Read Online Big Wheat by Richard A. Thompson - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard A. Thompson
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peace. He looked at the plains and shook his head.
They raped this land, they did. Raped it bad, all the way from the middle of Texas to the middle of Canada, ripped it open and messed it up something awful. And for that, there has to be blood. Folks tear open every tiny patch of land in sight, just to make money they can’t use, and the universe can’t ever be right until somebody pays in blood.
It was the government’s fault, of course, as much as anyone’s. At the start of the war in Europe it had decided America should be the bread basket of the western allies, or some such rubbish, and had guaranteed a market price of two dollars a bushel for wheat. The number was preposterous, and he fumed with rage every time he thought about it. At that price, a farmer could make thirty dollars an acre growing wheat, while any other crop wouldn’t earn more than a tenth that much. He had done the math many times, and it still got him mad. Farmers with a whole section of land could make a profit of eighteen thousand dollars for a single crop, at a time when an ordinary laborer didn’t see a thousand dollars a year. It was obscene. But he couldn’t make the government pay in blood, so he had to settle for somebody else.
Young women are the best, since they will also be missed. Maybe they will even make people study on the error of their ways. And of course, pretty young women are evil from the ground up, anyway, so hurting them is a moral duty all its own. The hurt they can cause without even thinking about it is worse than anything that happens in a war. But if no young women are handy, others will do. Lots of kinds of others. Yes. It’s a sacred calling.
Fortunately for the good of an orderly universe and the great, cosmic reckoning of things, he was able to take care of that calling all by himself. He scanned the horizon to the north and east, deciding which direction needed his attention the most.
He had another agenda, as well. He had decided that he had to find the young man who had seen him covering Mabel Boysen’s grave, though he didn’t know the man’s name or which way he was headed. He would never again be sure of his own safety until he had found him. The more he thought about that fact, the more he began to be afraid. And he did not like, would not tolerate, anybody making him afraid. Sooner or later, the man had to die.
Perhaps fifteen or twenty miles to the northeast, he could barely make out the spire of a church. That, he decided, would be his next viewing perch, though he always thought of himself as a windmill man. Harnessing the dark winds of the injured prairie; that was his role.
Far below him, some dumb hayseed of a farmer was hollering at him about what the gosh darned hell was he doing up in
his
windmill tower and he better get his ass down while it was still in one piece.
Blasphemy. Vulgarity. And worst of all, pride. He hated those things.
Unfortunately, the farmer also had a double-barreled shotgun that he looked ready to use. Pity.
As he climbed down, he began to rehearse his story. He would say he was looking for some sign of the crew that had left him two days earlier, when he had taken sick. He would talk about how worried he was about getting his job back, even though he didn’t really feel well enough to work yet. He would be pleasant and humble and self-effacing and would say not a single word of truth. And it would work like a charm. It always did. If he told the right lie, he could call the birds down from the sky. In the end, he would not only get invited to breakfast, he would also find something to steal from the farmer’s house.
Chapter 6
In the Land of the Bindlestiffs
Charlie headed south, away from the mountains and back toward the harvest. He didn’t hear the truck come up behind him. In fact, he usually didn’t hear much of anything when he walked. He had been on the road for a week now, though three days of that had been spent in one spot, working for day wages.
They raped this land, they did. Raped it bad, all the way from the middle of Texas to the middle of Canada, ripped it open and messed it up something awful. And for that, there has to be blood. Folks tear open every tiny patch of land in sight, just to make money they can’t use, and the universe can’t ever be right until somebody pays in blood.
It was the government’s fault, of course, as much as anyone’s. At the start of the war in Europe it had decided America should be the bread basket of the western allies, or some such rubbish, and had guaranteed a market price of two dollars a bushel for wheat. The number was preposterous, and he fumed with rage every time he thought about it. At that price, a farmer could make thirty dollars an acre growing wheat, while any other crop wouldn’t earn more than a tenth that much. He had done the math many times, and it still got him mad. Farmers with a whole section of land could make a profit of eighteen thousand dollars for a single crop, at a time when an ordinary laborer didn’t see a thousand dollars a year. It was obscene. But he couldn’t make the government pay in blood, so he had to settle for somebody else.
Young women are the best, since they will also be missed. Maybe they will even make people study on the error of their ways. And of course, pretty young women are evil from the ground up, anyway, so hurting them is a moral duty all its own. The hurt they can cause without even thinking about it is worse than anything that happens in a war. But if no young women are handy, others will do. Lots of kinds of others. Yes. It’s a sacred calling.
Fortunately for the good of an orderly universe and the great, cosmic reckoning of things, he was able to take care of that calling all by himself. He scanned the horizon to the north and east, deciding which direction needed his attention the most.
He had another agenda, as well. He had decided that he had to find the young man who had seen him covering Mabel Boysen’s grave, though he didn’t know the man’s name or which way he was headed. He would never again be sure of his own safety until he had found him. The more he thought about that fact, the more he began to be afraid. And he did not like, would not tolerate, anybody making him afraid. Sooner or later, the man had to die.
Perhaps fifteen or twenty miles to the northeast, he could barely make out the spire of a church. That, he decided, would be his next viewing perch, though he always thought of himself as a windmill man. Harnessing the dark winds of the injured prairie; that was his role.
Far below him, some dumb hayseed of a farmer was hollering at him about what the gosh darned hell was he doing up in
his
windmill tower and he better get his ass down while it was still in one piece.
Blasphemy. Vulgarity. And worst of all, pride. He hated those things.
Unfortunately, the farmer also had a double-barreled shotgun that he looked ready to use. Pity.
As he climbed down, he began to rehearse his story. He would say he was looking for some sign of the crew that had left him two days earlier, when he had taken sick. He would talk about how worried he was about getting his job back, even though he didn’t really feel well enough to work yet. He would be pleasant and humble and self-effacing and would say not a single word of truth. And it would work like a charm. It always did. If he told the right lie, he could call the birds down from the sky. In the end, he would not only get invited to breakfast, he would also find something to steal from the farmer’s house.
Chapter 6
In the Land of the Bindlestiffs
Charlie headed south, away from the mountains and back toward the harvest. He didn’t hear the truck come up behind him. In fact, he usually didn’t hear much of anything when he walked. He had been on the road for a week now, though three days of that had been spent in one spot, working for day wages.
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