’t no damned excuse you can make for yourself. But we’re willing to listen.”

  “Why, that’s very kind of you,” said Jeff, realizing at once how foolish the statement sounded.

  “Never mind about us bein’ kind,” said Epps. “Maybe we ain’t quite so kind as you think we are.”

  “Well, all right,” said Jeff. And again he made a misstep. “If that’s the way you want it, that’s the way it’ll be. Before we go too far, though, I’d just like to remind you that I’ve got quite a few friends in this valley. A lot more than you might think.”

  He winced, seeing their exchange of sour smiles. Postmaster Frank Henshaw snickered openly:

  “You think you don’t need the party any more, Jeff?”

  “Well, now, no. Of course I don’t mean that,” said Jeff hastily.

  “Maybe you think the Fargoes can elect you,” said Tod Myers. “I’ll tell you this right now. There’s plenty of goddam people in this county besides the Fargoes.”

  Courtland cleared his throat and looked at him, and the elevator man reddened.

  “No offense, Alf,” he said quickly.

  Courtland inspected the tip of his cigar and said nothing.

  “Dammit, Jeff,” said Newt Ludlow, “we liked you, boy.”

  “And I liked you, Newt. I liked you all and still do. But you knew what the job paid. How—”

  “You knew what it paid, too, Jeff.”

  “You was so damned crude about it all,�
�� complained old Simp, his voice cracking over the words. “You just about made it impossible for us to run you again, even if we wanted to. There ain’t a man, woman, or child in this valley that don’t know you sold out.”

  “And that’s a fact,” said Tod Myers.

  They looked at him, waiting, and Jeff could only look back in helpless silence. Gradually their looks of anger turned to scorn, to disgusted contempt. It wasn’t so bad being sharp; a man couldn’t be blamed for looking out for himself since it was a cinch no one else would. But to be sharp and get caught at it, to be a dummy, was unforgivable.

  Postmaster Henshaw glanced around the circle inquiringly.

  “Well, boys, I guess there ain’t much more to say, is there?”

  “Reckon not.” They shook their heads.

  They stirred in their chairs, brushed at their trousers. One or two arose.

  “Wait a minute,” said Jeff Parker.

  “Don’t see much point in it.”

  “You will,” said Jeff, and his voice was firm and assured. For the magic words, the sesame for his troubles, had come to him at last.

  “I took money from the railroad,” he began. “Plenty of it. But that’s not important. It’s what I did for that money that matters, right?”

  “That’s right,” nodded Ludlow.

  “Now if I could show you—so you could show the county—that I was actually only baiting a trap for the railroad (oh, and helping myself a little at the same time), everything would be swell, wouldn’t it? If I could show you how to get that money back and a darned sight more, I’d stand just about tops, wouldn’t I?”

  There was a vague bobbing of heads.

  “All you got to do is show us,” said Epps, wryly.

  “I’m going to,” said Jeff, leaning forward. “Here’s how: Taxes. Jump the assessment on the railroad. Jump it good and high.”

  Old Deutsch laughed in what was doubtless meant for approval. Simp and Epps winked at each other. Henshaw’s eyes narrowed studiously. Only Courtland voiced an objection. He disliked doing it, but as the financial expert of the community he felt, in all honesty, impelled to.

  “That’s a good idea,” he said, half-apologetically. “But haven’t quite a few counties tried to boost the assessment on the railroads without getting anywhere?”