“I’m going to get married to you anyway. I want to be your common-law wife. I read about it in the paper.”
“That’s where you read about the Unwritten Law.”
“Sure. I’m going to be your common-law wife under the Unwritten Law. Can’t I, Nickie?”
“No.”
“I will. I’ll surprise you. All you have to do is live a certain time as man and wife. I’ll get them to count this time now. It’s just like homesteading.”
“I won’t let you file.”
“You can’t help yourself. That’s the Unwritten Law. I’ve thought it out lots of times. I’ll get cards printed Mrs. Nick Adams, Cross Village, Michigan—common-law wife. I’ll hand these out to a few people openly each year until the time’s up.”
“I don’t think it would work.”
“I’ve got another scheme. We’ll have a couple of children while I’m a minor. Then you have to marry me under the Unwritten Law.”
“That’s not the Unwritten Law.”
“I get mixed up on it.”
“Anyway, nobody knows yet if it works.”
“It must,” she said. “Mr. Thaw is counting on it.”
“Mr. Thaw might make a mistake.”
“Why Nickie, Mr. Thaw practically invented the Unwritten Law.”
“I thought it was his lawyer.”
“Well, Mr. Thaw put in the action anyway.”
“I don’t like Mr. Thaw,” Nick Adams said.
“That’s good. There’s things about him I don’t like either. But he certainly made the paper more interesting reading, didn’t he?”
“He gives the others something new to hate.”
“They hate Mr. Stanford White, too.”
“I think they’re jealous of both of them.”
“I believe that’s true, Nickie. Just like they’re jealous of us.”
“Think anybody is jealous of us now?”
“Not right now maybe. Our mother will think we’re fugitives from justice steeped in sin and iniquity. It’s a good thing she doesn’t know I got you that whiskey.”
“I tried it last night. It’s very good.”
“Oh, I’m glad. That’s the first whiskey I ever stole anywhere. Isn’t it wonderful that it’s good? I didn’t think anything about those people could be good.”
“I’ve got to think about them too much. Let’s not talk about them,” Nick said.
“All right. What are we going to do today?”
“What would you like to do?”
“I’d like to go to Mr. John’s store and get everything we need.”
“We can’t do that.”
“I know it. What do you plan to really do?”
“We ought to get some berries and I ought to get a partridge or some partridges. We’ve always got trout. But I don’t want you to get tired of trout.”
“Were you ever tired of trout?”
“No. But they say people get tired of them.”
“I wouldn’t get tired of them,” Littless said. “You get tired of pike right away. But you never get tired of trout nor of perch. I know, Nickie. True.”
“You don’t get tired of walleyed pike either,” Nick said. “Only of shovelnose. Boy, you sure get tired of them.”
“I don’t like the pitchfork bones,” his sister said. “It’s a fish that surfeits you.”
“We’ll clean up here and I’ll find a place to cache the shells and we’ll make a trip for berries and try to get some birds.”
“I’ll bring two lard pails and a couple of the sacks,” his sister said.
“Littless,” Nick said. “You remember about going to the bathroom, will you please?”
“Of course.”
“That’s important.”
“I know it. You remember, too.”
“I will.”
Nick went back into the timber and buried the carton of .22 long-rifles and the loose boxes of .22 shorts under the brown-needled floor at the base of a big hemlock. He put back the packed needles he had cut with his knife and made a small cut as far up as he could reach on the heavy bark of the tree. He took a bearing on the tree and then came out onto the hillside and walked down to the lean-to.
It was a lovely morning now. The sky was high and clear blue and no clouds had come yet. Nick was happy with his sister and he thought, no matter how this thing comes out we might as well have a good happy time. He had already learned there was only one day at a time and that it was always the day you were in. It would be today until it was tonight and tomorrow would be today again. This was the main thing he had learned so far.
Today was a good day and coming down to the camp with his rifle he was happy although their trouble was like a fishhook caught in his pocket that pricked him occasionally as he walked. They left the pack inside the lean-to. There were great odds against a bear bothering it in the daytime because any bear would be down below feeding on berries around the swamp. But Nick buried the bottle of whiskey up behind the spring. Littless was not back yet and Nick sat down on the log of the fallen tree they were using for firewood and checked his rifle. They were going after partridges so he pulled out the tube of the magazine and poured the long-rifle cartridges into his hand and then put them into a chamois pouch and filled the magazine with .22 shorts. They made less noise and would not tear the meat up if he could not get head shots.
He was all ready now and wanted to start. Where’s that girl anyway, he thought. Then he thought, don’t get excited. You told her to take her time. Don’t get nervous. But he was nervous and it made him angry at himself.
“Here I am,” his sister said. “I’m sorry that I took so long. I went too far away, I guess.”
“You’re fine,” Nick said. “Let’s go. You have the pails?”
“Uh huh, and covers, too.”
They started down across the hill to the creek. Nick looked carefully up the stream and along the hillside. His sister watched him. She had the pails in one of the sacks and carried it slung over her shoulder by the other sack.
