“No, sir!” I said, pretty weakly.
“Well, Benny Judge shot his little sister,” said my father. “Only by the
greatest luck she wasn't killed. As it is she has a bullet in her arm.
Now, mind! I want that rifle.”
Well, I was glad and I was scared stiff, too.
I had left the target rifle on the rocks up by the shanty boat. I began
to shake again because I knew somebody would find the target rifle and
it had my initials on it, and when they found the dead man they would
know I killed him. I guess my teeth chattered. Anyway I couldn't think
of anything at all. I just wished I was dead, because after supper
Father would want the rifle, and I didn't have it, and some one would
find it and I would be hung.
Then Mother saw me shake, and she said, “What's the matter? Are you
cold?”
“Y-y-yes'm,” I said. Well, it wasn't a lie. I was sort of cold.
“Father, the poor child is sick,” Mother said. “See him chatter his
teeth.”
So Father looked at me. “Malaria,” he said. So he asked me if I had been
up to the Slough, because he had been reading in a magazine about Slough
mosquitoes biting you and giving you malaria. I didn't know what to say.
It didn't look good to say I had been up there so near the old shanty
boat, and I didn't like to lie about it, because I was on probation
for getting religion. So I didn't say anything. I just shivered and
chattered my teeth.
“Huh!” my father said. “I knew well enough something was the matter with
that boy when he got religion. He's had this malaria spell coming on.
Put him to bed and give him a big dose of quinine.” And then he said to
me, “Just let me catch you up near that Slough again, understand? Get to
bed, and quick! This family is just one thing after another!”
I got to bed pretty quick and Mother gave me one of the big capsules.
She heated the scorched blanket at the kitchen stove and wrapped me up
in it and put all the bed covers she could find on top of me. I started
to sweat right away. So she said, “If you want anything I'll leave the
door open and you can call me,” and she went down again. She told Father
she guessed I was pretty sick because I looked like it, and all he said
was, “Huh! boys!” And I guessed he was right, and I made up my mind
to live a better and truer life, but I kept thinking of the man we had
killed. I never sweat so much in my life.
All at once the doorbell rang and I sat right up in bed. I thought the
police had come for me. But it wasn't the police; it was something just
as bad--almost. It was old Higgins, the skiff man. He was talking to
Father. He asked him if I had got home all right. So Father said I had,
and I was sick and in bed. Then old Higgins said, “Well, I don't know
what to make of it. Nobody brought my skiff back. Your boy and two other
boys hired it off of me, and when it got late and they didn't bring it
back I got frightened. You ask him where he left my skiff, and if
they lost it somebody's got to pay me back for it.” Well, I was mighty
scared. I guessed Bony had been so scared he had upset the skiff and got
drowned, and maybe me and Swatty would get hung for that, too, though we
did throw rocks at Bony to try to get him to come back. But, anyway, me
and Swatty would have to tell why Bony had gone off in the skiff alone,
and then they would know everything, and take us to jail and hang us. I
crawled down under the covers and pretended to be asleep, but it wasn't
any use, because Father shook me by the shoulder.
“Now, what?” he said, cross. “Here's Higgins, the skiff man, and he says
you hired a skiff and didn't bring it back. What's the meaning of all
this? And are you putting on this malaria on this account? Explain,
young man!”
So I sat up and I said, “Bony took it.”
“Come, now, explain!” my father said.
“Well, we was up the river,” I said, “and me and Swatty and Bony got out
of the skiff and--and we went ashore. So--so--then me and Swatty, we run
down the railroad track a little way and--and when we looked back Bony
was going to get into the skiff, and we hollered for him to wait for us,
but he wouldn't. He got into it and rowed away.”
“And left you there?”
“Yes, sir.”
I guess he didn't believe it. I guess he thought I was just trying to
put it onto Bony, to get out of it myself. He forgot I'd got religion, I
guess. So he snapped his fingers the way he does when he's mad.
“Get out of that bed and get into your clothes and make haste about
it!” he said, and I said, “Yes, sir!” and I got out of bed right away. I
dressed quick.
