Heed the Thunder

by Jim Thompson

  A few days later, Link returned to Ohio. A man of his word, he scrupulously kicked back a full third of the money he received for constructing an unremembered number of railway trestles, water-tower and depot foundations, and the like. But, at that, he cleared over ten thousand dollars in two years.

  In the sixties and seventies, many of the streams of the Middle West were navigable far into the north, almost to Canada. Townsites were springing up along the river banks. Choice lots were selling at prices comparable to those in the big cities of the East. There were persistent rumors that the capital of the United States would be moved to some much more appropriate spot in the wilderness of Nebraska Territory. There, along the rivers, cities that would rival New York and Chicago and Boston would be built. Let the railroads run their right-of-ways where they liked. River travel was cheaper, more comfortable and popular—better in every way.

  Lincoln Fargo moved to Kansas City. His wife was able to persuade sufficient money from him to start a boarding house there. With the remainder, and a sheaf of high-interest notes, he bought a boat. He made one trip from Kansas City to Fairbury, the profits from which were applied on his notes. On the second trip he struck a sandbar.

  The boat is still there, someplace in Nebraska, buried countless feet beneath the wiregrass sod of what was once a streambed. On it are the belongings, including one grand piano, and the hopes of several score would-be settlers. Link believed—he was pretty sure—that the passengers all got off safely. But he often regretted that the indignation of his human cargo had prevented him from taking a careful census.

  On his way back to Kansas City, he was forced to do what he considered the one shameful thing of his career. He stole a horse. He could never forgive himself for it. He believed that many of the misfortunes which he suffered later were punishment for the crime.

  He could not seem to get started in anything in Kansas City, although, as even Mrs. Fargo admitted, he tried hard. One of his ventures was with a sharper, a glittering self-titled professor who was a guest of the boarding house. They marketed by mail a guaranteed eradicator for all sorts of vermin. It consisted of a small brick and a mallet and a simple set of instructions. The instructions advised the purchaser to lay the pest upon the brick and strike it firmly with the mallet.

  The device, if it could be called that, sold well at the beginning, and the two promoters ignored with impunity the several warnings they received from far-off Washington. Few of the buyers complained, knowing that it would do no good. In fact, after their first chagrin, many of them became competitors. The periodicals and mails became flooded with advertisements for the Bug Killer. Everyone knew of the scheme within a few weeks. No one would buy any more.

  Link was not physically able to go back to the heavy mason’s trade, and he had lost his taste for it, anyway. He dealt cards for a series of gambling houses, but his services were unsatisfactory. He could take no interest in gambling for others; and he lacked the money to gamble well for himself.

  Anyone with one month’s rent for a building could start a saloon. The fiercely competing breweries would supply everything else on credit. So Link opened a saloon, in a block with only twelve others, and presided at its deathbed over a period of several months. He might have been one of the survivors in the liquor war, but he did not like the business. He would have no part of those extremely profitable sidelines associated with upstairs rooms, knockout drops, and trapdoors to the river. Worst of all, he could not stomach drunkenness. A few drinks, he believed, were all right. He, himself, could take a great many more than a few and still remain in control of his senses; and that was all right, too. But a man who couldn’t drink or who drank too much disgusted and angered him, and it made no difference to him how much he spent.

  He had no use for drunks. He did not conceal the fact. He was ruptured but he was still very handy with his fists and feet.

  He tried a few other things after his failure as a saloonkeeper. The few things there were left for him to try. He operated a dray. He took a working interest in a livery stable. All failed. In the late ’seventies he returned to Nebraska and took out a homestead—two homesteads, in fact. To get the second one, he followed the not uncommon practice of hiring a woman for the day, registering her as his wife, and taking out a second claim in her name. It was not legal, of course, but he was an “old soldier of the Union,” and allowances had to be made.

