Memories of Another Day

by Harold Robbins

  The voice came from the station doorway behind him. “’Zactly what brung you down here, Jase?”

  The sheriff spun around. Jeb was standing in the doorway, his Winchester .30–30 resting lightly in the crook of his arm. “Howdy, Jeb,” he said.

  Jeb didn’t reply to the greeting. His voice was cold. “You didn’ answer my question, Jase.”

  The sheriff eyed him warily. “I was jest moseyin’ about this mornin’. Happened to come down here.”

  “Wouldn’ have happened to run across Clint Richfield in your moseyin’ about, would you?”

  “Now, c’mon, Jeb. You don’ want no part o’ that business. That strike got nothin’ to do with you.”

  “It had nothin’ to do with Molly Ann neither,” Jeb said. “Still, he killed ’er.”

  “It was an accident,” the sheriff said. “They thought Jimmy was goin’ fer a gun.”

  “Jimmy didn’ have no gun,” Roscoe said, appearing in the doorway behind Jeb. “Besides, ever’body knowed he was already dead.”

  “No way they could have,” the sheriff said. He looked at Jeb. “You got to believe that, Jeb. Nobody wanted to hurt your Molly Ann. Besides, they found a gun on the steps near Jimmy’s hand.”

  “They put it there after he was dead,” Roscoe said.

  “If’n they did, I didn’ now nothin’ ’bout it,” the sheriff said quickly. “You know me since we was boys together, Jeb. You know I wouldn’ have no part of a thing like that.”

  Jeb came out onto the platform, his eyes searching the area. The sheriff watched him cautiously. The train whistle hooted again, closer this time. Pokey and his station cronies were silent, their eyes on them. Silently, the sheriff prayed that Clint would stay in back of the signal shack and not try anything stupid. It was almost too much to hope that he would be smart enough to hide behind the train as it pulled into the station and board it from the far side.

  The whistle was louder this time. Jeb crossed to the edge of the platform, looking up the tracks to where the train would appear beyond the signal shack. He began to shift the rifle from one hand to the other, and by instinct the sheriff started to step away. He had no intention of being caught in the line of fire, and he knew that if Jeb moved his rifle, Clint would think he had been spotted.

  The sheriff was right. But not fast enough. Clint’s first shot caught him in the leg, and he tumbled to the platform.

  Jeb was across the tracks and running toward the shack before the sheriff hit the wooden planks. Roscoe jumped across the sheriff’s prostrate figure, following Jeb. “He’s behind the signal shack!” he yelled after him.

  The sheriff turned and pulled himself onto his hands. “God damn it, Jeb!” he yelled. “Don’ do it. It’ll on’y start another feud. They’ll come after you, then Dan’l—” The rest of his words were lost in the noise of the train as it pulled into the station, hiding their view.

  He turned and saw the stationmaster and George staring at him. The Negro was the first to move. “Yo’ huht, Sher’f?”

  “The son of a bitch shot me in the laig!” he yelled. “Of course I’m hurt.”

  “Le’me he’p you, Sher’f,” George said, coming toward him.

  “Pokey kin help me!” the sheriff shouted. “You git your black ass up to my office an’ bring back all the deputies you kin fin’ there!”

  George hesitated a moment, then jumped from the platform and began running up the street as the train pulled to a stop. As usual, the two mailbags tumbled to the platform, but no passengers got on or off. “Pokey, git over here an’ he’p me,” the sheriff yelled at the stationmaster.

  Pokey looked at him, then at the train, then back at him. “But I got to git the train movin’ again,” he said in his thin, reedy voice.

  “Fuck the train!” the sheriff swore. “I’m bleedin’ to death!” The sound of gunfire came from the signal shack. Then silence.

  “Oh, Jesus!” the sheriff swore. He reached up and grabbed a loose slat in the side of the station and pulled himself to his feet. With one hand he pulled off his pants belt and tried to tighten it around his leg to stop the bleeding.

  The train began to move again. Slowly it went out of the station. A yell came from across the tracks. “Sher’f!”

  He looked up. Clint was standing there, his shirt covered with blood. “Y’all right, Clint?” he shouted, forgetting his own wound for a moment.