Mother cried because it was wrong to make a sick boy dress and go over
to Bony's house out of a sweat and I'd catch pneumonia; but I had to
go. So nobody said anything on the way over, except Mr. Higgins tried to
talk about what nice weather we were having, but Father wouldn't talk.
I didn't like to go, because--well, I thought all Bony's folks would be
crying because he was drowned when we got there; but of course if you
think about it, they wouldn't know. So when we got to their house they
weren't crying, but Mr. Booth--he was Bony's father--just come to the
door in his socks and said, “Well, what is it now?” because I was there,
and he knew something was the matter or I wouldn't be there with my
father. So Father said, “Did your son come home?”
“Yes, he come home,” Mr. Booth said, “but he ain't well, and Ma put him
to bed.”
I was glad he wasn't drowned, anyway. Unless he'd told about the dead
man, and then maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if he had been drowned.
So Father and Mr. Higgins told about the skiff, and Mr. Booth sent
Bony's ma to up ask Bony. Pretty soon she came down.
“He's pretty sick,” she said. “He's complaining of pains in his arms and
back and he's shaking like he had the ague; but I hope not, because his
temp'ature ain't high. I guess maybe he caught a chill. And he tied the
skiff under the creek bridge. He left the oars in it. But he shall never
again play with those two boys! Never again! The idea of them running
off and leaving my poor child to row home all alone!”
Well, that was a lie, but I wasn't sore at Bony because he's a coward
and it was better for him to tell a lie like that than to blab about the
dead man. Anyway, a fellow has to tell some lies until he gets religion.
After that it's different.
“So you've been lying to me again!” Father said to me, but I didn't say
anything. Saying it was a lie didn't make it a lie, and all he could do
was lick me, anyway. But he didn't lick me, because he thought maybe
I did have malaria because I'd got religion. I guess that was what he
thought. So Mr. Higgins said, “Never mind, I'll get the skiff, but it
will be about a dollar.” So Father paid him and said he would take it
out of my allowance; but he hardly ever paid me my allowance, anyway,
so that was all right. He just gave me an allowance so he could say he
wouldn't pay it to me, I guess. Anyway, we went home.
Well, I stayed awake for hours, thinking about the murder and what we
had better do about it, but maybe it was only a few minutes, and the
next morning Swatty came over before I was out of bed. He waited for me
in the side yard until I come down.
“Well,” he said, “have you thought of anything to do?”
I hadn't thought of anything except maybe I'd better go to the minister
and tell him all about it. So Swatty said if I did that he would knock
my head off, and I knew he would, if he could.
“Well, have you thought of anything, then?” I asked him.
So he told me he had sat up all night thinking about it. He said he
had paced the floor with his hands behind him and his brow knotted
in thought throughout the still hours of the night until cockcrow. I
thought he was lying, but I didn't tell him so. I told him I went to
sleep, and I told him about Bony and Mr. Higgins. I told him about the
rifle we had left on the rocks. He said that complicated matters, but we
would have to make the best of it.
Then he showed me the braided horsehair bridle he had in his pocket that
his uncle had brought back from Texas, and the wooden tobacco pipe
he had in the other pocket. He said we might have gone to Texas, only
somebody in Texas might recognize the bridle and know it was the one his
uncle had had, and then know him and connect him up with the murder in
the shanty boat, so we would go to Montana or maybe New Mexico. He was
n't sure which we would go to, but that it would be better to start
right away.
Well, I didn't like to leave home and never come back until I was a big
man with a beard, and the murder was forgotten about, but it seemed the
only thing to do. I talked and Swatty talked, and it seemed the only way
we could keep from being hung, because “murder will out,” as it says in
our reader. I only had twenty-five cents that I hadn't paid Mr. Higgins
for the skiff, and Swatty only had fourteen cents. We knew that was
n't nearly enough money. We didn't know what Bony had, but afterward
we found he only had a dime. But Swatty said we could get work to do
in some of the places we would get to, and we could steal green com and
roast it--only he would have to steal it, because it wouldn't be right
for me.