  The Grand Army men of the section were not long in banding together. Copperheads—Southern sympathizers—were greatly in the minority. With only a twinge of conscience, Lincoln became a night rider. He and his friends paid nocturnal visits to those copperheads who possessed good proved-up claims, and gave them the choice of selling out at an exceedingly modest figure or being run out. Few had to be run out, and Link told himself that he felt no compunction. After all, what kick had they, since night-riding was the South’s own invention? He was quite sure that they would have treated him in the same fashion if the opportunity had offered.

  In time Lincoln Fargo owned a thousand acres of the richest Nebraska bottom land. In 1918 those acres would be worth three hundred thousand dollars. But he did not own them then. He did not own them now. He had been on the wrong side of the fence in the Verdon townsite boom.

  Now, he had his pension. He had his home and ten acres on the outskirts of Verdon. He had turned over one hundred and sixty acres to his oldest son, Sherman.

  Actually, he did not even own his home. He had deeded it over to his wife, upon the advice of a lawyer, to escape payment on the ancient river-boat notes.

  Lincoln had no use for lawyers.

  He was sixty or sixty-five now—he didn’t know which. He knew he was old enough.

  He sat on the front porch of his rambling cottage, his Congress gaiters propped against a pillar, his big black hat pulled down upon his graying horseshoe of hair, his bright blue eyes buried in scalene triangles of flesh.

  His seven acres of corn wouldn’t be worth harvesting this year. Which meant that he would have to buy if he was going to feed. But why feed, anyway? A damned nuisance and no money in it.

  Those chickens were a damned nuisance, too. (He swiped at one viciously with his cane.) Always messing up the porch or getting into the garden; too tough to eat and too lazy to lay. But, what the hell? Let the old lady clean the porch; it would take some of the meanness out of her. Let the garden go to hell. It was cheaper to buy canned sass.

  Anyhow, he didn’t care much for eating. You couldn’t gum food and get any fun out of it.

  He had no use for dentists, either.

  Thinking, dreaming, he rolled his long black stogie from one corner of his mouth to another, absent-mindedly cursing the proximity of his nose to the cigar.…Another year or two, by God, he thought, an’ I’ll have to cut a hole in my britches and puff through my arse.…And he laughed scornfully, his accipitrine façade trembling with amusement at the tricks time had played on him.

  It was strange, shocking, the number of things he no longer cared about, could no longer trust. He had seen and had all that was within his power to see and have. He knew the total, the absolute lines of his periphery. Nothing could be added. There was now only the process of taking away. He wondered if it was like that with everyone, and he decided that it must be. And he wondered how they felt, and reasoned that they must feel about as he. That was all there was to life: a gift that was slowly taken away from you. An Indian gift. You started out with a handful of something and ended up with a handful of nothing. The best things were taken away from you last when you needed them worst. When you were at the bottom of the pot, when there was no longer reason for life, then you died. It was probably a good thing.

  He had no use for life. Very little, at any rate.

  He was pretty well stripped, but it had been a good long game and the amusement was worth something. It wasn’t so much the loss as the losing he minded. If there were some way of calling the thing a draw, he would have pulled back his chair willingly enough
.

  He supposed he was living on pride. Will power.

  He wondered how long it would be before he had no use for that.

  He decided that it would not be very long.

  The screen door had opened and his son, Grant, had come out.

  “Good afternoon, Pa,” he said.

  “I guess it is afternoon, ain’t it?” said Link.

  He glanced at his son, coughed, removed his feet from the post, and cleared his throat on a passing chicken. Then he leaned back again, looking at Grant slyly from the corner of his eyes.

  The young man took out a package of cigarettes, removed one, and stood tapping it on his wrist. He was aware of his father’s dislike, and it made him uncomfortable. Being Lincoln’s son, he wanted very much to be liked. Unfortunately, he also liked himself very well as he was.

  Grant was the youngest of Lincoln’s four children. Tall and thin, he bore some slight resemblance to Edgar Allan Poe in actuality and a great deal in his own imagination. He wore a pearl-gray derby hat, a box-coated suit with peg legs, and yellow shoes with metal and glass buttons. Attached to his lapel by a black celluloid rosette and a length of black ribbon were pince-nez with window glass lenses. His gates-ajar collar was equipped with a flowing black tie. Under his arm he carried a copy of the Rubáiyát.

