by Jim Thompson
Grant said it was certainly white of him. “But am I not in your way here, Jeff? If you’ll just give me fifty cents for a room—”
“I’ve engaged a room for you here. Right across the hall. Now, I do have some business to take care of, and I know you need a good rest. So—”
“I’ll go right on over,” said Grant promptly. “You don’t mind if I take a drink with me, do you?”
“Well”—Jeff hesitated, worried—“haven’t you had quite a bit, Grant?”
“I suppose I have, at that,” agreed Grant. “I’ll tell you—I’ll just take the bottle along. If I don’t want a drink, then it won’t be poured and wasted.”
Jeff wanted to protest, but found himself wordless. He was faced with that difficult and ancient problem which confronts any host with a heavy-drinking guest: how to deny the guest without appearing stingy and inhospitable.
He was still wordless, but for quite a different reason, when his relative pounded upon his door the following morning at seven o’clock, and gave him a trembling and bleary-eyed greeting. He had (so he said) upset the whisky bottle in his bathroom and had got no benefit from it whatsoever. Now he needed a small one to wake up on.
Jeff admitted him and began to dress, while in the parlor the glass and bottle clinked again and again.
As quickly as he could, he got him downstairs to a restaurant. After breakfast, they went to a clothing store where he purchased Grant a ready-made suit and overcoat, a derby, and several incidentals of attire.
The ex-printer’s mood changed with his attire. As he acquired everything that he needed, his attitude toward the little attorney changed from shamed and grateful humility to ill-concealed contempt. He could remember Jeff Parker when he was no better than a beggar. Why shouldn’t he be glad to help a Fargo? If it hadn’t been for the Fargoes giving him that lawsuit to handle, where would he be today?
They stood at last in the railway station, and Jeff handed him his ticket. Grant shook the lawyer’s hand, limply, and looked at him, his lip curling.
“There’s a little item that you seem to have overlooked,” he said. “Quite unintentionally, I’m sure.”
“Why, I don’t know that I have,” said Jeff, boldly. “It seems to me that I’ve done very well by you.”
Grant grimaced. “I’m aware of what you’ve done without being reminded of it. You’ll be repaid, I assure you. But after all, I do need a little money.”
“All right,” said Jeff. “Here’s a dollar. You’ve had your breakfast. That’ll buy you your dinner and a few cigars. You’ll be home in time for supper.”
“I see,” said Grant. “You think I’ll—”
“I don’t think. I know goshdarned well if you have any more than that, you’ll get drunk.”
“And what business is it of yours if—”
Jeff gave him a long slow look. Smiling grimly, he turned and walked away. Grant took a step after him, momentarily shamed of the repayment he had made to this man who had befriended him. But Jeff did not look back, and the shame changed quickly to anger.
Try to tell him what to do, would he, just because he’d lent him a few dollars! Well, he’d show him.
There was a pawnshop across the street. As soon as the attorney was out of sight, he walked over and entered it. The pawnbroker examined the new coat and offered him a loan of seven dollars on it. After some haggling, Grant obtained five dollars and a secondhand cowhide coat. It was a respectable enough garment, if not dressy, and it would certainly keep him warm. It was the kind of coat Alfred Courtland had worn on the day he visited Edie Dillon at her country school.
Indeed, with his trim mustache and derby hat, Grant considerably resembled Courtland as he had appeared that day.
Equipped with two quarts of whisky, Grant boarded the train. He threw two seats together, lit a cigar, and relaxed. It was going to be a pleasant journey. And at the end of it there would be Ma to comfort and care for him. He would get a job and save his money and earn the respect of the town. In time, he would take over the newspaper. He would buy a home and a car. He would start going to church, getting acquainted with the right kind of girls—
Why not? It’s been a long time ago, and I didn’t kill her. I didn’t! Maybe I did intend to. I intended to and she saw it, and she jerked the wheel.…But I didn’t do it! She did it!
