jg.paintedhouse-第22部分

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　　　She　would've　said　that　no　matter　how　bad　she　felt。　I　leaned　on　the　edge　of　her　bed　for　a　few　moments；　and　when　I　was　ready　to　leave；　I　said；　〃You're　sure　you're　okay？〃
　　　She　patted　my　arm　and　said；　〃I'm　fine；　Luke。〃
　　　I　went　to　Ricky's　room　to　get　my　glove　and　baseball。　Miguel　was　gone　when　I　walked　quietly　out　of　the　kitchen。　Cowboy　was　sitting　on　the　edge　of　the　porch；　his　feet　hanging　off　the　boards；　his　left　arm　pressing　the　ice　to　his　wounds。　He　still　scared　me；　but　in　his　present　condition　I　doubted　if　he　would　do　any　harm。
　　　I　swallowed　hard　and　held　out　my　baseball；　the　same　one　that　had　broken　his　ribs。　〃How　do　you　throw　that　curve？〃　I　asked　him。　His　unkind　face　relaxed；　then　he　almost　smiled。　〃Here；〃　he　said；　and　pointed　to　the　grass　next　to　the　porch。　I　hopped　down；　and　stood　next　to　his　knees。
　　　Cowboy　gripped　the　baseball　with　his　first　two　fingers　directly　on　the　seams。　〃Like　this；〃　he　said。　It　was　the　same　way　Pappy　had　taught　me。
　　　〃And　then　you　snap；〃　he　said；　twisting　his　wrist　so　that　his　fingers　were　under　the　ball　when　it　was　released。　It　was　nothing　new。　I　took　the　ball　and　did　exactly　as　he　said。
　　　He　watched　me　without　a　word。　That　hint　of　a　smile　was　gone；　and　I　got　the　impression　he　was　in　a　lot　of　pain。
　　　〃Thanks；〃　I　said。　He　barely　nodded。
　　　Then　my　eyes　caught　the　tip　of　his　switchblade　protruding　from　a　hole　in　the　right　front　pocket　of　his　work　pants。　I　couldn't　help　but　stare　at　it。　I　looked　at　him；　and　then　we　both　looked　down　at　the　weapon。　Slowly；　he　removed　it。　The　handle　was　dark　green　and　smooth；　with　carvings　on　it。　He　held　it　up　for　me　to　see；　then　he　pressed　the　switch；　and　the　blade　sprang　forth。　It　snapped；　and　I　jerked　back。
　　　〃Where'd　you　get　that？〃　I　asked。　A　dumb　question；　to　which　he　offered　no　answer。
　　　〃Do　it　again；〃　I　said。
　　　In　a　flash；　he　pressed　the　blade　against　his　leg；　folding　it　back　into　the　handle；　then　waved　it　near　my　face　as　he　snapped　the　blade　out　again。
　　　〃Can　I　do　it？〃　I　asked。
　　　No；　he　shook　his　head　firmly。
　　　〃You　ever　stuck　anybody　with　it？〃
　　　He　drew　it　closer　to　himself　and　gave　me　a　nasty　look。　〃Many　men；〃　he　said。
　　　I'd　seen　enough。　I　backed　away；　then　trotted　past　the　silo；　where　I　could　be　alone。　I　threw　pop　flies　to　myself　for　an　hour；　hoping　desperately　that　Tally　would　happen　by　on　her　way　to　the　creek　again。
　
　
　Chapter　14
　　　
　　　We　gathered　in　silence　at　the　tractor　early　Monday　morning。　I　wanted　so　badly　to　sneak　back　into　the　house　and　into　Ricky's　bed　and　sleep　for　days。　No　cotton；　no　Hank　Spruill；　nothing　to　make　life　unpleasant。　〃We　can　rest　in　the　winter；〃　Gran　was　fond　of　saying；　and　it　was　true。　Once　the　cotton　was　picked　and　the　fields　plowed　under；　our　little　farm　hibernated　through　the　cold　months。