“Aren’t you taking a pole, Nickie?” she asked him.
“No. I’ll cut one if we fish.”
He moved ahead of his sister, holding the rifle in one hand, keeping a little way away from the stream. He was hunting now.
“It’s a strange creek,” his sister said.
“It’s the biggest small stream I’ve ever known,” Nick told her.
“It’s deep and scary for a little stream.”
“It keeps having new springs,” Nick said. “And it digs under the bank and it digs down. It’s awful cold water, Littless. Feel it.”
“Gee,” she said. It was numbing cold.
“The sun warms it a little,” Nick said. “But not much. We’ll hunt along easy. There’s a berry patch down below.”
They went along down the creek. Nick was studying the banks. He had seen a mink’s track and shown it to his sister and they had seen tiny rubycrowned kinglets that were hunting insects and let the boy and girl come close as they moved sharply and delicately in the cedars. They had seen cedar waxwings so calm and gentle and distinguished moving in their lovely elegance with the magic wax touches on their wing coverts and their tails, and Littless had said, “They’re the most beautiful, Nickie. There couldn’t be more simply beautiful birds.”
“They’re built like your face,” he said.
“No, Nickie. Don’t make fun. Cedar waxwings make me so proud and happy that I cry.”
“When they wheel and light and then move so proud and friendly and gently,” Nick said.
They had gone on and suddenly Nick had raised the rifle and shot before his sister could see what he was looking at. Then she heard the sound of a big bird tossing and beating its wings on the ground. She saw Nick pumping the gun and shoot twice more and each time she heard another pounding of wings in the willow brush. Then there was the whirring noise of wings as large brown birds burst out of the willows and one bird flew only a little way and lit in the will
ows and with its crested head on one side looked down, bending the collar of feathers on his neck where the other birds were still thumping. The bird looking down from the red willow brush was beautiful, plump, heavy and looked so stupid with his head turned down and as Nick raised his rifle slowly, his sister whispered, “No, Nickie. Please no. We’ve got plenty.”
“All right,” Nick said. “You want to take him?”
“No, Nickie. No.”
Nick went forward into the willows and picked up the three grouse and batted their heads against the butt of the rifle stock and laid them out on the moss. His sister felt them, warm and 7ull-breasted and beautifully feathered.
“Wait till we eat them,” Nick said. He was very happy.
“I’m sorry for them now,” his sister said. “They were enjoying the morning just like we were.”
She looked up at the grouse still in the tree.
“It does look a little silly still staring down,” she said.
“This time of year the Indians call them fool hens. After they’ve been hunted they get smart. They’re not the real fool hens. Those never get smart. They’re willow grouse. These are ruffled grouse.”
“I hope we’ll get smart,” his sister said. “Tell him to go away, Nickie.”
“You tell him.”
“Go away, partridge.”
The grouse did not move.
Nick raised the rifle and the grouse looked at him. Nick knew he could not shoot the bird without making his sister sad and he made a noise blowing out so his tongue rattled and lips shook like a grouse bursting from cover and the bird looked at him fascinated.
“We better not annoy him,” Nick said.
“I’m sorry, Nickie,” his sister said. “He is stupid.”
“Wait till we eat them,” Nick told her. “You’ll see why we hunt them.”
“Are they out of season, too?”
“Sure. But they are full grown and nobody but us would ever hunt them. I kill plenty of great horned owls and a great homed owl will kill a partridge every day if he can. They hunt all the time and they kill all the good birds.”
“He certainly could kill that one easy,” his sister said. “I don’t feel bad any more. Do you want a bag to carry them in?”
“I’ll draw them and then pack them in the bag with some ferns. It isn’t so far to the berries now.”
They sat against one of the cedars and Nick opened the birds and took out their warm entrails and feeling the inside of the birds hot on his right hand he found the edible pans of the giblets and cleaned them and then washed them in the stream. When the birds were cleaned he smoothed their feathers and wrapped them in ferns and put them in the flour sack. He tied the mouth of the flour sack and two comers with a piece of fish line and slung it over his shoulder and then went back to the stream and dropped the entrails in and tossed some bright pieces of lung in to see the trout rise in the rapid heavy flow of the water.
“They’d make good bait but we don’t need bait now,” he said. “Our trout are all in the stream and we’ll take them when we need them.”
“This stream would make us rich if it was near home,” his sister said.
“It would be fished out then. This is the last really wild stream there is except in another awful country to get to beyond the foot of the lake. I never brought anybody here to fish.”
“Who ever fishes it?”
“Nobody I know.”
“Is it a virgin stream?”
“No. Indians fish it. But they’re gone now since they quit cutting hemlock bark and the camps closed down.”
“Does the Evans boy know?”
“Not him,” Nick said. But then he thought about it and it made him feel sick. He could see the Evans boy.
“What’re you thinking, Nickie?”
“I wasn’t thinking.”
“You were thinking. You tell me. We’re partners.”
“He might know,” Nick said. “Goddam it. He might know.”
“But you don’t know that he knows?”
“No. That’s the trouble. If I did I’d get out.”
