South of Heaven

by Jim Thompson

  His voice was stony cold. It yanked me out of my mad like a skyhook, made me realize that I was way, way out of line in talking up to him.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Higby,” I said. “Really sorry. If you want me on a hammer.…”

  “I don’t. You’ll go back on powder tomorrow morning.”

  “But…you’re not going to fire me, then?”

  He shook his head. “I laid myself open for back-talk from a punk. It’s my own fault that I mistook him for a man. No”—he cut me off before I could interrupt. “No, I’m not going to fire you, Burwell. Not for this. If I did, I’d probably lose Four Trey along with you. And he has friends who might pull out if he did, and his friends have friends, and…So you’re safe, Burwell—for now, at least.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, miserably. “I ought to have my tail kicked.”

  “You’re not worth it.” He opened the door on his side and started to get out. “I’ve wasted too much time on you already.”

  He gave me a curt nod, strode away toward the high-pressure tent. I got out and went over to the wash bench.

  It would be hard to tell you how I felt. Shabby, cheap, crummy—all those things and a lot more besides. A tinhorn through and through. A good man had tried to befriend me, and I’d thrown dirt in his face. It was a low-down thing to do, a punk thing, and I felt as low as a guy could get.

  I made a pass at washing up. I went through the walkway between the tents, headed across the prairie toward the place where Carol was camped. Somehow, I wasn’t very set-up about seeing her tonight. I was even a little annoyed when I thought of her, which was unfair, but understandable.

  Except for her, my touchiness about seeing her, I wouldn’t have blown up with Higby. Except for her, I would still have been aces with Four Trey, instead of having him half-leery of me.

  I’d considered myself a man, a guy who’d finally grown up and come to grips with himself. I’d been a man, and a little ol’ gal barely five feet tall had made me forget that I was.

  I didn’t know then that the right girl can do that to a man and that it’s the surest sign that he is one. I was too miserable, too anxious to push some of my blame on someone else.

  I went stumbling across the pitch-dark prairie, brooding, muttering to myself. I caught my toe in a prairie-dog hole and fell down and I remained flopped for a moment, rehearsing a little speech I intended to make.

  “Now, I’m telling you, girl. You’re going to straighten up and knock off the nuttiness or it’s going to be down on the mope-pole for you! I’ve had just a big plenty, and from now on.…”

  There was a crash—the damnedest one I ever hope to hear. A great bayonet of lightning speared down past my head, and a plume of white fire leaped up from the ground to meet it. There was a blinding flash, literally blinding. The prairie was suddenly as bright as blazing day. I closed my eyes against it. I opened them again on a world that was suddenly so dark that I thought I had lost my sight.

  And then it began to rain. Not drops, but streams, rivers and lakes and oceans of water.

  It can be a long time between rains in Far West Texas. A year, sometimes two years. Nature doesn’t get around to the place often, and she has to make up for lost time when she does. And she must have had a lot to make up for tonight.

  I couldn’t see. I could hardly take a deep breath without drowning. I started running, falling and stumbling at every step. I became completely turned-around, losing all track of where Carol’s housecar was or the camp was or I was.

  I started traveling in what I hoped was a circle, but I didn’t make a very good go of it, I guess, because it was hours before I reached the line. I began following it, following it the wrong way at first and ending up at the far end. I turned around and started back the other way. And then, as abruptly as it had begun, the rain stopped.

  Not another drop fell. It simply stopped as suddenly as though a faucet had been closed.

  It was dawn by then. When I finally reached camp, the sun was creeping up over the horizon.

  It was going to be another scorching hot day. Which meant nothing at all to me at the moment. I was chilled through one side and out the other and I wanted to thaw out at the kitchen range and drink four or five gallons of scalding coffee.

  I headed for it by the quickest route—through the entrance to the chow tent and on back to the rear. I had my head down, hurrying, and I almost tripped over the booted leg which swung lazily out in front of me.

  “Now, let’s just slow down a little, sonny.”

  “Wha’—!” I jerked my head up, startled. “What’s going on?”