He uncorked one of the bottles.
At Grand Island he ate dinner, and the food sobered him somewhat. It sobered him too much, in fact, for he could not stand himself sober these days. He began drinking again, as soon as he was on the Verdon train, and gradually the world reassumed its roseate hue.
…He woke up with a start, and he was frightened, for the few hours of sleep had had the same effect as the food. Turning the bottle up, he swallowed almost half a pint. And while the liquor steadied him, he still knew fear and uneasiness. He was almost sure to run into someone he knew at the station, and he wasn’t ready to face him yet. He needed to rest and get his feet back on the ground. It would be best for them to learn of his return and become accustomed to it before he had to see anyone.
But…
He sat up, suddenly smiling. Well, it could be worked all right. The train would be slowing down there at Fargo Crossing. With his experience in riding freights these past years, it wouldn’t be any trick at all to hop off. From there, it was only a matter of a mile and a half to Ma’s place.
The conductor came through and Grant caught his eye.
“How long before we reach Fargo Crossing?” he inquired.
The conductor glanced at him coldly and consulted his watch.
“About thirty minutes if we’re on time. But the train doesn’t stop this side of Verdon.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You weren’t figuring on hopping off there?” demanded the trainman sharply.
“Oh, no,” Grant lied.
“Well, don’t. And don’t drink any more of that whisky until you get off. You’ve had more than enough.”
Grant flushed, but said nothing. He waited until a short icy blast from the open vestibule signaled him that the conductor had gone on into the other car. Then he tilted the bottle, defiantly drinking more than he actually wanted.
The snow had almost coated over the window pane, and he could not see out. He had no watch.
He waited, trying to count off the seconds, until it seemed that some twenty minutes had passed. Donning his coat, then, he shoved a bottle into each pocket and went out to the vestibule.
The alcohol was playing tricks with his brain, and, too, the landmarks of the section were no longer familiar to him. He got down on the steps and stood there swaying, trying to calculate the speed of the train.
It seemed to be going quite fast, close to the tracks, but its speed near the fence was no more than moderate. He giggled over this phenomenon, congratulating himself on his shrewdness in observing it.
That clump of trees…that windmill…the barn…
Yes, they must be getting close. This must be about it. The train whistled for a crossing, and he braced himself. A cattleguard flashed by.
Pivoting gracefully (or so he thought), he dropped off.
His feet touched the frozen right of way and he bounded into the air. By a matter of inches, he missed being thrown between the two cars. As it was, he bounced against the second car and was knocked clear of the tracks. Turning a complete flipflop, he landed on his haunches and went skidding harmlessly down the embankment.
Giggling, he stood up and brushed himself off, waving a drunken good-by to the fast-vanishing train.
He put a hand in his pocket and cursed. Angrily he pulled out the fragments of the broken bottle and dropped them in the snow.
His hand went into his other pocket, and he laughed. Triumphantly he pulled out a full bottle. He popped the cork in it and took a long drink. Climbing up to the tracks, he staggered back toward the crossing.
Once there, he had another drink while he treated the frozen landscape to an ow
lish survey. He drank, turning around and around, staring off past the end of the bottle; then he put the bottle away, frowning, not liking the looks of what he saw.
This wasn’t Fargo Crossing. It was—it must be Misery Crick. He was away up in hunky-land, a good eighteen miles from Verdon.
And the sun was going down. And it was snowing. It wasn’t snowing hard, but it wouldn’t have to snow hard. There was no chance of getting in to Verdon. There would be no chance of getting anywhere unless he got there quickly.
He had drunk far too much, now, to be sobered by anything but time. But drunk as he was, he was badly frightened. People went to bed early in this part of the country. There would be no lights to guide him; and the snow would blot out the trails. And the temperature would drop thirty degrees during the night.
He would have to get to a house quickly.
Far off to his right, down the road and to his right, he saw a plume of smoke rising from a grove of trees.
