11

THEY had beans, swimming in pork fat to eat. Mac and Jim brought their cans from the tent and stood in line until some of the mess was dumped into each of their cans. They walked away. Jim took a little wooden paddle from his pocket and tasted the beans. “Mac,” he said, “I can’t eat it.”

“Used to better things, huh? You’ve got to eat it.” He tasted his own, and immediately dumped the can on the ground. “Don’t eat it, Jim. It’ll make you sick, beans and grease! The guys’ll raise hell about this.”

They looked at the men sitting in front of the tents, trying to eat their food. The storm cloud spread over the sky and swallowed the new stars. Mac said, “Somebody’ll try to kill the cooks, I guess. Let’s go over to London’s tent.”

“I don’t see Dakin’s tent, Mac.”

“No, Mrs. Dakin took it down. She went into town and took it along with her. Funny guy, Dakin; he’ll have money before he’s through. Let’s find London.”

They walked down the line to the grey tent of London. A light shone through the canvas. Mac raised the flap. Inside, London sat on a box, holding an open can of sardines in his hand. The dark girl, Lisa, crouched on the floor mattress nursing the baby. She drew a piece of blanket about the baby and the exposed breast as the men entered. She smiled quickly at them, and then looked down at the baby again.

“Just in time for dinner!” Mac said.

London looked embarrassed. “I had a little stuff left over.”

“You tasted that mess out there?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I hope the other guys got some stuff left over. We got to do better than that, or them guys’ll run out on us.”

“Food kind of stopped comin’ in,” said London. “I got another can of sardines. You guys like to have it?”

“Damn right.” Mac took the proffered can greedily, and twisted the key to open it. “Get out your knife, Jim. We’ll split this.”

“How’s your arm?” London asked.

“Getting stiff,” said Jim.

Outside the tent a voice said, “That’s the place, that one with the light.” The flap raised and Dick entered. His hair was combed neatly. He held a grey cap in his hand. His grey suit was clean, but unpressed. Only his dusty, unpolished shoes showed that he had been walking through the country. He stood in the tent entrance, looking about. “Hi, Mac. Hello, Jim,” and to the girl, “Hi ya, baby?” Her eyes brightened. A spot of red came into her cheeks. She drew the piece of blanket coquettishly down around her shoulders.

Mac waved his hand. “This here’s London—this here’s Dick.” Dick made a half salute. “H’ya?” he said. “Look, Mac, these babies in town have been taking lessons.”

“What you mean? What you doin’ out here anyways?”

Dick took a newspaper from his outside pocket and handed it over. Mac opened it and London and Jim looked over his shoulder. “Come out before noon,” said Dick.

Mac exclaimed, “Son-of-a-bitch!” The paper carried a headline, “Supervisors vote to feed strikers. At a public meeting last night the Board of Supervisors voted unanimously to feed the men now striking against the apple growers.”

“They sure took lessons,” Mac said. “Did it start work-in’, yet, Dick?”

“Hell, yes.”

London broke in, “I don’t see no reason to kick. If they want to send out ham and eggs, it’s O.K. by me.”

“Sure,” Mac said sarcastically, “if they want to. This paper don’t tell about the other meeting right afterwards when they repealed the vote.”

“What’s the gag?” London demanded. “What the hell’s it all about?”

“Listen, London,” Mac said. “This here’s an old one, but it works. Here’s Dick got the sympathizers lined up. We got food and blankets and money comin’. Well, then this comes out. Dick goes the round. The sympathizers say, ‘What the hell? The county’s feeding ’em.’ ‘Th’ hell it is,’ says Dick. And the guy says, ’I seen it in the paper. It says they’re sendin’ food to you. What you gettin’ out of this?’ That’s how it works, London. Did you see any county food come in today?”

“No——”

“Well, Dick couldn’t get a rise either. Now you know. They figure to starve us out. And by God they can do it, too, if we don’t get help.” He turned to Dick. “You was goin’ good.”

“Sure,” Dick agreed. “It was a push-over. Take me some time to work it all up again. I want a paper from this guy here saying you aren’t getting any food. I want it signed by the strike chairman.”