  Four men were seated at the head of the table, a tin bowl of coffee in front of each. Higby and Depew sat on the far side, next to the tent wall. The man who had stuck out his boot and another man sat on the aisle where I was.

  They might have been in their thirties, forties or even their early fifties. It was hard to say with their type. They had leathery sun-seamed faces, and their foreheads looked burned beneath the brims of their tilted-back Stetsons. They were broad-shouldered but thin-hipped, and their booted feet looked preposterously small. Both wore guns at their hips, weapons which somehow fitted-in and blended with the lanky bodies like congruent parts of them.

  The man who had first spoken to me took a small notebook from the pocket of his checked shirt. He wet his thumb, turned a page or two, then nodded and raised his eyes again.

  “Burwell. Thomas Burwell. Been out all night, Tom?”

  “Yes, I mean, yes, sir,” I said.

  “Uh-hah,” he nodded approvingly, sliding a twinkling-eyed glance at his companion. “Nice young fella, ain’t he, Hank? Got his manners about him. Reckon he ought to have some hot coffee and breakfast in him, straight off, don’t you?”

  “No more than fittin’,” drawled the other man. “Know I’d sure want some if I’d been out in the rain all night. I sure would, an’ that’s a fact, Pete. You want to write it down in that little book of yours, I’ll be proud to swear to it.”

  I looked from one to the other, fear mingling with my weariness. A cold lump formed around my heart, and I shivered. And nervous half-hysterical laughter welled up in my throat. Pete’s twinkling eyes narrowed, and he spoke regretfully to Hank.

  “Seems to think it’s funny, Thomas Burwell does. Reckon maybe he ain’t such a nice young fella after all.”

  “Aw, pshaw, now,” Hank protested. “He just ain’t got his bearin’s yet. Needs his coffee an’ vittles t’get himself organized. Reckon we ought t’ feed him an’ then warn him, an’, by ding, I bet he don’t do no laughin’ at all, then!”

  Warn me? The lump around my heart grew larger and colder. I looked at Higby, and he bit his lip and looked away. I looked at Depew, noting his expression of smug contentment. Pete scratched his chin thoughtfully, his eyes fixed on a point just above my head. He sighed, recrossed his boots and nodded to Hank.

  “Seems like you got the right of it, pardner. The Man says so, an’ the books says so an’ besides which it’s only decent. Thomas Burwell, you are under arrest on suspicion of murderin’ one Albert ‘Bud’ Lassen, an’ anything you say may be used against you and what d’you want for breakfast?”

  14

  The dragline was parked about four hundred yards out of camp, a few hundred yards from the start of the line. There was no use for it at this stage of the work, and the lay of the land made it difficult to move it about. So it had been left there, out of the way, until it was needed.

  Just before the rain started, the night guard on the pipeline had heard a loud crash—the sound of the dragline bucket dropping. Hurrying over to investigate, he had found Bud’s body. The bucket had dropped on him, its two halves open, virtually cutting him in two as it smashed him into the ground. The long, sharp, steel prongs had gone through his body in a dozen places.

  The guard had notified Higby. Despite the rain, Higby made it into town and called the Matacora sheriff’s office. Apparently, the downpour wasn’t a gener
al one, and the two deputies had gotten most of the way here before they had had to stop. They had come the rest of the way this morning, arriving in camp in their big high-backed Stearns-Knight about an hour before I did.

  “…uh, huh, I see,” Pete nodded encouragingly. “You left camp right after you finished work, an’ went to see your gal. So naturally you couldn’t been over at that whatchamacallit, dragline, killin’ old Bud.”

  “I wouldn’t have been killing him, anyway,” I said. “But.…”

  “That little ol’ gal said you never come near her last night. You was supposed to, but you didn’t.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’ve been trying to tell you. I was going to see her, but.…”

  “Oh, you was goin’ to, but you didn’t. Which means that you must have been somewheres else. Wouldn’t you say it seemed that way to you, Hank?”

  “Seems as though,” Hank drawled. “It plumb does, an’ that’s a fact.”

  “You know how to run one of them, uh, draglines, Thomas?”

