Read Online Time Done Been Won't Be No More by William Gay - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William Gay
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said.
Dennis crossed the sand in two long strides and swung onto Wesleyâs arm and wrested the oar from him. Wesley sat down hard in the sand. He got up shaking his head as if heâd clear it. He crossed the sandbar and waded kneedeep into the river and scooped up handfuls of water and washed his face. Lester crawled on. Like something wounded that just wonât die. When he was into the willows he struggled up and stood leaning with both hands cupping his knees. Then he straightened and began wiping the blood out of his eyes. Dennis lay on his back in the sand for a long time and stared into the sky, studying the shifting patterns the clouds made. Both arms ached, and he was slowly clasping and unclasping his left hand. The bowl of the sky spun slowly clockwise, like pale blue water emptying down an endless drain.
He could hear Lester lumbering off through the brush. Wesley came up and dropped onto the sand beside Dennis. Dennis had an arm flung across his eyes. He thought he might just lie here in the hot weight of the sun forever. His ribs hurt, and he could feel his muscles beginning to stiffen.
I wish I hadnât quit smoking and I had a cigarette, Wesley said. Or maybe a little shot of that jet fuel. Chastising rednecks is hot, heavy work, and it does wear a man out so.
Dennis didnât reply, and after a time Wesley said, You ought toâve let me kill him. I knew you werenât as committed as I was. I could see your heart wasnât in it. You didnât have your mind right.
He was dragging off like a snake with its back broke, Dennis said. What the hell do you want? Let it be.
We need to get these boats back to where Sandy and Christy are. Damned if I donât dread rowing upstream. Bad as I feel. You reckon we could rig up a towline and pull them along the bank?
I donât know.
You donât think theyâd go back to where the girls are, do you?
I donât know.
We better go see. No telling what kind of depravities those inbred mutants could think of to do with an innocent young girl.
Dennis suddenly dropped the arm from his eyes and sat up. He could hear a truck engine. It was in the distance, but approaching, and the engine sounded wound out, as if it were being rawhided over and through the brush. He stood up. The truck seemed to be coming through the timber, and he realized that a road, probably an unused and grownover logging road, ran parallel with the river. They know this river, he thought. The fourth man went to get the truck. Through a break in the trees chrome mirrored back the light, the sun hammered off bright red metal. The truck stopped. The engine died. Immediately Dennis could hear voices, by turns angry and placating. They seemed to be fighting amongst themselves, trying to talk Lester either into or out of doing something. A door slammed; another or the same door slammed again. When he looked around, Wesley had risen and gathered up two of the paddles. He reached one of them to Dennis. Dennis waved it away. Letâs get the hell out of Dodge, he said.
We got to get the boats.
To hell with the boats. We got to move.
Something was coming through the brake of wild cane, not walking or even running as a man might, but lurching and stumbling and crashing, some beast enraged past reason, past pain. Wesley turned toward the noise and waited with the oar at a loose port arms across his chest.
Lester came out of the cane with a .357 Magnum clasped bothhanded before him. It looked enormous even in his huge hands. Lester looked like something that had escaped halfbutched from a meatpackerâs clutches, like some bloody experiment gone awry. His wild eyes were just black holes charred in the bloody suet of his face. The bullet splintered the oar and slammed into Wesleyâs chest. Wesleyâs head, his feet, seemed to jerk forward. Then Lester shot him in the head, and Wesley spring backward as if a spingloaded tether had jerked him away.
Dennis was at
Dennis crossed the sand in two long strides and swung onto Wesleyâs arm and wrested the oar from him. Wesley sat down hard in the sand. He got up shaking his head as if heâd clear it. He crossed the sandbar and waded kneedeep into the river and scooped up handfuls of water and washed his face. Lester crawled on. Like something wounded that just wonât die. When he was into the willows he struggled up and stood leaning with both hands cupping his knees. Then he straightened and began wiping the blood out of his eyes. Dennis lay on his back in the sand for a long time and stared into the sky, studying the shifting patterns the clouds made. Both arms ached, and he was slowly clasping and unclasping his left hand. The bowl of the sky spun slowly clockwise, like pale blue water emptying down an endless drain.
He could hear Lester lumbering off through the brush. Wesley came up and dropped onto the sand beside Dennis. Dennis had an arm flung across his eyes. He thought he might just lie here in the hot weight of the sun forever. His ribs hurt, and he could feel his muscles beginning to stiffen.
I wish I hadnât quit smoking and I had a cigarette, Wesley said. Or maybe a little shot of that jet fuel. Chastising rednecks is hot, heavy work, and it does wear a man out so.
Dennis didnât reply, and after a time Wesley said, You ought toâve let me kill him. I knew you werenât as committed as I was. I could see your heart wasnât in it. You didnât have your mind right.
He was dragging off like a snake with its back broke, Dennis said. What the hell do you want? Let it be.
We need to get these boats back to where Sandy and Christy are. Damned if I donât dread rowing upstream. Bad as I feel. You reckon we could rig up a towline and pull them along the bank?
I donât know.
You donât think theyâd go back to where the girls are, do you?
I donât know.
We better go see. No telling what kind of depravities those inbred mutants could think of to do with an innocent young girl.
Dennis suddenly dropped the arm from his eyes and sat up. He could hear a truck engine. It was in the distance, but approaching, and the engine sounded wound out, as if it were being rawhided over and through the brush. He stood up. The truck seemed to be coming through the timber, and he realized that a road, probably an unused and grownover logging road, ran parallel with the river. They know this river, he thought. The fourth man went to get the truck. Through a break in the trees chrome mirrored back the light, the sun hammered off bright red metal. The truck stopped. The engine died. Immediately Dennis could hear voices, by turns angry and placating. They seemed to be fighting amongst themselves, trying to talk Lester either into or out of doing something. A door slammed; another or the same door slammed again. When he looked around, Wesley had risen and gathered up two of the paddles. He reached one of them to Dennis. Dennis waved it away. Letâs get the hell out of Dodge, he said.
We got to get the boats.
To hell with the boats. We got to move.
Something was coming through the brake of wild cane, not walking or even running as a man might, but lurching and stumbling and crashing, some beast enraged past reason, past pain. Wesley turned toward the noise and waited with the oar at a loose port arms across his chest.
Lester came out of the cane with a .357 Magnum clasped bothhanded before him. It looked enormous even in his huge hands. Lester looked like something that had escaped halfbutched from a meatpackerâs clutches, like some bloody experiment gone awry. His wild eyes were just black holes charred in the bloody suet of his face. The bullet splintered the oar and slammed into Wesleyâs chest. Wesleyâs head, his feet, seemed to jerk forward. Then Lester shot him in the head, and Wesley spring backward as if a spingloaded tether had jerked him away.
Dennis was at
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