“O.K.,” said London.

“Lots of sympathizers in Torgas,” Dick went on.” ’Course the joint’s organized by the Growers’ Association, so the whole bunch is underground like a flock o’ gophers. But the stuff is there, if I can get to it.”

“You were doin’ swell till this busted,” Mac said.

“Sure I was. I had some trouble with one old dame. She wanted to help the cause somethin’ terrible.”

Mac laughed. “I never knew no maiden modesty to keep you out of the feed bag. S’pose she did want to give her all to the cause?”

Dick shuddered. “Her all was sixteen axe-handles acrost,” he said.

“Well, we’ll get your paper for you, and then I want you to get the hell out of here. They ain’t got you spotted yet, have they?”

“I don’t know,” said Dick. “I kind of think they have. I wrote in for Bob Schwartz to come down. I got a feeling I’m going to get vagged pretty soon. Bob can take over then.”

London rooted in a box and brought out a tablet of paper and a pencil. Mac took them from him and wrote out the statement. “You write nice,” London said admiringly.

“Huh? Oh, sure. Can I sign it for you, London?”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

“Hell,” said Dick. “I could of done that myself.” He took the paper and folded it carefully. “Oh, say, Mac. I heard about one of the guys gettin’ bumped.”

“Didn’t you know, Dick? It was Joy.”

“Th’ hell!”

“Sure, he come down with a bunch of scabs. He was tryin’ to bring ’em over when he got it.”

“Poor bastard.”

“Got him quick. He didn’t suffer more’n a minute.”

Dick sighed. “Well, it was in the books for Joy. He was sure to get it sooner or later. Going to have a funeral?”

“Tomorrow.”

“All the guys goin’ to march in it?”

Mac looked at London. “Sure they are,” he said. “Maybe we can drag public sympathy our way.”

“Well, Joy would like that,” Dick said. “Nothing he’d like better. Too bad he can’t see it. Well, so long. I got to go.” He turned to leave the tent. Lisa raised her eyes. “Bye, baby. See you sometime,” said Dick. The spots of color came into her cheeks again. Her lips parted a little and, when the tent flaps dropped behind Dick, her eyes remained there for some time.

Mac said, “Jesus, they got an organization here. Dick’s a good man. If he can’t get stuff to eat, it ain’t to be got.”

Jim asked, “How about that platform for the speech?”

Mac turned to London, “Yeah, did you get at it, London?”

“The guys’ll put it up tomorrow mornin’. Couldn’t get nothing but some old fence posts to make it. Have to be just a little one.”

“Don’t matter,” Mac said, “just as long as it’s high enough so every guy here can see Joy, that’s enough.”

A worried look came on London’s face. “What t’hell am I goin’ to say to the guys? You said I ought to make a speech.”

“You’ll get steamed up enough,” said Mac. “Tell ’em this little guy died for ’em. And if he could do that they can at least fight for themselves.”

“I never made no speeches much,” London complained.

“Well, don’t make a speech. Just talk to the guys. You done that often enough. Just tell ’em. That’s better’n a speech, anyway.”

“Oh. Like that. O.K.”

Mac turned to the girl. “How’s the kid?”

She blushed and pulled the blanket closer over her shoulders. Her lashes shadowed her cheeks. “Pretty good,” she whispered. “He don’t cry none.”

The tent-flap jerked open and the doctor entered, his quick, brusque movements at variance with the sad, doglike eyes. “I’m going over to see young Anderson, Mac,” he said. “Want to come?”

“Sure I do, Doc.” And to London, “Did you send the guys over to guard Anderson’s place?”

“Yeah. They didn’t want to go none, but I sent ’em.”

“All right. Let’s go, Doc. Come on, Jim, if you can make it.”

“I feel all right,” said Jim.

Burton looked steadily at him. “You should be in bed.”

Mac chuckled. “I’m scared to leave him. He raises hell when I leave him alone for a minute. See you later, London.”