At a fast wobbling walk, he set off for it.
The sweat poured from him, and his leaden legs forced him to stop frequently. But he staggered on each time, keeping his eyes on the plume of smoke.
He had gone a matter of perhaps a half-mile when he heard the distant but unmistakable creak of wagon wheels. He stopped and looked behind him and saw nothing. Then, as he started to turn around again, his gaze traveled across the cornfield on his left, and he saw a team coming down the rows of frozen stalks. A team and a wagon and a man, almost completely disguised by the snow. The man was hurrying along at the side of the wagon, making throwing motions that were followed by a steady succession of dull thudding sounds.
A corn-husker. Some farmer out getting his last load before going in for the day.
Grant almost wept with relief. He wouldn’t have to find his way in alone. He’d ride home with this farmer. Even a hunky would have to take a man in on a night like this.
He remained where he was, taking another two or three drinks, while the wagon came rapidly down the corn rows. Grant raised his hand to the fellow in greeting, but he received no response. Probably the fellow was in too much of a hurry to break his husking rhythm by waving back. Or, more than likely, he was just too damned ignorant and sullen, like the rest of his hunky breed.
The team reached the end of the field, and, with a guttural shout, the man turned it down the narrow little lane which ran parallel with the fence. The farmer, his face almost entirely concealed by a stocking cap and a heavy woolen muffler, looked squarely at Grant, but made no acknowledgment of his presence.
He caught the endgate of the wagon and started to climb on.
“I say there,” Grant cried, in his best citified manner. “Hold on a minute!”
The farmer grunted, and the team came to an impatient stop. He looked around. He did not seem to look at Grant, but to one side of him.
“Huh?” he grunted.
“What’s the matter with you anyway?” the ex-printer demanded, peevishly, and the man moved closer to the fence, rolling his head from side to side. “I’m lost. I’ve got to find a place to put up for the night.”
“Huh?” The farmer looked at him directly at last.
“I said I want to spend the night at your house. I live in Verdon and I’m lost.”
“Huh?”
Grant cursed. “You goddam stupid hunky swine! I’m going to ride home with you. You’re going to put me up for the night, and—and—”
The man straddled the fence and lumbered awkwardly through the ditch. He reached the road and with curious intensity headed straight toward Grant. Grant started to choke out a hasty apology, but the fellow stopped a few feet away and stood staring at him again.
“Swine,” he grunted. And he sniffed the air, animal-like.
“Well,” said Grant arrogantly, “think you’ll know me next time you see me?”
The fellow nodded slowly. His husking-mitted hand went to the back of his neck and he undid the muffler.
“I…know…you. You know me?”
“Can’t say that I do,” said Grant. And then he brushed his eyes and blinked. And a sickening chill ran up and down his back.
This—this wasn’t a man. There was never a man with a face like that.
“God!” he gasped.
He took a step backwards. Another. The—it didn’t have any face. It wasn’t really a face. Just a great blob of tortured flesh, like clay squeezed through the fingers of an idiot. Its eyes were gleaming distorted bulbs of mattered white. It—for Christ’s sake, what was it?
He backed away, and the thing merely stood and watched him.
Then it turned and walked over to the fence. The blade of the husking mit came down on the barbed wire and the wire snapped. The thing walked to the next post and repeated the process.
It came back to the road, dragging the length of barbed wire. It started toward him.
He could not move for a moment. He could not even cry out. He was like a man in a nightmare.
Jesus…God…Jesus…I didn’t want to kill her…she kept after me and I didn’t want to, and I’m sorry…I’ve told you how sorry I was.…Jesus, just let me see Ma again. Don’t…DON’T…
He screamed. He tried to run at last, and his foot caught in a frozen rut and he sprawled.
And the thing stood over him.
“I…know…you.…You know me?”
Grant looked up and screamed again, and the thing bent over him insistently.
“You…know…me?”