  “No. Well, I know how; I mean, I know the principle of it. But.…”

  “Ever been arrested, Thomas? Ever been tried and convicted?”

  “Well, sure,” I said. “I bet everyone in camp has at one time or another. You know, things like drunk and disorderly, and vagrancy and…well, things like that.”

  “Just things like that, hah? Nothin’ else?”

  “I’ll tell you,” Hank said. “I’ll bet me a nickel, Pete, that this here young fella is an’ a. and b.’er. I’d bet a whole nickel an’ I wouldn’t ask for no change.”

  “Thomas, you know what a. and b. is?”

  “Assault and battery,” I said. “But, dammit, that’s just another way of saying self-defense. It was in my case, anyhow. The other guys started it, and I finished it.”

  “Mmm. What about yesterday morning when you jumped all over ol’ Bud? The way I get it, he hadn’t bothered you none a-tall.”

  “Well, all right,” I said. “But.…”

  “Said you was goin’ t’kill him, didn’t you? Might’ve done it right then an’ there, if you hadn’t been dragged off of him.”

  “That’s right, officer,” Depew interjected. “And I’m sure he did kill Lassen last night. He had the opportunity and the motive, and.…”

  “You told me. Now, Thomas.…”

  “Officer, I don’t understand your attitude. Why do you continue to shilly-shally and delay when.…”

  “You already told him,” Hank said. “He already told you, didn’t he, Pete?”

  “Maybe I didn’t understand him real good,” Pete said. “Mr. Depew, are you sayin’ that you’re absolutely positive, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that Thomas killed Bud Lassen?”

  “Yes, I am positive! Anyone with half a brain would be!”

  “Well, now,” Pete said. “That’s different. Now, we’re gettin’ somewhere. You got a car, Mr. Depew?”

  “Car? Why, yes. It’s back home with my wife, but.…”

  “What’s the license number?” Pete waited. “What’s your wife’s birthday?” He waited again. “What’s the date of your wedding anniversary?” Another wait. “You mean, you don’t know, Mr. Depew? You mean a plumb positive fella like you, that’s absolutely positive about things that ain’t a God-dang bit of his business, don’t even know the license number of his car or when his wife was born or the date he first started diddlin’ her? Well, now, that’s plumb surprisin’, ain’t it, Hank?”

  “Amazin’.” Hank stared hard at Depew. “Fella like that probably wouldn’t know which end of his dingus to pee with. Ain’t that right, Mr. Depew? I said, ain’t that right, Mr. Depew?”

  Depew looked from one to the other, his face blazing. He stumbled to his feet suddenly and almost ran out of the tent. Higby spoke for the first time.

  “Gentlemen, we’re going to have to give the men their breakfast here pretty pronto. If you’d like to move to one of the other tents.…”

  Pete drawled that that wouldn’t be necessary. “Got all we need for the present, wouldn’t you say so, Hank? Got all we need here, right now?”

  “A plumb plenty,” Hank agreed. “An’ that’s a fact.”

  “Thomas, you want anything more besides that coffee? Got anything you want to take with you?”

  “W-with…? Take with me where?”

  He told me where. To Matacora, the county jail. “Got anything, you better take it along. Might be gone quite a spell.”

  “You sure might, Thomas.” Hank wagged his head solemnly. “Yes, sir, you sure as heck might. I’d bet a nickel on it, even money, an’ I wouldn’t ask for no change.”

  15

  The county seat of Matacora was actually two towns, rather than one. There was the very old one, built around the courthouse square, with its roots in the ranching industry; a town of substantial brick and sandstone buildings, with sheet-metal awnings extending out over the sidewalks. Surrounding and abutting this was the new town, the one that had sprung up with the discovery of oil: the usual boomtown collection of machine shops, honky-tonks, flop houses, and what-have-you, plus—since the oil money was relatively old here—a considerable number of structures which would have looked good even in a large city.

