Archie said. “He’s a decent man. Many a time I wouldn’t have eaten but for him. Full of plans, full of schemes. You know that.”
Bone said nothing.
“But he’s ambitious,” Archie said. “I’ve seen it happen before. It’s like shooting craps. The same thing. Get him started and he won’t be able to stop.”
Archie’s hands trembled. Bone perceived the fear that was bottled inside the smaller man. The fear was infectious; it was like a fog, Bone thought, oily and clinging.
“What he wants to do,” Archie said, “it scares me. I’m not stupid. It won’t end here. I know that. If it starts, Christ knows where it’ll stop. You understand?”
But the words came too fast. Bone looked at Archie emptily. The sun had gone behind the farmhouse, shadows lengthened and darkened.
“In a way,” Archie said, “I think it started back in California, back during that raid, when you killed those farmers, when you knocked down that scissor-bill like, I don’t know, some kind of crazy man, throwing those big goddamn fists around … you didn’t see his eyes, Bone, how they lit up, like for the first time in all his life he saw some guy with a club or a uniform get kayoed. For the first time, understand, it wasn’t him on the ground, it was the other guy, and I think that made him a little crazy, crazy with the wanting of it. …” Archie paused, swiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Every time he looks at you, that’s what he sees.”
“It’s not my fault,” Bone managed. “It’s in him.”
“Deep in him. You draw it out.”
“Look at me,” Bone said. “What do you see?”
Archie gazed at him. Bone felt the smaller man’s confusion.
“There’s no harm in you,” Archie relented, almost tearful now. “I never said that! But, Bone, listen, we have to stop him! If we don’t, these people, the Darcys, they won’t just get robbed, they might get something worse, they might get hurt—killed, maybe—I mean, I’ve seen the way he looks at them, the way he looks at this spread, and he’s working hard at hating ‘em, hating ‘em for what they got, hoarding up envy like sour bile inside him—”
But the words fled comprehension. There was only the fear clinging to Archie like a bad smell. Bone wished there was something he could do. But he could not control Deacon.
Deacon looks at me, Bone thought, and what he sees is Deacon: Deacon killing that scissorbill, Deacon with his big fists clenched.
And Archie looks at me, he thought, and sees Archie—Archie trembling, Archie wanting to help, Archie helpless.
He might have said something, might have tried to explain … but the smaller man’s fear crested like a wave over him, and the words became dim and elusive.
Frightened, Bone turned and fled to the barn.
That night in his bunk he dreamed again of the Jeweled World and woke before the cock’s crow, shivering in the darkness. The Calling was plaintive in him and it blended, somehow, into the howl of a distant train. So close now. So close.
He could not delay any longer.
He stood next to Deacon that morning, soaping himself at the wooden trough. Bone washed clumsily. His naked body was huge and strange, sinews and joints oddly linked, only approximately human. Deacon and Archie had long since ceased to remark on it, but this morning he was painfully aware of his own peculiarity. He longed to know what he meant, what he was . . . and knew that the only answer was in the Calling.
“Tonight,” he told Deacon. “I leave tonight. I can’t stay any longer.”
Deacon ceased toweling his face and gave Bone a long thoughtful look.
“All right,” he said. “Okay. Tonight it is.”
The sky was livid with dawn.
By midmorning an overcast had moved in. The gray clouds hung from horizon to horizon all through that day, thinning but never breaking, and when they were darkest a hard rain came down. Deacon, Archie, and Bone were confined to the hired men’s
Bone said nothing.
“But he’s ambitious,” Archie said. “I’ve seen it happen before. It’s like shooting craps. The same thing. Get him started and he won’t be able to stop.”
Archie’s hands trembled. Bone perceived the fear that was bottled inside the smaller man. The fear was infectious; it was like a fog, Bone thought, oily and clinging.
“What he wants to do,” Archie said, “it scares me. I’m not stupid. It won’t end here. I know that. If it starts, Christ knows where it’ll stop. You understand?”
But the words came too fast. Bone looked at Archie emptily. The sun had gone behind the farmhouse, shadows lengthened and darkened.
“In a way,” Archie said, “I think it started back in California, back during that raid, when you killed those farmers, when you knocked down that scissor-bill like, I don’t know, some kind of crazy man, throwing those big goddamn fists around … you didn’t see his eyes, Bone, how they lit up, like for the first time in all his life he saw some guy with a club or a uniform get kayoed. For the first time, understand, it wasn’t him on the ground, it was the other guy, and I think that made him a little crazy, crazy with the wanting of it. …” Archie paused, swiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Every time he looks at you, that’s what he sees.”
“It’s not my fault,” Bone managed. “It’s in him.”
“Deep in him. You draw it out.”
“Look at me,” Bone said. “What do you see?”
Archie gazed at him. Bone felt the smaller man’s confusion.
“There’s no harm in you,” Archie relented, almost tearful now. “I never said that! But, Bone, listen, we have to stop him! If we don’t, these people, the Darcys, they won’t just get robbed, they might get something worse, they might get hurt—killed, maybe—I mean, I’ve seen the way he looks at them, the way he looks at this spread, and he’s working hard at hating ‘em, hating ‘em for what they got, hoarding up envy like sour bile inside him—”
But the words fled comprehension. There was only the fear clinging to Archie like a bad smell. Bone wished there was something he could do. But he could not control Deacon.
Deacon looks at me, Bone thought, and what he sees is Deacon: Deacon killing that scissorbill, Deacon with his big fists clenched.
And Archie looks at me, he thought, and sees Archie—Archie trembling, Archie wanting to help, Archie helpless.
He might have said something, might have tried to explain … but the smaller man’s fear crested like a wave over him, and the words became dim and elusive.
Frightened, Bone turned and fled to the barn.
That night in his bunk he dreamed again of the Jeweled World and woke before the cock’s crow, shivering in the darkness. The Calling was plaintive in him and it blended, somehow, into the howl of a distant train. So close now. So close.
He could not delay any longer.
He stood next to Deacon that morning, soaping himself at the wooden trough. Bone washed clumsily. His naked body was huge and strange, sinews and joints oddly linked, only approximately human. Deacon and Archie had long since ceased to remark on it, but this morning he was painfully aware of his own peculiarity. He longed to know what he meant, what he was . . . and knew that the only answer was in the Calling.
“Tonight,” he told Deacon. “I leave tonight. I can’t stay any longer.”
Deacon ceased toweling his face and gave Bone a long thoughtful look.
“All right,” he said. “Okay. Tonight it is.”
The sky was livid with dawn.
By midmorning an overcast had moved in. The gray clouds hung from horizon to horizon all through that day, thinning but never breaking, and when they were darkest a hard rain came down. Deacon, Archie, and Bone were confined to the hired men’s
Similar Books