　　　But　in　the　middle　of　September；　cold　weather　was　a　distant　dream。　Pappy　and　Mr。　Spruill　and　Miguel　huddled　near　the　tractor　and　spoke　earnestly　while　the　rest　of　us　tried　to　listen。　The　Mexicans　were　waiting　in　a　group　not　far　away。　A　plan　was　devised　whereby　they　would　start　with　the　cotton　near　the　barn；　so　they　could　simply　walk　to　the　fields。　We　Arkansans　would　work　a　little　farther　away；　and　the　cotton　trailer　would　act　as　a　dividing　line　between　the　two　groups。　Distance　was　needed　between　Hank　and　Cowboy；　otherwise　there　would　be　another　killing。
　　　〃I　don't　want　any　more　trouble；〃　I　heard　Pappy　say。　Everyone　knew　the　switchblade　would　never　leave　Cowboy's　pocket；　and　we　doubted　that　Hank；　dumb　as　he　was；　would　be　stupid　enough　to　attack　him　again。　Over　breakfast　that　morning　Pappy　had　ventured　the　guess　that　Cowboy　wasn't　the　only　armed　Mexican。　One　reckless　move　by　Hank；　and　there　might　be　switchblades　flying　everywhere。　This　had　been　shared　with　Mr。　Spruill；　who　had　assured　Pappy　that　there　would　be　no　more　trouble。　But　by　then　no　one　believed　that　Mr。　Spruill；　or　anybody　else；　could　control　Hank。
　　　It　had　rained　late　last　night；　but　there　was　no　trace　of　it　in　the　fields；　the　cotton　was　dry；　the　soil　almost　dusty。　But　the　rain　had　been　seen　by　Pappy　and　my　father　as　an　ominous　warning　of　the　inevitable　flooding；　and　there　was　an　anxiousness　about　the　two　that　was　contagious。
　　　Our　crops　were　nearly　perfect；　and　we　had　just　a　few　more　weeks　to　gather　them　before　the　skies　opened。　When　the　tractor　stopped　near　the　cotton　trailer；　we　quickly　grabbed　our　sacks　and　disappeared　among　the　stalks。　There　was　no　laughing　or　singing　from　the　Spruills；　not　a　sound　from　the　Mexicans　in　the　distance。　And　no　napping　on　my　part。　I　picked　as　fast　as　I　could。
　　　The　sun　rose　quickly　and　cooked　the　dew　from　the　bolls　of　cotton。　The　thick　air　clung　to　my　skin　and　soaked　my　overalls；　and　sweat　dripped　from　my　chin。　One　slight　advantage　in　being　so　small　was　that　most　of　the　stalks　were　taller　than　me；　I　was　partially　shaded。
　　　
　　　Two　days　of　heavy　picking；　and　the　cotton　trailer　was　full。　Pappy　took　it　to　town；　always　Pappy；　never　my　father。　Like　my　mother　and　（he　garden；　it　was　one　of　those　chores　that　had　been　designated　long　before　I　came　along。　I　was　expected　to　ride　with　him；　something　I　always　enjoyed　because　it　meant　a　trip　to　town；　if　only　to　the　gin。
　　　After　a　quick　dinner；　we　took　the　truck　to　the　field　and　hitched　up　the　cotton　trailer。　Then　we　climbed　along　its　edges　and　secured　the　tarp　so　that　no　bolls　would　blow　away。　It　seemed　a　crime　to　waste　a　single　ounce　of　something　we'd　worked　so　hard　to　gather。
　　　As　we　drove　back　to　the　house；　I　saw　the　Mexicans　behind　the　barn；　grouped　tightly；　slowly　eating　their　tortillas。　My　father　was　at　the　tool　shed；　patching　an　inner　tube　for　a　front　tire　on　the　John　Deere。　The　women　were　washing　dishes。　Pappy　abruptly　stopped　the　truck。　〃Stay　here；〃　he　said　to　me。　〃I'll　be　right　back。〃　He'd　forgotten　something。