Outside the darkness was thick. The big cloud had spread until it covered the sky, and all the stars were gone. A muffled quietness lay on the camp. Those men who sat around a few little fires spoke softly. The air was still and warm and damp. Doc and Mac and Jim picked their way carefully out of the camp and into the blackness that surrounded it. “I’m afraid it’s going to rain,” Mac said. “We’ll have one hell of a time with the guys when they get wet. It’s worse than gun-fire for taking the hearts out of men. Most of those tents leak, I guess.”

“Of course they do,” said Burton.

They reached the line of the orchard and walked down between two rows of trees. And it was so dark that they put their hands out in front of them.

“How do you like your strike now?” Doc asked.

“Not so good. They’ve got this valley organized like Italy. Food supply’s cut off now. We’re sunk if we can’t get some food. And if it rains good and hard tonight the men’ll be sneaking out on us. They just won’t take it, I tell you. It’s a funny thing, Doc. You don’t believe in the cause, and you’ll probably be the last man to stick. I don’t get you at all.”

“I don’t get myself,” Doc said softly. “I don’t believe in the cause, but I believe in men.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I guess I just believe they’re men, and not animals. Maybe if I went into a kennel and the dogs were hungry and sick and dirty, and maybe if I could help those dogs, I would. Wouldn’t be their fault they were that way. You couldn’t say, ’Those dogs are that way because they haven’t any ambition. They don’t save their bones. Dogs always are that way.’ No, you’d try to clean them up and feed them. I guess that’s the way it is with me. I have some skill in helping men, and when I see some who need help, I just do it. I don’t think about it much. If a painter saw a piece of canvas, and he had colors, well, he’d want to paint on it. He wouldn’t figure why he wanted to.”

“Sure, I get you. In one way it seems cold-blooded, standing aside and looking down on men like that, and never getting yourself mixed up with them; but another way, Doc, it seems fine as the devil, and clean.”

“Oh, Mac, I’m about out of disinfectant. You’ll get no more fine smell if I don’t get some more carbolic.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Mac.

A hundred yards away a yellow light was shining. “Isn’t that Anderson’s house?” Jim asked.

“I guess it is. We ought to pick up a guard pretty soon.” They walked on toward the light, and they were not challenged. They came to the gate of the house-yard without being challenged. Mac said, “God-damn it, where are the guys London sent over? Go on in, Doc. I’m going to see if I can’t find ’em.” Burton walked up the path and into the lighted kitchen. Mac and Jim went toward the barn, and inside the barn they found the men, lying down in the low bed of hay smoking cigarettes. A kerosene lamp hung on a hook on the wall and threw a yellow light on the line of empty stalls and on the great pile of boxed apples—Anderson’s crop, waiting to be moved.

Mac spluttered with anger, but he quickly controlled himself, and when he spoke his voice was soft and friendly. “Listen, you guys,” he argued. “This isn’t any joke. We got word the damn vigilantes is goin’ to try something on Anderson to get back at him for lettin’ us stay on his place. S’pose he never let us stay? They’d be kickin’ us all over hell by now. Anderson’s a nice guy. We hadn’t ought to let nobody hurt him.”

“There ain’t nobody around,” one of the men protested. “Jesus, mister, we can’t hang around all night. We was out picketin’ all afternoon.”

“Go on, then,” Mac cried angrily. “Let ’em raid this place. Then Anderson’ll kick us off. Then where in hell would we be?”

“We could jungle up, down by the river, mister.”

“You think you could. They’d run you over the county line so quick your ass’d smoke, and you know it!”

One of the men got slowly to his feet. “The guy’s right,” he said. “We better drag it out of here. My old woman’s in the camp. I don’t want to have her get in no trouble.”

“Well, put out a line,” Mac suggested. “Don’t let nobody through. You know what they done to Anderson’s boy—burned his lunch wagon, kicked hell out of Al.”

“Al put out a nice stew,” said one of the men. They stood up tiredly. When they were all out of the barn Mac blew out the lantern. “Vigilantes like to shoot at a light,” he explained. “They take big chances like that. We better have Anderson pull down his curtains, too.”

The guards filed off into the darkness. Jim asked, “You think they’ll keep watch now, Mac?” he asked.

“I wish I thought so. I think they’ll be back in that barn in about ten minutes. In the army they can shoot a guy if he goes to sleep. We can’t do a thing but talk. God, I get sick of this helplessness! If we could only use guns! If we could only use punishment to keep discipline!” The sound of the guards’ footsteps died away in the darkness. Mac said, “I’ll rouse ’em out once more before we go back.” They walked up on the kitchen porch and knocked on the door. Barking and growling dogs answered them. They could hear the dogs leaping around inside the house, and Anderson quieting them. The door opened a crack. “It’s us, Mr. Anderson.”

“Come on in,” he said sullenly.

The pointers weaved about, whipping their thin, hard tails and whining with pleasure. Mac leaned over and patted each one and pulled the leathers. “You ought to leave the dogs outside, Mr. Anderson, to watch the place,” he said. “It’s so dark the guards can’t see anything. But the dogs could smell anybody coming through.”

Al lay on a cot by the stove. He looked pale and weak. He seemed to have grown thin, for the flesh on his jowls was loose. He lay flat on his back, and one arm was strapped down in front of him. Doc sat in a chair beside the cot.

“Hello, Al,” Mac said quietly. “How’s she go, boy?”

The eyes brightened. “O.K.,” said Al. “It hurts quite a lot. Doc says it’ll keep me down some time.” Mac leaned over the cot and picked up Al’s good hand. “Not too hard,” Al said quickly. “There’s busted ribs on that side.”

Anderson stood by; his eyes were burning. “Now you see,” he said. “You see what comes of it. Lunch wagon burned, Al hurt, now you see.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Dad,” Al said weakly. “Don’t start that again. They call you Mac, don’t they?”

“Right.”

“Well, look, Mac. D’you think I could get into the Party?”

“You mean you want to go in active work?”

“Yeah. Think I could get in?”

“I think so—” Mac said slowly. “I’ll give you an application card. What you want to come in for, Al?”

The heavy face twisted in a grimace. Al swung his head back and forth. “I been thinkin’,” he said. “Ever since they beat me up I been thinkin’. I can’t get those guys outa my head—my little wagon all burned up, an’ them jumpin’ on me with their feet; and two cops down on the corner watchin’, and not doin’ a thing! I can’t get that outa my head.”

“And so you want to join up with us, huh, Al?”

“I want to be against ’em,” Al cried. “I want to be fightin’ ’em all my life. I want to be on the other side.”

“They’ll just beat you up worse, Al. I’m tellin’ you straight. They’ll knock hell out of you.”

“Well, I won’t care then, because I’ll be fightin’ ’em, see? But there I was, just runnin’ a little lunch wagon, an’ givin’ bums a handout now an’ then——” His voice choked and tears squeezed out of his eyes.

Dr. Burton touched him gently on the cheek. “Don’t talk any more, Al.”

“I’ll see you get an application card,” Mac said. And he continued, “By God, it’s funny. Guy after guy gets knocked into our side by a cop’s night stick. Every time they maul hell out of a bunch of men, we get a flock of applications. Why, there’s a Red Squad cop in Los Angeles that sends us more members than a dozen of our organizers. An’ the damn fools haven’t got sense enough to realize it. O.K., Al. You’ll get your application. I don’t know whether it’ll go through, but it will if I can push it through.” He patted Al’s good arm. “I hope it goes through. You’re a good guy, Al. Don’t blame me for your wagon.”

“I don’t, Mac. I know who to blame.”

Burton said, “Take it easy, Al. Just rest; you need it.”

Anderson had been fidgeting about the room. The dogs circled him endlessly, putting up their liver-colored noses and sniffing, waving their stiff tails like little whips. “Well, I hope you’re satisfied,” he said helplessly. “You break up everything I’ve got. You even take Al away. I hope you take good joy of it.”

Jim broke in, “Don’t worry, Mr. Anderson. There’s guards around your house. You’re the only man in the Valley that has his apples picked.”

Mac asked, “When are you going to move your apples?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“Well, do you want some guards for the trucks?”

“I don’t know,” Anderson said uneasily.

“I guess we better put guards on the trucks,” said Mac, “just in case anybody tried to dump your crop. We’ll get going now. Good night, Mr. Anderson. ’Night, Al. In one way I’m glad it happened.”

Al smiled.” ’Night, you guys. Don’t forget that card, Mac.”

“I won’t. Better pull your curtains down, Mr. Anderson. I don’t think they’ll shoot through your windows, but they might; they’ve done it before, other places.”

The door closed instantly behind them. The lighted spot on the ground, from the window, shrank to darkness as the curtain was pulled down. Mac felt his way to the gate, and when they were out, shut it after them. “Wait here a minute,” he said. “I’m going to look at those guards again.” He stepped away into the darkness.

Jim stood beside the doctor. “Better take good care of that shoulder,” Burton advised. “It might cause you some trouble later.”

“I don’t care about it, Doc. It seems good to have it.”

“Yes, I thought it might be like that.”

“Like what?”

“I mean you’ve got something in your eyes, Jim, something religious. I’ve seen it in you boys before.”

Jim flared, “Well, it isn’t religious. I’ve got no use for religion.”

“No, I guess you haven’t. Don’t let me bother you, Jim. Don’t let me confuse you with terms. You’re living the good life, whatever you want to call it.”

“I’m happy,” said Jim. “And happy for the first time. I’m full-up.”

“I know. Don’t let it die. It’s the vision of Heaven.”

“I don’t believe in Heaven,” Jim said. “I don’t believe in religion.”

“All right, I won’t argue any more. I don’t envy you as much as I might, Jim, because sometimes I love men as much as you do, maybe not in just the same way.”

“Do you get that, Doc? Like that—like troops and troops marching into you? And you closing around them?”

“Yes, something like that. Particularly when they’ve done something stupid, when a man’s made a mistake, and died for it. Yes, I get it, Jim—pretty often.”

They heard Mac’s voice, “Where are you guys? It’s so damn dark.”

“Over here.” They joined him and all three moved along into the orchard, under the black trees.

“The guards weren’t in the barn,” said Mac. “They were out on watch. Maybe they’re going to stick it.”

Far down the road they heard the mutter of a truck coming toward them. “I feel sorry for Anderson,” Burton said quietly. “Everything he respects, everything he’s afraid of is turning against him. I wonder what he’ll do. They’ll drive him out of here, of course.”

Mac said harshly, “We can’t help it, Doc. He happens to be the one that’s sacrificed for the men. Somebody has to break if the whole bunch is going to get out of the slaughter-house. We can’t think about the hurts of one man. It’s necessary, Doc.”

“I wasn’t questioning your motives, nor your ends. I was just sorry for the poor old man. His self-respect is down. That’s a bitter thing to him, don’t you think so, Mac?”

“I can’t take time to think about the feelings of one man?” Mac said sharply. “I’m too busy with big bunches of men.”

“It was different with the little fellow who was shot,” Doc went on musingly. “He liked what he did. He wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

“Doc, you’re breakin’ my heart,” Mac said irritably. “Don’t you get lost in a lot of sentimental foolishness. There’s an end to be gained; it’s a real end, hasn’t anything to do with people losing respect. It’s people getting bread into their guts. It’s real, not any of your high-falutin’ ideas. How’s the old guy with the broken hip?”

“All right, then, change the subject. The old man’s getting mean as a scorpion. Right at first he got a lot of attention, he got pretty proud for a while; and now he’s mad because the men don’t come and listen to him talk.”

“I’ll go in and see him in the morning,” said Jim. “He was a kind of a nice old fellow.”

Mac cried, “Listen! Didn’t that truck stop?”

“I think it did. Sounded as though it stopped at the camp.”

“I wonder what the hell. Come on, let’s hurry. Look out for trees.” They had gone only a little distance when the truck roared, its gears clashed, and it moved away again. Its sound softened into the distance until it merged with the quiet. “I hope nothing’s wrong,” said Mac.

They trotted out of the orchard and crossed the cleared space. The light still burned in London’s tent, and a group of men moved about near it. Mac dashed up, threw up the tent-flap and went inside. On the ground lay a long, rough pine box. London sat on a box and stared morosely up at the newcomers. The girl seemed to cower down on her mattress, while London’s dark-haired, pale son sat beside her and stroked her hair. London motioned to the box with his thumb. “What the hell ’m I goin’ to do with it?” he asked. “It’s scared this here girl half to death. I can’t keep it in here.”

