Heed the Thunder (18 page)

Doc Hallup, who had just raked in a large pot, even ventured a theory that the boy was not really bad at all. He said he thought it was entirely possible that young Dillon might escape hanging, ending up with nothing worse than life imprisonment at hard labor.

Cap’n Finigan, who had won the pot before, clung to a more conservative and pessimistic viewpoint. In his opinion the boy’s career had now sunk to such decadence that it could only terminate in hanging, or, perhaps, boiling in oil. But he attributed the lad’s downfall to bad companions, namely—and it pained him to say it—Lincoln Fargo.

Lincoln snorted and sneered, and Cap’n Ball drew two cards to fill a full-house. Cap’n Finigan made an ace-high straight. Doc Hallup drew one club and filled a flush. Lincoln stood pat on nothing.

The betting went around and around, with Lincoln swearing silently over the bluff he had tried to run.

Then, Doc, his eyes fixed on his cards, extended his hand and ground out his cigar in the ashtray.

There was a shattering explosion. A choking cloud soared toward the ceiling and came down in a spark-filled avalanche. The table was knocked over as the old men fought to get away. Doc Hallup, his sleeve on fire, was forced to plunge it into a gaboon. Inevitably, he caught his hand in the brass receptacle. And in trying to free himself, he hurled it against the backdrop on the stage, staining its blushing cupids to a chocolate brown.

Panting, wild-eyed, the old soldiers—three of them, at least—started for the boy. But somehow he had slept through the turmoil, and their avarice got the better of their desire for revenge.

The table was righted again, the bets pulled back, and the game went on.

Another hour passed, and the boy quietly disappeared behind the screen at the sink.

Doc Hallup, under the impression that he had four threes, urged his friends to bet ’em high and sleep in the streets.

Cap’n Ball, who thought he had a spade straight flush, fell in with him.

Then the showdown came and Doc’s fours turned out to be two small pair, and Cap’n Ball’s hand was anything but what it appeared to be. Again they started for the boy, but not seeing him and believing him to be gone, they turned their wrath upon Lincoln.

He said, mildly, that he couldn’t see what they was fussing about. “He don’t bother me none hardly at all.”

They said he was a son-of-a-bitch and the major cause of the Union Army’s few defeats.

Cap’n Finigan said to play cards.

They played, and Lincoln won steadily, and his yellow eyes rolled with hideous glee.

Meanwhile, the boy was examining the package of meat. He did not believe it the proper time to bring up the subject of fishing, so he ate the headcheese, being unable to think of anything better to do with it, while he turned the fat pink roll of Bologna in one hand, thoughtfully.

In the nine-year-old mind, one object immediately demands comparison with another; and the Bologna presented no problem to Bob whatsoever. Yet the thing was at once too simple and too difficult. He could not picture himself strolling down the street, employing the sausage as a caricature of the only bodily member which it closely resembled, without seeing unavoidable disaster for himself. Reluctantly, for the scheme had startling possibilities, he gave it up and picked up the long wedge-shaped chunk of liver.

It was some moments before he could decide what the liver was, and when the solution came to him, he was amazed that it had not come to him sooner. It was a tongue, of course. Anybody could see it was a tongue. That’s what it was. A tongue. And a person would have to be very nicey-nice indeed to object to a boy’s showing his tongue.

Stretching his lips, he forced the broad end of the slimy meat in over his gums, and stood up in front of the mirror. The result was even better than he had hoped for.

He took a handful of soap, worked it into a lather, and spread it over the “tongue,” ringing his lips with the froth.

He bugged his eyes and almost frightened himself.

Peeking out at the players, he carefully inched the screen around until it shielded the window. He started to lean out; then his bugged eyes fell upon the curtain cord. That was it. The final touch.

He looped the cord around his neck.

Then, eyes popping, “tongue” and mouth drooling, arms waving in frantic appeal, he leaned out over the street.

Little Paulie Pulasky was the first to see him. She had watched him go into the Opera House, and had lingered in front of her father’s store solely for the pleasure of looking upon him again.

She giggled when she saw the apparition at the window, not recognizing it as her own and greatly beloved Bobbie Dillon. But seeing him for who he was at last, seeing him perish before her very eyes, she set up such a weeping and wailing that the street was almost instantly filled.

John Pulasky glanced out his window, choked out a prayer, and vaulted the counter. At the door, he tripped over the lintel and went sprawling upon the sidewalk. But, pain-racked as he was, he waved away those who would have aided him and begged them to succor the strangling heir of the house of Dillon.

Young Higgins and Alf Courtland came running out of the bank, and Courtland was so dismayed that he dropped and broke his precious Meerschaum.

Edie Dillon stuck her head out of the hotel door. Screaming, she fainted backward into the lobby.

Old Wilhelm Deutsch climbed upon the seat of his buggy and tried to drive up on the sidewalk.

Hinky-dink Murphy, the town scavenger, rounded the corner in his wagon and became so excited that he flopped backward into his slop tank.

There were shouts, yells, screams. All over town and up and down the valley the telephones were ringing, spreading the news of the hanging of Bob Dillon.

Above the turmoil Bob heard from behind him the conclusive scrapings and stampings that marked the end of the card game. He ceased waving his arms, undid the cord from around his neck, and allowed the “tongue” to drop into old Wilhelm’s outstretched fingers. He caught up with his grandfather just as the latter was following his three cronies out to the landing which led down to the street. Lincoln told them good-night cordially, and thanked them for their contributions. They replied with unprintable things.

“Well, now what you been up to?” Link demanded, turning to his grandson.

“Nothing,” said Bob, glancing apprehensively down the stairs.

“Want a sody? You been a pretty good boy today.”

“N-no,” said the boy. “I just want you to walk home with me.”

“What you scared of?”

“Nothin’.”

“Well, all right,” said the old man, amiably. “Reckon I ought to do something for you.”

He went down the steps and Bob followed, almost walking on his heels. He was not much afraid of what his mother would do to him; she would probably be too glad to see him alive to do anything. But he was properly worried about the attitude of the rest of the town. The joke, he was beginning to see, had succeeded too well. He was afraid that the simulated hanging might have put unpleasant notions into the townfolks’ heads.

Near the bottom of the flight of stairs, Lincoln became aware of the commotion in the street, and he turned to leer savagely at the boy.

“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.…”

T
here 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.