　　　When　he　returned　from　the　house；　he　was　carrying　his　twelve…gauge　shotgun；　which　he　slid　under　the　seat　without　a　word。
　　　〃We　goin'　huntin'？〃　I　asked；　knowing　full　well　that　I　would　not　get　an　answer。
　　　The　Sisco　affair　had　not　been　discussed　over　dinner　or　on　the　front　porch。　I　think　the　adults　had　agreed　to　leave　the　subject　alone；　at　least　in　my　presence。　But　the　shotgun　suggested　an　abundance　of　possibilities。
　　　I　immediately　thought　of　a　gunfight；　Gene　Autry　style；　at　the　gin。　The　good　guys；　the　farmers；　of　course；　on　one　side；　blasting　away　while　ducking　behind　and　between　their　cotton　trailers；　the　bad　guys；　the　Siscos　and　their　friends；　on　the　other　side　returning　fire。　Freshly　picked　cotton　flying　through　the　air　as　the　trailers　took　one　hit　after　another。　Windows　crashing。　Trucks　exploding。　By　the　time　we　crossed　the　river；　there　were　casualties　all　over　the　gin　lot。
　　　〃You　gonna　shoot　somebody？〃　I　asked；　in　an　effort　to　force　Pappy　to　say　something。
　　　〃Tend　to　your　own　business；〃　he　said　gruffly　as　he　shifted　gears。
　　　Perhaps　he　had　a　score　to　settle　with　some　offending　soul。　This　brought　to　mind　one　of　the　favorite　Chandler　stories。　When　Pappy　was　much　younger；　he；　like　all　farmers；　worked　the　fields　with　a　team　of　mules。　This　was　long　before　tractors；　and　all　farming　was　done　by　man　and　animal。　A　ne'er…do…well　neighbor　named　Woolbright　saw　Pappy　in　the　fields　one　day；　and　evidently　Pappy　was　having　a　bad　day　with　the　mules。　According　to　Woolbright；　Pappy　was　beating　the　poor　beasts　about　their　heads　with　a　large　stick。　As　Woolbright　later　told　the　story　at　the　Tea　Shoppe；　he'd　said；　〃If　I'd　had　a　wet　burlap　sack；　I'd've　taught　Eli　Chandler　a　thing　or　two。〃　Word　filtered　back；　and　Pappy　heard　what　Woolbright　said。　A　few　days　later；　after　a　long　hot　day　in　the　fields；　Pappy　took　a　burlap　sack；　put　it　in　a　bucket　of　water；　and　skipping　dinner；　walked　three　miles　to　Woolbright's　house。　Or　five　miles　or　ten　miles；　depending　on　who　happened　to　be　telling　the　story。
　　　Once　there；　he　called　on　Woolbright　to　e　out　and　settle　things。　Woolbright　was　just　finishing　dinner；　and　he　may　or　may　not　have　had　a　houseful　of　kids。　Anyway；　Woolbright　walked　to　the　screen　door；　looked　out　into　his　front　yard；　and　decided　things　were　safer　inside。
　　　Pappy　yelled　at　him　repeatedly　to　e　on　out。　〃Here's　your　burlap　sack；　Woolbright！〃　he　yelled。　〃Now　e　on　out　and　finish　the　job。〃
　　　Woolbright　retreated　deeper　into　his　house；　and　when　it　was　evident　he　wasn't　ing　out；　Pappy　threw　the　wet　burlap　sack　through　the　screen　door。　Then　he　walked　three　or　five　or　ten　miles　back　home　and　went　to　bed；　without　dinner。