“No!” screamed Grant. “Go ’way. I haven’t got any money. I—I—GO AWAY!”
“You…stand…up.”
“I won’t stand up! You can’t make me!…Please, please don’t hurt me. I’m sick and I haven’t got any money, and—help, help!”
The husking mit closed around his neck and the blade bit into his flesh. As if he had been a child, he was lifted into the air.
He struggled, choking, flailing at the hideous face with his hands, and the thing suddenly released him and let him drop to the road.
His terror was so great by now that it was its own antidote. He watched the thing fold the wire, and his voice became almost quiet.
“What are you going to do? Why are you doing this? I haven’t any money.…You—you don’t want to tie me up with that. It’ll cut me. I’ll freeze. Why do you want to tie me up. Why…”
“No tie.…Whip.”
“W-whip?” Grant rose to his knees incredulously. “Y-you can’t do that. I—”
The thing moved so swiftly that he was still talking when the blow fell. He did not even have time to close his eyes. The barbed wire bit into his face, chopped into his eyes, dragged through the skin and flesh and membranes.
And when his pain rode through the shock, and he opened his mouth to scream, the wire quirt swung again, slicing his neck, his throat. And his scream died in a choking burbling sound.
A drowning sound.…
…He lay stretched out on his back at last, lay on a scarlet counterpane of blood. And he no longer screamed nor struggled. He no longer breathed.
Mike Czerny let the quirt slide from his fingers. Scornfully he nudged the corpse of Grant Fargo with his foot.
“Go…wash…face.…Go wash…in snow.…”
29
In Verdon: Doc Jones was treating Myrtle Courtland for an attack of rheumatism; Philo Barkley and Pearl Fargo were rocking contentedly in front of their fire; Sherman Fargo was mailing some tobacco to his two sons; Josephine and the three girls were doing chores; Paulie Pulasky lay in her bedroom, weeping; and Alf Courtland was telling Wilhelm Deutsch, the German swine, that the Kaiser had best beware of the tight little isle.
In Lincoln: Mike Czerny sat in the death cell; and Attorney General Jeff Parker was confidentially recommending an investigation of Alf Courtland’s bank.
In Omaha: Jiggs Cassidy was advising his principals that Jeff should be elevated to a still higher office, where he would have more to lose.
In Kansas City: William Sim
pson was privately looking around for another job.
In Houston: Ted and Gus Fargo lay chained to their bunks on the state pea-farm, planning some way of killing their guards.
…and on the night train out of the valley, Bob Dillon looked across the aisle at his sleeping mother and suppressed a grin. She looked kind of funny in her new hobble-skirted suit and the toque hat. Strange—a stranger. He muttered the word Papa and was struck with the foolishness of its sound. Papa—gosh! His grin faded as a terrible sense of loneliness swept over him. He turned and looked out the window.…Home. They were going home to Papa.
He wondered if Paulie would have a baby. He hoped she would and he hoped she wouldn’t. He wished that they could have stayed forever like they were that year they were nine. Little Paulie. Paulie, you come here!
Well—I am here, Bobbie. And she was. She had come as she always had.
She smiled at him humbly in the mirror of the window, and her eyes were great slate-gray pools, and there was a speck of ice-cream on her little nose. Paulie! Paulie!…Pa?
Goddam if I won’t take you fishin’. Lincoln Fargo rolled his eyes doggishly and twirled his cane. Now what the hell you bellerin’ about?
He wants me to cut his ears off. Sherman smiled sourly and cocked his pipe between his teeth.
What you devils been up to now? Josephine scowled flabbily and flexed the blacksnake.
Shall we have tea, young Robert?…
I’ve brought you some books, old fellow.…
What’d you get in my way for, you son-of-a-bitch. You got in mine, you son-of-a-bitch.
And so he called them all back, one by one; all, for they were real people, elemental people, understandable people, people of the land, and as good and as bad as the land, their birthright, was good and bad. And in his loneliness he called them all: