got to think of us a good place to put this gage,” he said, “a secret place. Where you think, Hal?”
“How ’bout that old smokehouse out back — ain’t nobody goes in there.”
“Shoot, that’s a good place for it, Hal — you sure they ain’t goin’ tear it down no time soon?”
“Heck no, what would they tear it down for?”
C.K. laughed. “Yeah, that’s right,” he said. “Well, we take it out there after it git dark.”
They fell silent, sitting together in the early afternoon. Through the open end of the shed the bright light had inched across the dirt floor till now they were both sitting half in the soft full sunlight.
“Ah jest wish ah knowed whether or not you daddy gonna work on that south-quarter fence today,” said C.K. after a while.
“Aw, him and Les Newgate went over to Dalton,” said Harold. “Heck, I bet they ain’t back ’fore dark.” Then he added: “You think we oughtta go down to the tank?”
C.K. appeared to give it judicious thought, although brief.
“Ah think we do awright today,” he said glancing out at the blue sky and sniffing the air a little, “...shoot, we try some pork rind over at the second log — that’s jest where he be ’bout now.”
“We oughtta git started then,” said Harold. “Reckon we can jest leave that dang stuff here till dark...we can stick it back behind that firewood.”
“Sho’,” said C.K., “we stick it back in there for the time bein’ — an’ ah think ah twist up one or two more these ’fore we set out...put a taste of this heavy in ’em.” He laughed as he unscrewed the lid of the fruit-jar. “Shoot, this sho’ be fine for fishin’,” he said, “...ain’t nothin’ like good gage give a man the strength of patience — you want me to twist up one for you, Hal?”
Harold sighed. “Okay, but you lemme lick it, C.K.”
C.K. smiled, starting to twist up another. “Sho’,” he said softly, “that ain’t gonna hurt it none.”
IX
L ATE EVENING AND the farmhouse stood dark against the horizon, only one light burning in a room near the back.
Big Nail knelt in the shadow of the back porch listening intently for a long moment before creeping on all fours to the window and peering in. In the soft circle of lamplight from a table near the bed he could see the middle-aged couple lying there — the woman asleep with her hair up in curlers and he reading a folded newspaper. Sitting on the table, next to the lamp, was a small radio, dial glowing and fiddle music softly playing. It was “The Texas Farm and Home Program” from Waco, featuring country-and-western music, interspersed with market reports on the latest price of livestock and with special forecasts of corn and cotton futures. The music was being performed by W. Lee “Pappy” O’Daniel and his Hillbilly Boys. They were singing:
“Ah like mountain music
Good ole mountain music
Played by a real hillbilly band.”
Crouched in the shadows, only a few feet away, Big Nail was scarcely aware of the music, as the fingers of his right hand slowly uncovered a large heavy rock in the soft earth beneath the window.
“Ah love that country rhythm
Ah jest play right with ’em
It’s jest the bestest band what am.”
In the bed the woman stirred and raised a hand to her head. The man mistook her gesture.
“I’m finished,” he said, “if that’s what you’re about to start up on...” He dropped the folded newspaper to the floor and switched off the table lamp. “I reckon you want the radio off too.”
She gave an elaborate sigh. “Leroy, that ain’t what I was gonna say. I was gonna say that I felt right uneasy tonight.”
“How come?”
“Well, I don’t know how come.” Her impatience had turned to irritation. “But would you please leave the radio on? It’s a comfort.”
The man grunted. “Well, jest don’t leave it on all goddam night,” he said, and he pulled his pillow on top of his head and went straight to sleep — indeed so
“How ’bout that old smokehouse out back — ain’t nobody goes in there.”
“Shoot, that’s a good place for it, Hal — you sure they ain’t goin’ tear it down no time soon?”
“Heck no, what would they tear it down for?”
C.K. laughed. “Yeah, that’s right,” he said. “Well, we take it out there after it git dark.”
They fell silent, sitting together in the early afternoon. Through the open end of the shed the bright light had inched across the dirt floor till now they were both sitting half in the soft full sunlight.
“Ah jest wish ah knowed whether or not you daddy gonna work on that south-quarter fence today,” said C.K. after a while.
“Aw, him and Les Newgate went over to Dalton,” said Harold. “Heck, I bet they ain’t back ’fore dark.” Then he added: “You think we oughtta go down to the tank?”
C.K. appeared to give it judicious thought, although brief.
“Ah think we do awright today,” he said glancing out at the blue sky and sniffing the air a little, “...shoot, we try some pork rind over at the second log — that’s jest where he be ’bout now.”
“We oughtta git started then,” said Harold. “Reckon we can jest leave that dang stuff here till dark...we can stick it back behind that firewood.”
“Sho’,” said C.K., “we stick it back in there for the time bein’ — an’ ah think ah twist up one or two more these ’fore we set out...put a taste of this heavy in ’em.” He laughed as he unscrewed the lid of the fruit-jar. “Shoot, this sho’ be fine for fishin’,” he said, “...ain’t nothin’ like good gage give a man the strength of patience — you want me to twist up one for you, Hal?”
Harold sighed. “Okay, but you lemme lick it, C.K.”
C.K. smiled, starting to twist up another. “Sho’,” he said softly, “that ain’t gonna hurt it none.”
IX
L ATE EVENING AND the farmhouse stood dark against the horizon, only one light burning in a room near the back.
Big Nail knelt in the shadow of the back porch listening intently for a long moment before creeping on all fours to the window and peering in. In the soft circle of lamplight from a table near the bed he could see the middle-aged couple lying there — the woman asleep with her hair up in curlers and he reading a folded newspaper. Sitting on the table, next to the lamp, was a small radio, dial glowing and fiddle music softly playing. It was “The Texas Farm and Home Program” from Waco, featuring country-and-western music, interspersed with market reports on the latest price of livestock and with special forecasts of corn and cotton futures. The music was being performed by W. Lee “Pappy” O’Daniel and his Hillbilly Boys. They were singing:
“Ah like mountain music
Good ole mountain music
Played by a real hillbilly band.”
Crouched in the shadows, only a few feet away, Big Nail was scarcely aware of the music, as the fingers of his right hand slowly uncovered a large heavy rock in the soft earth beneath the window.
“Ah love that country rhythm
Ah jest play right with ’em
It’s jest the bestest band what am.”
In the bed the woman stirred and raised a hand to her head. The man mistook her gesture.
“I’m finished,” he said, “if that’s what you’re about to start up on...” He dropped the folded newspaper to the floor and switched off the table lamp. “I reckon you want the radio off too.”
She gave an elaborate sigh. “Leroy, that ain’t what I was gonna say. I was gonna say that I felt right uneasy tonight.”
“How come?”
“Well, I don’t know how come.” Her impatience had turned to irritation. “But would you please leave the radio on? It’s a comfort.”
The man grunted. “Well, jest don’t leave it on all goddam night,” he said, and he pulled his pillow on top of his head and went straight to sleep — indeed so
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