to try them, they found, all taped together, five or six shiny old dry-cell batteries as might be used for starting just such small engines.
Harold pulled these batteries apart while they walked on, slower now beneath the terrible sun, and when Lawrence wanted to see if he could hit one of them in the air with the shotgun, they agreed to trade off, three rifle cartridges for one shotgun shell.
Harold pitched one of the batteries up, but Lawrence wasn’t ready. “Wait’ll I say ‘Pull,’” he told Harold.
He stood to one side then, holding the shotgun across his chest as he might have seen done on a TV program about skeet shooting.
“Okay, now...Pull!”
Lawrence missed the first one, said that Harold was throwing too hard.
Harold tossed another, gently, lobbing it into the sun, glinting end over gleaming end, a small meteor in slow motion, suddenly jumping with the explosion, this same silver thing, as caught up in a hot air jet, but with the explosion, coughing out its black insides.
“Dead bird,” said Big Lawrence.
Harold laughed. “I reckon it is,” he said softly.
Once across the field, away from the airport, they turned up the railroad track. And now they walked very slowly, straight into the firelike sun, mirrored a high blinding silver in the rails that lay for five miles unbending, flat against the shapeless waste, ascending, stretching ablaze to the sun itself — so that seen from afar, as quite small, they could have appeared as innocent children, to walk eternally between two columns of dancing light.
At one place, Lawrence stopped, laid his rifle alongside the tracks, knelt, and pressed his ear against one of the rails. Harold watched him, and Big Lawrence grinned shrewdly up from the rail. “You wantta try it here?” he said.
Harold frowned down at the tracks. “How could we?”
“There’s a way,” said Lawrence, grinning and nodding.
Harold kicked uncertainly at the rocks between the wooden ties. “Shoot...,” he muttered.
“You scared to try it here?” Lawrence asked, sly and secret.
“There’s not enough room,” said Harold. “It wouldn’t go over us.”
Lawrence got to his feet, brushed his hands, and picked up the rifle. “Okay, we’ll do it down at the trestle,” he said, and they walked on.
With the rifle they took some long shots at the dead glass disks on a signal tower far up the track, but nothing happened. When they were closer though, one of the signals suddenly swung up wildly alight, a burning color. Lawrence was about to take a shot at it when they heard the train behind them.
They slid down an embankment, through the bull nettle and bluebonnets, to walk a path along the bottom. When the freight train reached them, they turned to watch it go by, and as one of the boxcars passed, Big Lawrence, holding the rifle against his hip, pumped five or six rounds into the side of it. Against the thundering noise of the train, the muted shots had no apparent connection with the violent way the blood-red wood of the boxcar door burst out angling and splintered off all pine-white.
As they walked on, Lawrence looked at Harold, grinned, and said: “Don’t reckon there was any hoboes in it, do you?” And Harold laughed.
Then they reached the trestle — a rickety-looking wooden structure, like scaffolding, propped over a narrow chalk-rock gully. They walked across it, balancing on the rails.
“Maybe there won’t be another one today,” said Harold when they reached the other side.
Lawrence nodded grimly. “There’ll be another one,” he said. “Let’s wait down at the hole.”
Harold followed Lawrence along the culvert and down into the creek hollow. They walked it in file, Lawrence ahead, stepping around tall slaky rocks that pitched up abruptly from the hot shale. Heat came out of this dry stone, sharp as acid, wavering up in black lines. Then at a bend before them was the water hole, small now and stagnant, and they turned off to climb the bank in
Harold pulled these batteries apart while they walked on, slower now beneath the terrible sun, and when Lawrence wanted to see if he could hit one of them in the air with the shotgun, they agreed to trade off, three rifle cartridges for one shotgun shell.
Harold pitched one of the batteries up, but Lawrence wasn’t ready. “Wait’ll I say ‘Pull,’” he told Harold.
He stood to one side then, holding the shotgun across his chest as he might have seen done on a TV program about skeet shooting.
“Okay, now...Pull!”
Lawrence missed the first one, said that Harold was throwing too hard.
Harold tossed another, gently, lobbing it into the sun, glinting end over gleaming end, a small meteor in slow motion, suddenly jumping with the explosion, this same silver thing, as caught up in a hot air jet, but with the explosion, coughing out its black insides.
“Dead bird,” said Big Lawrence.
Harold laughed. “I reckon it is,” he said softly.
Once across the field, away from the airport, they turned up the railroad track. And now they walked very slowly, straight into the firelike sun, mirrored a high blinding silver in the rails that lay for five miles unbending, flat against the shapeless waste, ascending, stretching ablaze to the sun itself — so that seen from afar, as quite small, they could have appeared as innocent children, to walk eternally between two columns of dancing light.
At one place, Lawrence stopped, laid his rifle alongside the tracks, knelt, and pressed his ear against one of the rails. Harold watched him, and Big Lawrence grinned shrewdly up from the rail. “You wantta try it here?” he said.
Harold frowned down at the tracks. “How could we?”
“There’s a way,” said Lawrence, grinning and nodding.
Harold kicked uncertainly at the rocks between the wooden ties. “Shoot...,” he muttered.
“You scared to try it here?” Lawrence asked, sly and secret.
“There’s not enough room,” said Harold. “It wouldn’t go over us.”
Lawrence got to his feet, brushed his hands, and picked up the rifle. “Okay, we’ll do it down at the trestle,” he said, and they walked on.
With the rifle they took some long shots at the dead glass disks on a signal tower far up the track, but nothing happened. When they were closer though, one of the signals suddenly swung up wildly alight, a burning color. Lawrence was about to take a shot at it when they heard the train behind them.
They slid down an embankment, through the bull nettle and bluebonnets, to walk a path along the bottom. When the freight train reached them, they turned to watch it go by, and as one of the boxcars passed, Big Lawrence, holding the rifle against his hip, pumped five or six rounds into the side of it. Against the thundering noise of the train, the muted shots had no apparent connection with the violent way the blood-red wood of the boxcar door burst out angling and splintered off all pine-white.
As they walked on, Lawrence looked at Harold, grinned, and said: “Don’t reckon there was any hoboes in it, do you?” And Harold laughed.
Then they reached the trestle — a rickety-looking wooden structure, like scaffolding, propped over a narrow chalk-rock gully. They walked across it, balancing on the rails.
“Maybe there won’t be another one today,” said Harold when they reached the other side.
Lawrence nodded grimly. “There’ll be another one,” he said. “Let’s wait down at the hole.”
Harold followed Lawrence along the culvert and down into the creek hollow. They walked it in file, Lawrence ahead, stepping around tall slaky rocks that pitched up abruptly from the hot shale. Heat came out of this dry stone, sharp as acid, wavering up in black lines. Then at a bend before them was the water hole, small now and stagnant, and they turned off to climb the bank in
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