  Clint stood there for an instant as if making up his mind how to answer. “They kilt me, Sher’f!” he cried, and tumbled face downward across the tracks.

  ***

  “Oh, Jesus! Take it easy, there, Doc,” the sheriff groaned, writhing on the table in Dr. John’s treatment room.

  “Stop wrigglin’ ’roun’ lak a baby,” the doctor said. “Else how you expec’ me to git that bullet out?”

  “It hurts, Doc,” the sheriff complained, staring up at the forceps in the doctor’s hand.

  “Of course it hurts,” Dr. John said in a reassuring tone. “But you’re lucky the bullet’s in the flesh part o’ your thigh, that it didn’ smash up your bone.” He turned to the table behind him and picked up the bottle of whiskey. “Here, take another pull of this.”

  The sheriff swallowed a big mouthful.

  “Now grab aholt o’ the edge of the table,” the doctor said.

  The sheriff did as he was told. The doctor moved too fast for the sheriff to realize what he was doing. A white-hot flash of fire ran through his leg. Involuntarily, he yelled.

  “You kin stop hollerin’ now,” the doctor said. “It’s all over.” He raised the forceps so that the sheriff could see the bullet held in its small prongs. “That’s the li’l bugger that done it.”

  The sheriff leaned back on the table, his face white and sweating. “Oh, man,” he said.

  The doctor put down the forceps. “Now we’ll git you bandaged up, an’ in a few days you’ll be good as new.” He picked up a roll of bandage and began to work.

  Sam Fitch and Clint’s father, Mike Richfield, came over to the table and looked down at him. They had been waiting at the far end of the room until the doctor finished. “You swearin’ in a posse to go after them that kilt my boy, Sher’f?” Richfield asked.

  The sheriff looked up at him. “No.”

  Richfield stared at him. “They kilt my boy, Sher’f.”

  “Clint was a horse’s ass,” the sheriff said flatly. “I tol’ him not to start nothin’, but he knew better, he had to start shootin’. Ain’t a jury in the world’ll convict ’em. It was a clear case of self-defense, an’ I got the bullet from outta my laig to prove it.”

  “But they was comin’ after him.”

  “They didn’ even know he was there until he fired that shot. All he had to do was sneak on that train an’ there wouldn’a’ been no trouble.”

  “You got to go after ’em, Sher’f,” Sam Fitch said. “It’s your sworn duty.”

  The sheriff met Fitch’s gaze. “My sworn duty holds as fur as the county line,” he said. “The Huggins place is ten miles past it.”

  “It don’t matter,” Fitch said. “You let ’em git away with it an’ they got new heroes. The strike kin start up all over again.”

  “That ain’t my problem,” the sheriff said. “I done enough already that’s goin’ against my conscience. They’s a passel of children up there at the Huggins place. I ain’t gonna be responsible fer no more killin’.”

  “My son’s blood is cryin’ out fer vengeance,” Richfield said.

  The sheriff looked at him. “Then maybe you kin understan’ how Jeb felt when he looked at the body of his daughter,” he said. He raised himself on his elbows. “You take my advice an’ leave it alone.”

  “What are you goin’ to do, then?” Fitch asked.

  “Notify the state police,” the sheriff said. “Let ’em do somethin’ else besides sendin’ back forms to me because I writ ’em up wrong.”

  “You know they won’t do nothin’,” Fitch said.

  The sh
eriff didn’t answer.

  “That’s it,” the doctor said. “You kin swing yer laigs off’n the table now.” He helped the sheriff into a sitting position and then to his feet. “How does it feel?”

  “It hurts,” the sheriff said.

  “It’ll do that fer a while,” the doctor agreed. “Jes’ don’t put too much strain on it.”

  “We cain’t let the strike start up again,” Fitch said.

  The sheriff didn’t answer him. One of his deputies, who had been leaning against the wall, came over to help. He began hobbling to the door.

  “Yer forcin’ me to go to the Pinkertons ag’in,” Fitch said. “Yer th’owin’ away a good job, Jase. Yer makin’ a big mistake.”