We thought the best thing to do would be to start out of our back gate
and go due west, and keep going west until we came to Montana or New
Mexico, or wherever we got to, only we had to get the rifle first,
because if we left it, it would be evidence against us, and anyway we
might kill some game with it. We had it all fixed up how we would do,
and just then Bony came over the back fence, and we told it all over
again. We didn't think he would go with us, but he said he would.
So we talked it all over, and it wasn't like any other time we had ever
talked anything over. Most times we just talked about running away but
we didn't mean it, but this time it was a mighty serious thing and we
meant it. Other times when we talked we were afraid to run away, but
this time we were afraid not to. It was almost noon when we got ready
to go, and just as we were going Mother saw us and called us back. She
asked me if we were going to the woods, and we were, so I said we
were, and she said we oughtn't to go without lunch, so she made us
sandwiches, and we were glad to have them. I said “Good-bye, Mother,”
and she said “Good-bye, son,” and she didn't know that maybe it was the
last time she'd ever say it to me, but I knew it because maybe she would
grow old and die before I ever came back.
Well, we started off. We didn't talk much--even Swatty didn't. We went
past his barn, and he went in to say good-bye to his dog, but we didn't
dare take him along, because somebody might know us by him, so he whined
and cried when we went away. We didn't say anything much until we got to
the city limits and then Swatty said, “Well, anyway, now the town police
can't touch us, because we are out of town, and they can't touch anybody
out of town”, and Bony began to cry.
But he didn't cry loud--he just sort of sniggered to himself and wiped
his eyes with the back of his hand. I guess maybe I cried, too, but not
very loud, either.
If it hadn't been for being hung I would have gone back, and I would
have told the minister all about killing the man, because I kept
thinking about Mamie Little and that some other boy would play with her
and grow up and marry her, and maybe I'd never see her again, even if he
didn't marry her. Swatty was the only one that didn't cry a little. He
didn't have to, because he let on to be mad at us for being mushies, and
he swore instead. He swore at me and Bony, and I could have kept from
crying, too, if I could have swore, but I couldn't because I gave it up
when I got religion.
After we got beyond the houses that are beyond the city limits we went
across the vacant lots and across the old fair grounds and down over the
hill. We got down to the river road and climbed over the fence and got
under the bob-wire fence on the other side of the road and went through
the cornfield. We forgot about our footprints.
When we got to the edge of the cornfield Bony wouldn't go any farther.
He was scared to go any nearer the dead man. Swatty and me crawled under
the wires and went across the railroad track, and before we were across
them we dodged back into the cut alongside the track, and Swatty dropped
flat in the weeds. So I dropped flat, too. The reason was that there
were eight or ten men on the front deck of the shanty house, and I don't
know how many more inside.
They had found the man we had murdered.
We just lay there and held our breath. I couldn't think of anything, I
was so scared again. I just remembered how “murder will out,” and how
a murderer will always come back to where he murdered anybody, and that
there we were, and that as soon as they saw us they'd know we were the
murderers, because we had come back. I don't know what Swatty was doing,
and I didn't know what I was doing, but I guess as soon as I was able
I-started to try to dig a hole in the railroad embankment with my finger
nails, to crawl into and hide, because that was what I was doing when I
heard the men come up the other side of the embankment.
They were coming up from the shanty boat, and one of the men was saying,
“Steady now! Keep that door level, can't you?” So I couldn't dig any
more. My fingers wouldn't work. My arms and legs felt as if they were
full of cold ice water, and I couldn't lift up my hands to put my hat
on tighter, which I wanted to do because I could feel my hair lifting up
and lifting my hat up. I didn't think about being hung or anything, but
just how awful it would be if the men let the door tip and rolled the
murdered man down on top of us. I guess I ought to have thought of how
innocent I was, but I didn't. I didn't even think of being religious. I
just felt my backbone creep and my hair lift up and my arms and legs get
colder and colder.