　　　I'd　heard　the　story　enough　to　believe　it　was　true。　Even　my　mother　believed　it。　Eli　Chandler　had　been　a　hot…tempered　brawler　in　his　younger　days；　and　at　the　age　of　sixty　he　still　had　a　short　fuse。
　　　But　he　wouldn't　kill　anybody；　unless　it　was　in　self…defense。　And　he　preferred　to　use　his　fists　or　less　menacing　weapons　like　burlap　sacks。　The　gun　was　traveling　with　us　just　in　case。　The　Siscos　were　crazy　people。
　　　The　gin　was　roaring　when　we　arrived。　A　long　line　of　trailers　waited　ahead　of　us；　and　I　knew　we'd　be　there　for　hours。　It　was　dark　when　Pappy　turned　off　the　engine　and　tapped　his　fingers　on　the　wheel。　The　Cardinals　were　playing；　and　I　was　anxious　to　get　home。
　　　Before　getting　out　of　the　truck；　Pappy　surveyed　the　trailers　and　the　trucks　and　tractors；　and　he　watched　the　farmhands　and　gin　workers　go　about　their　business。　He　was　looking　for　trouble；　and　seeing　none；　he　finally　said；　〃I'll　go　check　in。　You　wait　here。〃
　　　I　watched　him　shuffle　across　the　gravel　and　stop　at　a　group　of　men　outside　the　office。　He　stayed　there　awhile；　talking　and　listening。　Another　group　was　congregated　near　a　trailer　in　the　line　ahead　of　us；　young　men　smoking　and　talking　and　waiting。　Though　the　gin　was　the　center　of　activity；　things　moved　slowly。
　　　I　caught　a　glimpse　of　a　figure　as　it　appeared　from　somewhere　behind　our　truck。　〃Howdy；　Luke；〃　the　voice　said；　giving　me　a　start。　When　I　jerked　around；　I　saw　the　friendly　face　of　Jackie　Moon；　an　older　boy　from　north　of　town。
　　　〃Hi；　Jackie；〃　I　said；　very　relieved。　For　a　split　second　I　thought　one　of　the　Siscos　had　started　the　ambush。　He　leaned　on　the　front　fender　with　his　back　to　the　gin；　and　produced　a　cigarette；　one　that　he'd　already　rolled。　〃Y'all　heard　from　Ricky？〃　he　asked。
　　　I　watched　the　cigarette。　〃Not　lately；〃　I　said。　〃We　got　a　letter　a　couple　of　weeks　ago。〃
　　　〃How's　he　doin'？〃
　　　〃Fine；　I　guess。〃
　　　He　scraped　a　match　on　the　side　of　our　truck　and　lit　the　cigarette。　He　was　tall　and　skinny　and　had　been　a　basketball　star　at　Monette　High　School　for　as　long　as　I　could　remember。　He　and　Ricky　had　played　together；　until　Ricky　got　caught　smoking　behind　the　school。　The　coach；　a　veteran　who'd　lost　a　leg　in　the　war；　bounced　Ricky　from　the　team。　Pappy　had　stomped　around　the　Chandler　farm　for　a　week　threatening　to　kill　his　younger　son。　Ricky　told　me　privately　that　he　was　tired　of　basketball　anyway。　He　wanted　to　play　football；　but　Monette　couldn't　have　a　team　because　of　cotton　picking。
　　　〃I　might　be　goin'　over　there；〃　Jackie　said。
　　　〃To　Korea？〃
　　　〃Yep。〃
　　　I　wanted　to　ask　why　he　thought　he　was　needed　in　Korea。　As　much　as　I　hated　picking　cotton；　I　would　much　rather　do　it　than　get　shot　at。　〃What　about　basketball？〃　I　asked。　There　was　a　rumor　that　Arkansas　State　was　recruiting　Jackie。
　　　〃I'm　quittin'　school；〃　he　said；　and　blew　a　cloud　into　the　air。
　　　〃Why？〃
　　　〃I'm　tired　of　it。　Been　goin'　for　twelve　year