“Joy?” Mac asked.

“Yeah. They just brang him.”

Mac pulled his lip and studied the coffin. “We could put it outside, I guess. Or we can let your kids sleep in the hospital tent tonight and leave it here, that is, unless it scares you, London.”

“It don’t mean nothing to me,” London protested. “It’s just another stiff. I seen plenty in my time.”

“Well, let’s leave it here, then. Jim an’ me’ll stay here with it. The guy was a friend of ours.” Behind him the doctor chuckled softly. Mac reddened and swung around. “S’pose you do win, Doc? What of it? I knew the little guy.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Burton said.

London spoke softly to the girl, and to the dark boy, and in a moment they went out of the tent, she holding the shoulder blanket tight about herself and the baby.

Mac sat down on one end of the oblong box and rubbed the wood with his forefinger. The coarse pine grains wriggled like little rivers over the wood. Jim stood behind Mac and stared over his shoulder. London moved nervously about the tent, and his eyes avoided the coffin. Mac said, “Nice piece o’ goods the county puts out.”

“What you want for nothing?” London demanded.

“Well,” Mac replied, “I don’t want nothing for myself but a bonfire, just a fire to get rid of me, so I won’t lie around.” He stood up and felt in his jeans pocket and brought out a big knife. One of the blades had a screwdriver end. He fitted it to a screw in the coffin-lid and twisted.

London cried, “What do you want to open it for? That won’t do no good. Leave him be.”

“I want to see him,” said Mac.

“What for? He’s dead—he’s a lump of dirt.”

The doctor said softly, “Sometimes I think you realists are the most sentimental people in the world.”

Mac snorted and laid the screw carefully on the ground. “If you think this is sentiment, you’re nuts, Doc. I want to see if it’d be a good idea for the guys to look at him tomorrow. We got to shoot some juice into ’em some way. They’re dyin’ on their feet.”

Burton said, “Fun with dead bodies, huh?”

Jim insisted earnestly, “We’ve got to use every means, Doc. We’ve got to use every weapon.”

Mac looked up at him appreciatively. “That’s the idea. That’s the way it is. If Joy can do some work after he’s dead, then he’s got to do it. There’s no such things as personal feelings in this crowd. Can’t be. And there’s no such things as good taste, don’t you forget it.”

London stood still, listening and nodding his big head slowly up and down. “You guys got it right,” he agreed. “Look at Dakin. He let his damn truck make him mad. I heard he comes up for trial tomorrow—for assault.”

Mac quickly turned out the screws and laid them in a line on the ground. The lid was stuck. He kicked it loose with his heel.

Joy looked flat and small and painfully clean. He had on a clean blue shirt, and his oil soiled blue jeans. The arms were folded stiffly across the stomach. “All he got was a shot of formaldehyde,” Mac said. A stubble was growing on Joy’s cheeks, looking very dark against the grey, waxy skin. His face was composed and rested. The gnawing bitterness was gone from it.

“He looks quiet,” Jim remarked.

“Yes,” said Mac. “That’s the trouble. It won’t do no good to show him. He looks so comfortable all the guys’ll want to get right in with him.” The doctor moved close and looked down at the coffin for a moment, and then he walked to a box and sat down. His big, plaintive eyes fastened on Mac’s face. Mac still stared at Joy. “He was such a good little guy,” he said. “He didn’t want nothing for himself. Y’see, he wasn’t very bright. But some way he got it into his head something was wrong. He didn’t see why food had to be dumped and left to rot when people were starving. Poor little fool, he could never understand that. And he got the notion he might help to stop it. I wonder how much he helped? It’s awful hard to say. Maybe not at all—maybe a lot. You can’t tell.” Mac’s voice had become unsteady. The doctor’s eyes stayed on his face, and the doctor’s mouth was smiling a curious half-sardonic, half-kindly smile.

Jim interposed, “Joy wasn’t afraid of anything.”

