welts, sir?” I said. “Why they were nothing, relatively speaking. A little annoying, perhaps, when you get them full of gnats and salt sweat and rock dust; but nothing compared to those ribs. You should have seen them popping out through the flesh like splinters bursting through tree bark. You should have seen this arm the day a friend tried to chop it off for me. That’s right, sir. A friend. He got thirty days in the hole and I got three weeks in the hospital.
“I hope I didn’t upset you, sir?” I said. “I just wanted to demonstrate that I don’t and won’t have enough to pay you to stay out of Sandstone. Which brings us to our problem. Since I can’t pay you, what can I do to show how highly I value your silence? What can I give you…that will last and always be enough? That you’ll never want any more of?”
He took a step backwards.
“B-better watch out now, Red,” his voice cracked and rose. “B-better watch out, k-keep away from me! Ain’t n-no h-harm done. J-just a joke, n-no h-harm in j-jokin’…”
He stumbled and tried to throw his hands in front of his face.
I chopped down and in, with the edge of my hands, getting both kidneys at once. His arms came down and I cuffed him, spinning him around. I jerked his tie tight, as tight as I could get it, took a turn around his neck with each end, and knotted it in the back.
I let him drop to the floor and watched him thrash about, scratching and clawing at his throat.
As from a distance I heard Madeline say, “He’ll d-die, Pat. Don’t let him die…”
“A few oranges,” I said, “in a net bag. Or a flour sack. And something to cut the tie.”
“What do you want with the oranges?”
“You’d better hurry,” I said, and I kicked him away as he tried to crawl up my legs.
She came running back with a paring knife, and four or five oranges in the bottom of a red net bag.
I swung the sack with both hands. It struck him in the chest and flattened him. It frightened him to the last degree he could be frightened. I beat him all over the chest and stomach and thighs, and then I turned him over and beat him up and down the back.
I jerked him upright, cut the necktie and tossed him into a chair. He sat there panting, pawing at his throat, his eyes rolling up and down in his head.
I had Madeline bring me a washrag and a comb, and I sponged off his face and combed his hair for him. I set his hat back on his head, and buttoned up his coat.
“Do you understand?” I said. “That’s what it means.”
“I—” he nodded his head. “I g-get you.”
“You might not make a charge stick,” I said. “And if you did, I’d still find a way of seeing you. I can’t lose any more, and you can lose and keep losing. So I’d see you. Once. I wouldn’t have to see you after that.”
I jerked a thumb toward the door. “You’ve got it. Keep it.”
He wasn’t hurt. No one who was hurt could have got out of there that fast. I laughed a little as the door slammed.
Madeline grinned, a slow fixed grin.
“You see I didn’t kill him,” I said. “I didn’t even hurt him.”
“What about the—way—?”
“The oranges? That’s the old dummy-chucker’s trick. You know, the fake-accident racket.”
“I guess I don’t know, Pat,” she said slowly, “much of anything.”
“A man’s supposed to have been in an accident, but he doesn’t have any marks on him. So a confederate takes a bag of oranges and beats him with them. They don’t hurt him, but they turn him black and blue. He’s a mass of bruises.”
“Oh.”
“Our friend struck me as being unusually susceptible to fear. He’ll probably believe to his dying day that he barely escaped being killed.”
“And he didn’t, did he?”
I thought I had explained. “No,” I said, shortly. “Not that time.”
I picked up my undershirt and put it on. I put on my shirt and tie. I reached for my coat, but she was ahead of me. She held it for me, pushing it up onto my
“I hope I didn’t upset you, sir?” I said. “I just wanted to demonstrate that I don’t and won’t have enough to pay you to stay out of Sandstone. Which brings us to our problem. Since I can’t pay you, what can I do to show how highly I value your silence? What can I give you…that will last and always be enough? That you’ll never want any more of?”
He took a step backwards.
“B-better watch out now, Red,” his voice cracked and rose. “B-better watch out, k-keep away from me! Ain’t n-no h-harm done. J-just a joke, n-no h-harm in j-jokin’…”
He stumbled and tried to throw his hands in front of his face.
I chopped down and in, with the edge of my hands, getting both kidneys at once. His arms came down and I cuffed him, spinning him around. I jerked his tie tight, as tight as I could get it, took a turn around his neck with each end, and knotted it in the back.
I let him drop to the floor and watched him thrash about, scratching and clawing at his throat.
As from a distance I heard Madeline say, “He’ll d-die, Pat. Don’t let him die…”
“A few oranges,” I said, “in a net bag. Or a flour sack. And something to cut the tie.”
“What do you want with the oranges?”
“You’d better hurry,” I said, and I kicked him away as he tried to crawl up my legs.
She came running back with a paring knife, and four or five oranges in the bottom of a red net bag.
I swung the sack with both hands. It struck him in the chest and flattened him. It frightened him to the last degree he could be frightened. I beat him all over the chest and stomach and thighs, and then I turned him over and beat him up and down the back.
I jerked him upright, cut the necktie and tossed him into a chair. He sat there panting, pawing at his throat, his eyes rolling up and down in his head.
I had Madeline bring me a washrag and a comb, and I sponged off his face and combed his hair for him. I set his hat back on his head, and buttoned up his coat.
“Do you understand?” I said. “That’s what it means.”
“I—” he nodded his head. “I g-get you.”
“You might not make a charge stick,” I said. “And if you did, I’d still find a way of seeing you. I can’t lose any more, and you can lose and keep losing. So I’d see you. Once. I wouldn’t have to see you after that.”
I jerked a thumb toward the door. “You’ve got it. Keep it.”
He wasn’t hurt. No one who was hurt could have got out of there that fast. I laughed a little as the door slammed.
Madeline grinned, a slow fixed grin.
“You see I didn’t kill him,” I said. “I didn’t even hurt him.”
“What about the—way—?”
“The oranges? That’s the old dummy-chucker’s trick. You know, the fake-accident racket.”
“I guess I don’t know, Pat,” she said slowly, “much of anything.”
“A man’s supposed to have been in an accident, but he doesn’t have any marks on him. So a confederate takes a bag of oranges and beats him with them. They don’t hurt him, but they turn him black and blue. He’s a mass of bruises.”
“Oh.”
“Our friend struck me as being unusually susceptible to fear. He’ll probably believe to his dying day that he barely escaped being killed.”
“And he didn’t, did he?”
I thought I had explained. “No,” I said, shortly. “Not that time.”
I picked up my undershirt and put it on. I put on my shirt and tie. I reached for my coat, but she was ahead of me. She held it for me, pushing it up onto my
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