  “It looks like it might rain,” he remarked.

  Lincoln spat again. While his son waited, a fixed nervous smile on his pale face, he removed his cigar, trimmed the sodden end from it with his thumbnail and finger, and hurled it into the yard. He chuckled and snorted as a chicken gulped down the doubtful tidbit. Leaning back again, he gave Grant a sudden sharp glance, so filled with distaste and amused dislike that the latter almost dropped his cigarette.

  3

  How much?” said Lincoln curtly. “I’ll give you a dollar and not another damned cent.”

  “I didn’t ask you for anything,” said Grant reddening.

  “You would have.” Lincoln drew a silver dollar from his pocket and flung it at him carelessly. And he snorted and coughed again when the young dandy’s hat fell off as he reached for the coin.

  Grant brushed back an unruly lock of black hair and carefully replaced his hat. His face had turned from red to white again.

  “If it hadn’t been for that brat,” he said, “I wouldn’t need any money.”

  “What brat?”

  “I mean your grandson, my nephew, Master Robert Dillon. I had quite a bit of change—I don’t know just how much—in my pocket when I went to bed last night. This morning it was gone.”

  “He didn’t take it,” said Link.

  “Who did, then?”

  “No one.”

  “I see,” said Grant stiffly. “You’re implying that—”

  “Do you see that?” said Lincoln, pointing with his cane. “That gate out there? Well, if I ever hear of you accusin’ or abusing that boy in any way, I’ll kick your arse from here to there.”

  Grant smiled scornfully. “Well!” he said.

  “Edie’s been here two months now,” the old man went on. “And you and your mother have done everything you could to make her feel not t’home. She’s out today, trying to line up a country school for the winter. Her husband’s gone, God knows where, and she’s got a kid on her hands; but she’s going right ahead, without any fuss or feathers, trying to make a new life for herself.…You, now—how long have you been here?”

  “If it’s important,” said Grant, “it’s approximately three years.”

  Lincoln studied the answer, nodded a reluctant agreement.

  “I guess it ain’t any longer than that. But, here you are—young, strong, a man, no one to look after but yourself and with a good trade. And you won’t work. You’re willin’ to go on forever, living off your parents, begging spending money—”

  “That ain’t—that’s not fair!” Grant cried out indignantly. “I’m quite willing, anxious to work. How do you suppose I feel after spending half my life to learn a trade and then be put out of a job by a machine! I’ve worked on the Dallas News and the Star in Kansas City, and—”

  “Seems to me I’d learn how to run one of the machines.”

  “I won’t! Never!” Grant exclaimed so hotly that his father almost looked upon him with favor. He liked a man with principles, even if they were the wrong kind. “I’ll set type by hand, like it was meant to be set, or not at all!”

  “Well, set it by hand, then,” said Link. “There’s lots of papers that don’t have this Lin-o-type yet.”

  “Yes, and what do these little rags pay! Why, I’ve made as high as thirty dollars a week!”

  Lincoln started to ask him what he did plan to do, but did not. There was no use. They had covered this same ground a hundred times before. If he had not been angry over Grant’s accusation of his grandson, he would never have reopened the subject.

  “Some day—and it won’t be very far off,” said Grant, “you’ll find the big sheets throwing these bum machines out into the alley. I’ll leave here so fast then it’ll make your head swim. And I’ll pay everything I owe you and Ma. With interest!”

  “Well,” said Lincoln wearily, “we’ll see. Where you headed this afternoon?”

  “I’m calling on Bella.”

  “Staying for supper? Better let Ma know if you are.”

  “I’ve told her I wouldn’t be here,” said Grant. “However, I’m not taking supper at the Barkleys’. Bella’s fixing a picnic lunch and we’re eating down by the river.”

  Lincoln sat looking straight ahead for a moment.

  “Bella’s your cousin, Grant.”

  “Well, Pa,” his son laughed, “don’t you suppose I know that?”