We heard the men carrying the dead man away. I couldn't move, and I
guess I would never have dared to move again if it hadn't been for
Swatty. As soon as we couldn't hear the men any more Swatty lifted his
head and crawled up the embankment and looked. I wouldn't have done it
for a million billion quadrillion dollars. He looked, and when he saw
they weren't thinking of us, but were all looking at the dead man on
the door and going away from us down the railroad track he scrabbled up
the rest of the embankment and scrabbled across the track and down the
other side. He was back right away, with the target rifle, and then he
told me to get up and get away from there, but I couldn't get up. So he
kicked me two or three times hard, and when he kicked me on my hip bone
I got mad and forgot to be so scared and got up. We ran through the
cornfield and got Bony, and all three of us got across the road and ran
up the hillside into the woods as hard as we could run.
I don't know how many miles we ran. We ran until we had to fall down
because our legs wouldn't work any more. We sat in the bushes awhile and
rested, and then we went on, but we walked mostly. We only ran once in
a while. We came to a road we didn't know, but it went sort of west;
and we went on down that road a long way and that night we slept in a
haystack--not because it was cold but to be hid. The next morning
we went on again, and before noon we were mighty hungry. Bony was
hungriest, and he cried a lot, and I cried a little, but Swatty was
willing to fight us whenever we wanted to stop and rest too long,
because it wasn't safe yet. We were a long way from Arizona or Montana
or wherever we were going, and it was just about the time the sheriff
and everybody would start out to find us if they thought we were the
murderers. We just plugged along and felt mean and tired, and I thought
about Mother and Mamie Little a lot. I felt so bad I almost didn't care
if they did catch me and hang me. That's the way Bony felt, too, but
Swatty kept us going.
Swatty went up to a house about supper time and asked for some bread and
butter, and he got it and brought part of it to us. Then he made us go
on, because he said we ought to get as far from that house as we could
after we'd been seen there. So we went until I was ready to die, and
we found a hayrick in a field and we were just going to hide in it when
three men on horseback and some in a buggy--two more--came up the road
and saw us and shouted at us.
Well, we knew it was all up. The men started to climb over the fence,
and we walked toward them because we knew we couldn't get away, and it
was just as well to be hung as to be shot trying to run away. I guess it
was the most awful feeling I ever had in my life.
When we got up to them one of the men was Swatty's father and another
was my minister. As soon as Swatty got there his father took him by the
collar of his coat, and shook him and hit him on the side of the head
and told him what he thought of him for running away and making so much
trouble; but when he let go of him Swatty just dropped down on the grass
and shut his eyes, because he was so played out that all he had to
be was shook, and he went unconscious. So Bony started to cry and the
minister said, “Shame!” and then Swatty's father got red in the face,
and dropped on his knees beside Swatty and picked him up and kissed him.
He cried. It was the first time I ever saw a man cry.
So then I guessed I'd confess the whole thing to my minister, and I
did. The other men were all trying to get Swatty to open his eyes and my
minister listened to me. He listened to all of it--all about the murder
and all. Then he put his hand on my shoulder, and he said, “You poor
boy! And you thought I was hunting you down?” And I said, “How long will
it be before they hang us?” And he said, “George, I hope you will never
be hung, because that man wasn't murdered. He was a suicide, and he
wrote a letter about it before he went to do it.” So I started to say
how glad I was and, when I come to, I was at a farmhouse and my minister
was trying to get me to drink some milk.
So after while we went home. Father wasn't there, because he was out
with some other folks hunting for us, but Mother and Fan and a lot of
people were, and my minister told them all about it, and the women all
cried to think of us three all alone with a murder on our minds and our
legs tired, I guess, and not much to eat. But I was so tired I didn't
care. I was so tired I didn't care who was there. I was so tired I was
n't even glad I wasn't a murderer. Then somebody came out from behind
the women where she had been, where they wouldn't notice her much, and
she didn't look at me or anybody. She just said:
“Well, I guess I'll go home now.”
“Why, Mamie Little, have you been waiting up all this while?” my mother
said. “You should be in bed, child.”
So she didn't look at me, and I didn't look at her. She just went home.
But then I knew I was glad I wasn't a murderer. Because I knew that
Mamie Little wouldn't have thought I'd got religion very good if all I'd
got let me go around murdering men in shanty boats. And I didn't want
Mamie Little to think that about me, because--well, I didn't know why, I
just thought it.