Read Online South of Heaven by Jim Thompson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jim Thompson
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finished his inspection. “Let’s just see. I figure you laid the second stick on two of your shots practically on top of the ground. You hardly tamped them down at all. So that means.…Can you tell me what it means, Tommy, boy?”
I nodded miserably, unable to meet his eyes. “Yeah, I guess I do, Four Trey. I guess so.”
“Guess, Tommy? You don’t guess with dyna—not more than once.”
“All right!” I said. “All right, damn you! It means I’ve got two sticks of dynamite buried under the rubble!”
“And, Tommy? And? I suppose you expect me to dig them out for you?”
“I don’t expect anything such of a damned thing!” I said. “I wouldn’t let you do it for all the tumblebugs in Texas! I’m going to do it myself, so you just get the hell back out of the way!”
He did, and I did. When I found the buried shots, I clamped caps and fuses on them and blew them. And I acted like he did when he shot powder. I stayed in fairly close, weaving my body to dodge the fill, even batting at a little clod of dirt with my hand when it sailed close to me.
That one little clod was all that did come close. With only two one-stick shots and both of them deep, I was in no danger at all. None from flying rock, that is. There’d been plenty of danger in digging out the shots.
Four Trey and I scooped the pit out and banked it. Then, our day’s work was done. The men hadn’t come in from the line yet, but their time began when they got there and ours started here.
We gathered up our tools and equipment and checked them in at the supply tent. At the wash benches we stripped and took baths, taking turns at pouring pails of water over each other. All this in silence. Neither of us said anything, even when Wingy Warfield started yelling about us wasting water.
Wingy wandered away, mumbling to himself. Four Trey and I finished washing and got dressed again. Our eyes met, and I tried to look stern and haughty; just why I don’t know. But somehow everything suddenly struck me ridiculous, and I almost broke into laughter.
Four Trey gave me a deadpan look, but his eyes were twinkling. “Something on your mind, Tommy?” he asked.
“N-no, no,” I said. “No, I j-just— ha, ha —I was just— ha, ha, ha.… ”
And then I doubled up laughing, whooping and hollering and wheezing like nine kinds of a damned fool. I laughed and laughed, while Four Trey looked on, grinning and nodding as if I were doing exactly what I should have. And maybe I was, I guess, because it seemed to straighten out an awful lot of things inside me and to put me into perspective with myself. Without quite knowing that I was doing it, I could see Tommy Burwell as he was and accept him: his fears, his pretentiousness, his preposterous strutting and posing, his bad as well as his good. Without knowing that I was doing it, I met maturity and accepted it.
I washed my face again, washing away the tears of laughter. Four Trey gave me a full dipper from the drinking-water barrel, and we lighted up cigarettes. He crimped up his hat brim, fore and aft, and I did the same with mine. So we stood there smoking and talking quietly and sniffing the good smells of supper; man and boy—man and man —late in the afternoon of the Far West Texas day. The sage suddenly turned golden; the shortgrass, perpetually leaning with the wind, seemed abruptly to catch fire.
Out on the line, the chattering of the jackhammers came to a stop, and the ditcher gasped a final chug-whush and was silent. One by one, the firm throbbing of the generators dwindled into sobs, growing weaker with lengthening distance between them until they were gone entirely. For a brief space, then, there was nothing, no sound at all—an immeasurable hiatus of silence, a tiny void in a universe of noise. Then there was the hail of a man’s voice, reedily thin with distance but coming clear in the clean air. “Eeeyahoo!” Then another hail and another, hundreds of them doubtless, smothering and
I nodded miserably, unable to meet his eyes. “Yeah, I guess I do, Four Trey. I guess so.”
“Guess, Tommy? You don’t guess with dyna—not more than once.”
“All right!” I said. “All right, damn you! It means I’ve got two sticks of dynamite buried under the rubble!”
“And, Tommy? And? I suppose you expect me to dig them out for you?”
“I don’t expect anything such of a damned thing!” I said. “I wouldn’t let you do it for all the tumblebugs in Texas! I’m going to do it myself, so you just get the hell back out of the way!”
He did, and I did. When I found the buried shots, I clamped caps and fuses on them and blew them. And I acted like he did when he shot powder. I stayed in fairly close, weaving my body to dodge the fill, even batting at a little clod of dirt with my hand when it sailed close to me.
That one little clod was all that did come close. With only two one-stick shots and both of them deep, I was in no danger at all. None from flying rock, that is. There’d been plenty of danger in digging out the shots.
Four Trey and I scooped the pit out and banked it. Then, our day’s work was done. The men hadn’t come in from the line yet, but their time began when they got there and ours started here.
We gathered up our tools and equipment and checked them in at the supply tent. At the wash benches we stripped and took baths, taking turns at pouring pails of water over each other. All this in silence. Neither of us said anything, even when Wingy Warfield started yelling about us wasting water.
Wingy wandered away, mumbling to himself. Four Trey and I finished washing and got dressed again. Our eyes met, and I tried to look stern and haughty; just why I don’t know. But somehow everything suddenly struck me ridiculous, and I almost broke into laughter.
Four Trey gave me a deadpan look, but his eyes were twinkling. “Something on your mind, Tommy?” he asked.
“N-no, no,” I said. “No, I j-just— ha, ha —I was just— ha, ha, ha.… ”
And then I doubled up laughing, whooping and hollering and wheezing like nine kinds of a damned fool. I laughed and laughed, while Four Trey looked on, grinning and nodding as if I were doing exactly what I should have. And maybe I was, I guess, because it seemed to straighten out an awful lot of things inside me and to put me into perspective with myself. Without quite knowing that I was doing it, I could see Tommy Burwell as he was and accept him: his fears, his pretentiousness, his preposterous strutting and posing, his bad as well as his good. Without knowing that I was doing it, I met maturity and accepted it.
I washed my face again, washing away the tears of laughter. Four Trey gave me a full dipper from the drinking-water barrel, and we lighted up cigarettes. He crimped up his hat brim, fore and aft, and I did the same with mine. So we stood there smoking and talking quietly and sniffing the good smells of supper; man and boy—man and man —late in the afternoon of the Far West Texas day. The sage suddenly turned golden; the shortgrass, perpetually leaning with the wind, seemed abruptly to catch fire.
Out on the line, the chattering of the jackhammers came to a stop, and the ditcher gasped a final chug-whush and was silent. One by one, the firm throbbing of the generators dwindled into sobs, growing weaker with lengthening distance between them until they were gone entirely. For a brief space, then, there was nothing, no sound at all—an immeasurable hiatus of silence, a tiny void in a universe of noise. Then there was the hail of a man’s voice, reedily thin with distance but coming clear in the clean air. “Eeeyahoo!” Then another hail and another, hundreds of them doubtless, smothering and
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