Mac picked up the coffin-lid and set it in place again. “I don’t know why we say ’poor little guy’. He wasn’t poor. He was greater than himself. He didn’t know it—didn’t care. But there was a kind of ecstasy in him all the time, even when they beat him. And Jim says it—he wasn’t afraid.” Mack picked up a screw, and stuck it through the hole and turned it down with his knife.

London said, “That sounds like a speech. Maybe you better give the speech. I don’t know nothin’ about talkin’. That was a pretty speech. It sounded nice.”

Mac looked up guiltily and searched London for sarcasm, and found none. “That wasn’t a speech,” he said quietly. “I guess it could be, but it wasn’t. It’s like tellin’ the guy he hasn’t been wasted.”

“Why don’t you make the speech tomorrow? You can talk.”

“Hell, no. You’re the boss. The guys’d be sore if I sounded off. They expect you to do it.”

“Well, what do I got to say?”

Mac drove the screws in, one after another. “Tell ’em the usual stuff. Tell ’em Joy died for ’em. Tell ’em he was tryin’ to help ’em, and the best they can do for him is to help ’emselves by stickin’ together, see?”

“Yeah, I get it.”

Mac stood up and regarded the grained wood of the lid. “I hope somebody tries to stop us,” he said. “I hope some of them damn vigilantes gets in our way. God, I hope they try to stop us paradin’ through town.”

“Yeah, I see,” said London.

Jim’s eyes glowed. He repeated, “I hope so.”

“The guys’ll want to fight,” Mac continued. “They’ll be all sore inside. They’ll want to bust something. Them vigilantes ain’t got much sense; I hope they’re crazy enough to start something tomorrow.”

Burton stood up wearily from his box and walked up to Mac. He touched him lightly on the shoulder. “Mac,” he said, “you’re the craziest mess of cruelty and haus-frau sentimentality, of clear vision and rose-colored glasses I ever saw. I don’t know how you manage to be all of them at once.”

“Nuts,” said Mac.

The doctor yawned. “All right. We’ll leave it at nuts. I’m going to bed. You know where to find me if you want me, only I hope you won’t want me.”

Mac looked quickly at the tent ceiling. Fat, lazy drops were falling on the canvas. One—two—three, and then a dozen, patting the tent with a soft drumming. Mac sighed. “I hoped it wouldn’t. Now by morning the guys’ll be drowned rats. They won’t have no more spirit than a guinea pig.”

“I’m still going to bed,” the doctor said. He went out and dropped the flaps behind him.

Mac sat down heavily on the coffin. The drumming grew quicker. Outside, the men began calling to one another, and their voices were blurred by the rain. “I don’t suppose there’s a tent in the camp that don’t leak,” said Mac. “Jesus, why can’t we get a break without getting it cancelled out? Why do we always have to take it in the neck—always?”

Jim sat gingerly down on the long box beside him.

“Don’t worry about it, Mac. Sometimes, when a guy gets miserable enough, he’ll fight all the harder. That’s the way it was with me, Mac, when my mother was dying, and she wouldn’t even speak to me. I just got so miserable I’d’ve taken any chance. Don’t you worry about it.”

Mac turned on him. “Catching me up again, are you? I’ll get mad if you show me up too often. Go lie down on the girl’s mattress there. You’ve got a bad arm. It must hurt by now.”

“It burns some, all right.”

“Well, lie down there. See if you can’t get some sleep.” Jim started to protest, and then he went to the mattress on the ground and stretched out on it. The wound throbbed down his arm and across his chest. He heard the rain increase until it swept on the canvas, like a broom. He heard the big drops falling inside the tent, and then, when a place leaked in the center of the tent, he heard the heavy drops splash on the coffin box.

Mac still sat beside it, holding his head in his arms. And London’s eyes, like the sleepless eyes of a lynx, stared and stared at the lamp. The camp was quiet again, and the rain fell steadily, out of a windless sky. It was not very long before Jim fell into a burning sleep. The rain poured down hour after hour. On the tent-pole the lamplight yellowed and dropped to the wick. A blue flame sputtered for a while, and then went out.