  “Do you think you ought to be sparking up to your own cousin?”

  Grant laughed, a little uneasily, a little angrily. “In the first place, I’m not sparking her. She’s interested in poetry and travel and world affairs—the same things I’m interested in. We simply enjoy each other’s company.”

  “She’s a mighty good-looking girl,” said Lincoln. “If I was your age, I’d have a hard time keeping my mind on books around Bella. Always had a lot of will power, too.”

  Grant colored. He fumbled at the ribbon of the pince-nez with embarrassment.

  “I’m sure I have nothing—I mean, Bella is entirely safe with me as her escort. Anyway, Pa, how many families—good stock—are there in town who aren’t related to us in some way? What’s a fellow going to do, never see any girl?”

  “Well, there’s something to that,” Lincoln Fargo admitted. “You can spit on Fargo kin almost any way the wind blows. But Bella is your cousin, your own mother’s sister’s child. You couldn’t marry her.”

  “I hadn’t—I don’t plan on marrying her.”

  “Well, you couldn’t,” Link repeated. “It might be a pretty good thing for you to keep in mind.”

  “Pa…for God’s sake!” Grant made a wry mouth, flipped away his cigarette, and stepped off the porch. As he strode stiffly down the walk to the gate, he was injured innocence personified, a young man too proud and pure to bandy ugly words or harbor evil thoughts. But inside he was frightened, cursing.…Did the old man know anything, or was he just guessing? Damn him to hell, anyway! Damn this whole stinking town.

  It wasn’t, he assured himself, as though Bella were actually his cousin.…Well, she was, all right, but it didn’t seem like it. When Lincoln Fargo had attained his first abundant prosperity in the valley, he had set him down, pen in hand, to notify his friends and relatives, and his wife had done likewise. They had not seen the Barkleys in years, nor ever been close to them (Mrs. Fargo and her sister had been adopted by different families); but still they were blood, and blood counted. This was a feudal land. One held it and prospered according to the size of his clan. Within the clan itself there might be all sorts of internecine warfare. But to the outsider they presented a wall, almost impregnable. It was a condition bred of the vast loneliness of the prairies and nurtured by the same
force—a sort of economy, or civilization, of scarcity. As the years passed and the population increased and there was room for more than one bank, one barber shop, one hotel to the community, the clan would break up or submerge. It was cracking even now, but the fissures were imperceptible.

  At any rate, only with difficulty could Grant regard Bella Barkley as his cousin. When the family moved to Nebraska, he had remained behind in Kansas City as a printer’s devil. He had never seen Bella until he came home to visit his parents three years before.

  An accident of birth, he thought. A dastardly mistake on the part of fate. Well…a strong man could change his fate. Nothing should stop him from having Bella. (He licked his full lips.) From having her, at least.

  Walking along, raising his knees high and tipping the derby upon the most modest excuse, Grant Fargo made a happy discovery. The change he had accused Robert Dillon of taking was in his vest pocket. Sixty cents. The dollar his father had given him would pay for the hire of a horse and rig. He could use the sixty cents to buy Bella candy. Or a sarsaparilla after the picnic. Or he could have a few drinks before he called on her.

  He decided on the last course. The interview with his father had made him nervous. Upset. He needed a few drinks to become his usual masterful self—to exceed that masterfulness. If he had had a drink or two that last time they were together, that night in on the sofa…

  He licked his lips again.

  Passing the bank, he saw his uncle, Philo Barkley, talking to his sister, Edie Dillon. His brother-in-law, Alfred Courtland, was sweeping out. Grant Fargo’s mouth curled in disdain. What a town, what a bank! The cashier of a bank sweeping out! And everyone seemed to think it was all right! They didn’t see anything wrong with it. Rubes! He could tell them a thing or two.

  Wrapped in his aloof and secret amusement, he did not notice the buckboard tied up at the hitching rail just below the bank, in front of the saloon. And once through the swinging doors, it was too late to turn back. His brother, Sherman, was inside, back to the bar and glass in hand, swapping yarns with a group of loafers.