  The sheriff stopped at the doorway. He put his weight on the deputy’s shoulder. “It’s not me who’s makin’ the mistake, Sam,” he said coldly. “You do that an’ you’ll be makin’ the biggest mistake o’ yer life.”

  In silence, they watched him hobble out of the treatment room. They heard him swearing as he tried to maneuver his way down the stairs.

  Sam Fitch turned to Richfield. “I kin have the Pinkertons here on the noon train.”

  Richfield was silent.

  “One bullet an’ the sheriff’s turned yeller,” Fitch said. “We’ll meet at my store at one o’clock.”

  Richfield didn’t meet his eyes. “I won’t be goin’ with you, Mr. Fitch. The sher’f’s right. Enough blood has been shed. Makes no sense to begin another feud.”

  Fitch’s voice filled with contempt. “Yer all yeller. But I kin manage ’thout yer help. Jes’ don’ come suckin’ ass when it’s all over. ’Cause you’ll git nothin’ from me.” He angrily stomped out.

  For a moment there was silence in the room. Then Richfield turned to the doctor. “You’ll take care of my boy?”

  The doctor, who was also the coroner and the local undertaker, nodded. “I’ll fix him up real good.”

  “Thank you, Dr. John,” Richfield said.

  Chapter 18

  Sarah Andrews opened her eyes when she felt him leave the bed. It was barely daylight, and his naked body gleamed whitely as he padded on bare feet across the room to the chair where his neatly folded pants hung. She saw the muscles moving under the pale skin as he picked up his trousers and felt the stirring within her. She caught her breath. She had never felt anything like this. It had been like that from the very first time, the night Mr. Lewis had come down to organize the miners into the union, over three months ago.

  She had been half asleep when she’d heard the knocking. Quickly she had gotten out of bed, put on a robe and gone to the door. “Who is it?” she asked without opening it.

  His voice came through it, oddly softened by the thick wooden planks. “It’s me, Miss Andrews.”

  “But I’ve already gone to bed,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Andrews, I didn’ mean to bother you none. I jes’ came to explain why I was late.” There was a moment’s silence. Then his voice came through the door again. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  With surprise she had suddenly realized that the next day was Sunday. And on Sundays he came to cut the wood. There was no school on Sundays, so it didn’t matter if she stayed awake a bit later. “Just a minute,” she said quickly. “I’m awake now. You might as well come in. I still have some coffee made.”

  She pulled the bolt on the door and opened it. He stood there hesitantly. “Sure it’s no trouble, now?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “Come in.”

  He stepped into the house and she closed the door behind him. “You wait right here. I’ll light the lamp.”

  The soft glow of the lamp on the table spilled through the room. She turned back to him. “I was wondering what had happened to you.”

  “I had to go to a meetin’,” he said.

  “A meeting? What about?”

  He hesitated. “I don’ know if I kin tell,” he said. “I promised not to talk about it.”

  “It wasn’t anything illegal, was it?” she asked, a sudden concern in her voice.

  “No, ma’am, it wasn’t anything like that.”

  “Then you don’t have to tell me about it,” she said. “You sit down. I’ll go put a fire under the coffee.”

  When she came back into the room, he was still standing. She placed the coffeepot and the cups on the table. “Why didn’t you sit down?” she asked.

  “I jes’ looked at your clock over there,” he said. “It’s after ten. I didn’t realize it was so late. Mebbe I’d better go.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said, filling a cup. She held it toward him, her loose robe parting with her gesture. She saw the sudden flush in his face as he took the cup with averted eyes. It took her a moment before she was aware of what had happened. She glanced down at herself. The thin cotton nightdress she wore was almost transparent. Suddenly a wave of heat ran through her and her nipples sprang into life, thrusting themselves against the sheer fabric.

  Her legs felt weak and she put a hand on the table to support herself, but she made no move to close the robe. His eyes were still averted when she spoke. “Daniel.”

  He looked at his coffee cup. “Yes, Miss Andrews?”

  She felt her heart hammering inside her breast. “Why aren’t you looking at me?”

  He didn’t answer for a moment. “Your robe…” He didn’t finish.

  “I want you to look,” she said, her voice sounding strange in her ears.

  He raised his eyes slowly. She could see the sudden bulge in his tight-fitting pants. The coffee cup trembled in his hand.