  My cell was in the top of the courthouse tower, a kind of cupola perched high above the steep slate roof. There were windows on all four sides, and I could see every section of town and for miles beyond. The distant ranch houses, and the oil derricks, and the cars and trucks creeping along the roads—it was all spread out there below me. There were trains, too, both freight and passenger, the first trains I’d seen in a long time. I watched a couple of them making up in the yards, then huffing and puffing out of town, slowly gathering speed as they rolled out onto the prairie and at last fading away into the brilliant sunlight. I watched those trains and when I sat back down on my bunk my eyes were watering so bad I was almost blind.

  I got them cleared finally and rolled myself a cigarette. I started thinking again, my mind moving around in circles as it tried to latch on to something hopeful.

  Bud Lassen had been pretty generally detested around the Matacora sheriff’s office. Without actually saying so, the two deputies who’d arrested me had made that clear. Nonetheless, Bud had been one of them; he’d been on their side, a cop. And a guy who beat up a cop was automatically their enemy.

  You just didn’t beat up cops. You just didn’t threaten to kill them. To their way of thinking, either of those things was reason enough for Bud to have killed me, and the only mistake he’d made was in not doing it. To their way of thinking, I’d proved myself guilty, and they saw no reason to try to disprove it.

  I’d been jailed a little before noon and I saw no one the rest of that day except the elderly turnkey who brought me my meals. Early the next morning, right after breakfast, he herded me out of the cell and down to the sheriff’s office, where I was turned over to a deputy I hadn’t seen before. The latter gestured lazily, waving me toward the door of a small anteroom. I went into it, and there was Four Trey Whitey.

  “How’s it going, bo?” He winked at me, holding out his hand. “Looks like you’re holding your own with ’em.”

  “Four Trey.…Oh, gosh, Four Trey!” I said, and then I bit my lip, getting ahold of myself. “How’s it with you?”

  “I’ll make it as soon as I stop rattling inside. I’ve been riding a supply truck since three this morning. I’ve got to be starting back in about an hour, so.…”

  He jerked his head, signalling me to come in close. I did so, and he lowered his voice.

  “You’re getting out of here, Tommy. They’re going to let you go.”

  “Huh?” My heart skipped a beat “Holy gosh…!”

  “Keep your voice down! They don’t know it yet. And you’re not supposed to know it, so don’t let on. You’ll blow it if you do.”

  “But…but.…” I gestured helplessly. “Why…I mean, how.…”

  “Never mind how or why. I don’t have time
to explain. Just take my word for it that it’s going to happen. All you have to do is keep your mouth shut and wait.”

  “I’ll sure do that,” I said. “How long will it be, Four Trey?”

  “Not long. Are you sweating for anything? How’s the chow?”

  I told him that the chow was good, but I could use some cigarettes and maybe something to read. “I’d ask for pencil and paper, if I was going to be here any length of time. But.…”

  “I’ll see that you get everything you need,” he said. “Cigarettes, reading material, everything. Now, I’ve got something else to tell you. A couple of things.” He took a long pull on his cigarette, blew smoke from his nostrils. “Do you remember that big bust we went on in Dallas? When you wound up with the d.t.’s?”

  “I’m not likely to forget it,” I said. “I blew damned near six thousand dollars on it.”

  “No, you didn’t, Tommy. You blew around fifteen hundred.”

  “The heck I did. I had almost six grand to begin with, and.…”

  “I took forty-five hundred of it. I knew it would get away from you if I didn’t, so I took it. It’s deposited right here in your name in the First State Bank of Matacora.”

  I stared at him wordlessly, my mouth wide open in surprise. Four Trey nodded evenly.

  “I was going to tell you after this job was finished. I figured you’d have enough sense by that time, if you were ever going to have enough, to know how to use it. But in view of what’s happened.…”

  “My gosh,” I said. “I…I just can’t believe it, Four Trey. Me with a whole forty-five hundred dollars, and…and…I hardly know what to say.”

  Four Trey said not to say anything; just to get the hell away from the kind of life I was leading and go to college like I’d always talked about doing.

  “I’m going to count on your doing that, Tommy. For your sake, I hope I’m not mistaken.”

  “Well,” I said, kind of looking away from him. “It’s certainly a lot of money. I sure can’t claim that I don’t have the money for college.”