A Cool Million by Nathanael West Page A

County man
lay on his blankets until about eleven o’clock in the morning. He only got up
when Lem , Jake and Shagpoke returned from their work on the creek to eat lunch. They were surprised to see
him still in camp, but said nothing out of politeness.
    Although they did not know it, the
Missourian had not been sleeping. He had been lying under a tree, thinking
dirty thoughts as he watched Betty go about her household chores.
    “I’m hungry,” he announced with
great truculence. “When do we eat?”
    “Won’t you share our lunch?” asked
Mr. Whipple with a sarcastic smile that was completely lost on the uncouth’
fellow.
    “Thank ye, stranger, I don’t mind if
I do,” the Pike County man said. “My fodder give out just before I made your
camp, and I hain’t found a place to stock up.” He
displayed such an appetite that Mr. Whipple regarded him with anxiety. The camp
was short of provisions, and if the stranger kept eating like that he would
have to take a trip into town that very afternoon for more food.
    “You have a healthy appetite, my
friend,” Mr. Whipple said.
    “I generally have,” said the Pike
man. “You’d orter keep some whisky to wash these
vittles down with.”
    “We prefer coffee,” said Lem .
    “Coffee is for children, whisky for
strong men,” was the ring-tail squealer’s rejoinder.
    “I still prefer coffee,” Lem said firmly.
    “Bah!” said the other, disdainfully;
“I’d as soon drink skim milk. Good whisky or cawn for
me.”
    “The only thing I miss in this camp,”
said Mr. Whipple, “is baked beans and brown bread. Ever eat ‘ em , stranger?” “No,” said the Pike man, “none of your Yankee
truck for me.”
    “What’s your favorite food?” asked Lem with a smile.
    “Sow teats and hominy, hoe cakes and
forty-rod.”
    “Well,” said Lem ,
“it depends on how you’ve been brought up. I like baked beans and brown bread
and pumpkin pie. Ever eat pumpkin pie?”
    “Yes.”
    “Like it?”
    “I don’t lay much on it.”
    Throughout this dialogue, the
stranger ate enormous quantities of food and drank six or seven cups of coffee.
Mr. Whipple realized that the damage was done and that he would have to go into
the town of Yuba for a fresh supply of provisions.
    Having finished three cans of
pineapple, the Pike man became social over one of Mr. Whipple’s cigars, which
he had taken without so much as a “by-your-leave.”
    “Strangers,” he said, “did you ever
hear of the affair I had with Jack Scott?”
    “No,” said Mr. Whipple.
    “Jack and me used to be a heap together. We went huntin ’ together,
camped out for weeks together, and was like two
brothers. One day we was a- ridin ’
out, when a deer started up about fifty yards ahead of us. We both raised our
guns and shot at him. There was only one bullet into him, and I knowed it was mine.”
    “How did you know it?” asked Lem .
    “Don’t you get curious, stranger. I knowed it, and that
was enough. But Jack said it was his. ‘It’s my deer,’ he says, ‘for you missed
your shot.’ ‘ Looka here, Jack,’ says I, ‘you’re
mistaken. You missed it. Don’t you think I know my own bullet?’ ‘No, I don’t,’
says he. ‘Jack,’ says I calmly, ‘don’t talk that way. It’s dangerous.’ `Do you
think I’m afraid of you?’ he says turnin ’ on me. ‘Jack,’
says I, `don’t provoke me. I kin whip my weight in
wildcats.’ ‘You can’t whip me,’ he says. That was too much for me to stand. I’m
the rip-tail roarer from Pike County, Missouri, and
no man can insult me and live. ‘Jack,’ says I, ‘we’ve been friends, but you’ve
insulted me and you must pay with your life.’ Then I up with my iron and shot
him through the head.”
    “My, how cruel!” exclaimed Betty.
    “I was sorry to do it, beautiful
gal, for he was my best friend, but he disputed my word, and the man that does
that has to make his will if he’s got property.”
    No one said anything, so the Pike
man