  She moved toward him, took the cup from his hand and placed it on the table. “Have you ever been with a girl?”

  His eyes fell again. “No, ma’am,” he whispered.

  “Then what do you do when you get excited?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  “You must do something,” she said. “You can’t walk around like that.”

  He still didn’t look at her. “I jack off.”

  “Often?”

  He shook his head, his face suffused with red. “In the morning an’ at night. Sometimes at lunchtime, when it gits too bad.”

  She felt the flood of moisture running against her thighs. “What do you think of when you do it?”

  He raised his eyes suddenly and looked at her. “You.”

  “I want to see you,” she said.

  He didn’t move.

  She placed a hand on his crotch. Her fingers felt the hard throbbing through the cloth. Quickly she unbuttoned his fly. The rigid phallus, freed from its prison, sprang moistly into her hand. She pressed back the foreskin gently and looked down.

  The blood-filled glans seemed to be on the point of bursting. As she looked down, the orgasm shuddered through his body and the heavy white semen came shooting from him.

  “My God!” she whispered, her legs no longer able to support her. She sank to her knees before him, her own orgasms wracking her loins. Frantically, she pulled at her gown with her free hand, exposing her breasts. The semen spattered against her flesh. “Oh, my God!”

  Half an hour later, they lay naked on her bed, her loins choked with him. She drifted in memory and sensation. It had never been like this. Somehow, before, she had always felt used; now she felt giving. She felt him moving again inside her, and a beginning tremble signaled the coming of his orgasm. Quickly she slipped her hand down between them, cupping his large, round, stonelike testicles, and with her other hand moved his face down to her breast. “Not yet, Daniel,” she whispered. “Slowly. Ever so slowly.”

  He held himself still for a long moment. When he began to move again, it was with the long gentle strokes she loved.

  “That’s better,” she whispered, her body’s rhythms matching his own.

  She felt his lips moving against her breast. “You jes’ tell me what to do, Miss Andrews,” he murmured. “I’ll learn.”

  Daniel had proved to be an indefatigable lover. A born
eroticist, strong, uninhibited once set free, he seemed never to tire. It seemed to take no effort for him to have four or five and sometimes more orgasms in the course of a night’s lovemaking. More than once she had been surprised at his readiness. One time she had touched him by accident and found him hard. She laughed. “My God, Daniel, do you walk around like that all the time?”

  He still hadn’t lost the ability to blush. His face turned red, and he smiled. “Does seem like that at times, Miss Andrews. Don’t it?”

  The one habit she hadn’t been able to break him of was his addressing her as Miss Andrews. Not even in their most intimate moments, when he was roaring like a bull and she was screaming at the top of her lungs in mutual orgasm, had she been able to make him call her Sarah. After a while she gave up. Somewhere in the back of his mind she would always be his teacher.

  Outside the bedroom he had never crossed the line. He read, studied the books and lessons she gave him. His increasing ability to learn and comprehend what she taught had surprised her almost as much as his lovemaking. The speed with which he absorbed ideas had begun to make her wonder just how well equipped she was to educate a mind such as his. Already they were working with the schoolbooks from her junior year in college. Soon he would have gone as far as she would be able to take him.

  But the months they had been lovers had seemed to fly by like so many days, and she had stopped thinking about what would happen with the lessons. It was getting toward the end of May, and in a little while school would be closing and she would go home, perhaps never to return to the school. Or him. That too she would not let herself think about.

  She closed her eyes when he slipped into his trousers and went outside. A few minutes later she heard the ringing sound of the axe, and she drifted off into a warm sleep.

  ***

  It wasn’t the sunlight coming through the open window that awakened her. It was the silence. She lay still for a moment until she realized she no longer heard the sound of the axe. She glanced at the clock near the bed. It was only a few minutes after eight. Usually he didn’t finish before ten o’clock.

  She rose from the bed and looked out the window. Daniel, the axe still in his hands, was talking to a stranger. The man’s back was to her, so she could not see what he looked like, but his clothes were torn and covered with dirt. While she was watching, Daniel put down the axe and started toward the house. The man followed. Quickly she grabbed for a robe, then went into the other room to meet them.