“Maybe he’s back at camp now,” his sister said.
“Don’t talk that way. Do you want to bring him?”
“No,” she said. “Please, Nickie, I’m sorry I brought it up.”
“I’m not,” Nick said. “I’m grateful. I knew it anyway. Only I’d stopped thinking about it. I have to think about things now the rest of my life.”
“You always thought about things.”
“Not like this.”
“Let’s go down and get the berries anyway,” Littless said. “There isn’t anything we can do now to help, is there?”
“No,” Nick said. “We’ll pick the berries and get back to camp.”
But Nick was trying to accept it now and think his way all the way through it. He must not get in a panic about it. Nothing had changed. Things were just as they were when he had decided to come here and let things blow over. The Evans boy could have followed him here before. But it was very unlikely. He could have followed him one time when he had gone in from the road through the Hodges’ place, but it was doubtful. Nobody had been fishing the stream. He could be sure of that. But the Evans boy did not care about fishing.
“All that bastard cares about is trailing me,” he said.
“I know it, Nickie.”
“This is three times he’s made trouble.”
“I know it, Nickie. But don’t you kill him.”
That’s why she came along, Nick thought. That’s why she’s here. I can’t do it while she’s along.
“I know I mustn’t kill him,” he said. “There’s nothing we can do now. Let’s not talk about it.”
“As long as you don’t kill him,” his sister said. “There’s nothing we can’t get out of and nothing that won’t blow over.”
“Let’s get back to camp,” Nick said. “Without the berries?”
“We’ll get the berries another day.”
“Are you nervous, Nickie?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“But what good will we be back at camp?” “We’ll know quicker.”
“Can’t we just go along the way we were going?”
“Not now. I’m not scared, Littless. And don’t you be scared. But something’s made me nervous.”
Nick had cut up away from the stream into the edge of the timber and they were walking in the shade of the trees. They would come onto the camp now from above.
From the timber they approached the camp carefully. Nick went ahead with the rifle. The camp had not been visited.
“You stay here,” Nick told his sister. “I’m going to have a look beyond.” He left the sack with the birds and the berry pails with Littless and went well upstream. As soon as he was out of sight of his sister he changed the .22 shorts in the rifle for the long-rifles. I won’t kill him, he thought, but anyway it’s the right thing to do. He made a careful search of the country. He saw no sign of anyone and he went down to the stream and then downstream and back up to the camp.
“I’m sorry I was nervous, Littless,” he said. “We might as well have a good lunch and then we won’t have to worry about a fire showing at night.”
“I’m worried now, too,” she said.
“Don’t you be worried. It’s just like it was before.”
“But he drove us back from getting the berries without him even being here.”
“I know. But he’s not been here. Maybe he’s never even been to this creek ever. Maybe we’ll never see him again.”
“He makes me scared, Nickie, worse when he’s not here than when he’s here.”
“I know. But there isn’t any use being scared.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Well, we better wait to cook until night.”
“Why did you change?”
“He won’t be around here at night. He can’t come through the swamp in the dark. We don’t have to worry about him early in the mor
nings and late in the evening nor in the dark. We’ll have to be like the deer and only be out then. We’ll lay up in the daytime.”
“Maybe he’ll never come.”
“Sure. Maybe.”
“But I can stay though, can’t I?”
“I ought to get you home.”
“No. Please, Nickie. Who’s going to keep you from killing him then?”
“Listen, Littless, don’t ever talk about killing and remember I never talked about killing. There isn’t any killing nor ever going to be any.”
“True?”
“True.”
“I’m so glad.”
“Don’t even be that. Nobody ever talked about it.”
“ All right. I never thought about it nor spoke about it.”
“Me either.”
“Of course you didn’t.”
“I never even thought about it.”
No, he thought. You never even thought about it. Only all day and all night. But you mustn’t think about it in front of her because she can feel it because she is your sister and you love each other.
“Are you hungry, Littless?”
“Not really.”
“Eat some of the hard chocolate and I’ll get some fresh water from the spring.”
“I don’t have to have anything.”
They looked across to where the big white clouds of the eleven o’clock breeze were coming up over the blue hills beyond the swamp. The sky was a high clear blue and the clouds came up white and detached themselves from behind the hills and moved high in the sky as the breeze freshened and the shadows of the clouds moved over the swamp and across the hillside. The wind blew in the trees now and was cool as they lay in the shade. The water from the spring was cold and fresh in the tin pail and the chocolate was not quite bitter but was hard and crunched as they chewed it.
“It’s as good as the water in the spring where we were when we first saw them,” his sister said. “It tastes even better after the chocolate.”
“We can cook if you’re hungry.”
“I’m not if you’re not.”
“I’m always hungry. I was a fool not to go on and get the berries.”
“No. You came back to find out.”
“Look, Littless. I know a good place back by the slashing we came through where we can get berries. I’ll cache everything and we can go in there through the timber all the way and pick a couple of pails full and then we’ll have them ahead for tomorrow. It isn’t a bad walk.”
The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway Page 68
