Sam got up and let himself out to attend to the team. He gave us a disturbed look as he left. He didn't like it a bit. It was plain on his face in spite of the way he tried to cover it up. And I could see his reasons. If you're making and selling booze in a dry county, there's no surer way of getting yourself in jail than by letting your customers drink it on the premises and get a load on to advertise where they got it. And Sam had a lot of strict, old-fashioned family virtues. He didn't think his home was any place for people to get drunk, but he didn't like to say anything. After all, Lee was a good customer. And, too, the code of hospitality ingrained in men like Sam would never permit him to ask anyone to leave his place. Backwoods people just weren't like that. They might rip your belly open if anything unpleasant started, but they couldn't ask you to leave.

"You're mashing those birds in your pocket," I said. Lee was lying back on the corn with the quail in the game pocket under him.

"The h.e.l.l with the birds. The world is full of birds."

"And I'd better point out another thing. We're wearing out our welcome around here. Fast. Sam makes whisky, but he's not running a bar. We'd better get going."

"I paid him for the rotgut, didn't I? Do I have to ask him where I can drink it?" His face was becoming redder and I could see the stuff working on him.

I didn't say anything.

"Did you ever see such a shape in your life?" he asked.

"Sam? I guess he's not my type."

"Oh, for Christ's sake! You and your G.o.dd.a.m.ned stale jokes. You know who I mean."

"O.K.," I said, "I know who you mean."

"I wonder if she really wants it that bad. Or if she's just dumb."

"Why don't you ask Sam? If you'll just talk a little louder he can hear you."

"Look," he said, setting down the jar and staring at me with disgust. "I'm getting a little sick of hearing about Sam. The sneaky b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Why doesn't he get on with his work and quit spying around here?"

It was getting bad. And I knew there wasn't anything I could do about it. It wasn't his getting ugly, or the fact that he might start trouble with Harley by trying to pick a fight or cursing him or something, that worried me. Sam would probably just charge that off to a bad drunk who couldn't handle his liquor. At least, I hoped he would. But the thing that scared me was Lee's sitting here getting drunker and drunker with that girl inflaming his mind. I'd seen drunks with something on their minds before. Pretty soon, about the time everything else began to close down for him, there'd be nothing left but the girl.

It would be easy to reach over and take the stuff away from him and throw it out the door. They didn't call me Mack Truck for nothing. I thought of doing it and wondered why I didn't, but deep down inside I knew why. It was the thought of facing his ridicule when he sobered up and I had to explain why I'd done it. It would look so silly and old-womanish then. It's funny, I thought, how you're afraid of a lot of things all your life, but the thing you always fear most is ridicule.

In a little while we heard Sam going by outside and then drawing water for the mules.

"Hey, Sam," Lee called. There was no answer. He shouted even louder. "Sam! Come in here!"

He turned and stared intently at me as though trying to fix me in his mind. He frowned and weaved slightly from side to side and you could see he was having trouble bringing me into focus. The stuff was working on him rapidly. He'd only had about six drinks.

"Jesus, but you're a homely b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Where'd you ever get a face like that?"

Maybe it would be easier if I got a little edge on myself, I thought. I reached for the jar and took a drink.

"You ought to take that face out somewhere and bury it. You look like a gorilla. Does it hurt?"

"This is what is known as a good, clean, wholesome face," I said. "I'm a good, clean, wholesome American youth."

"You're a good, clean, wholesome sonofab.i.t.c.h. Always worryin' about something. What're you worryin' about now, Grandma?"

"All right," I said. "I'm always worrying about something."

"But right now. What're you worryin' about right now?"

"Nothing."

"Must be something. You wouldn't be complete without that face and something to worry about."

I didn't say anything. He kept on staring at me owlishly, with that scowl of concentration s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up his face.

"Why don't you worry some more about t.i.tsy out there? Whether she's goin' to throw one of 'em right out through that dress sometime? Or whether she's goin' to get what she's looking for?"

I can see why you get in so many fights, I thought. I can just guess how far you get with that stuff with somebody who doesn't love you for what you are when you're all there.

'Did you ever see anything like it?" he asked. Every time he stopped talking for a minute and then started in again, it was about the same thing.

"Why don't you and Sam take the guns and go off hunting for a while?"

I didn't say anything, so he yelled for Sam again. "Hey, Sam!"

In a minute the door opened and Sam looked in. There was still that uneasiness in his black eyes.

"Sam, you old devil, where you been?" Lee shouted at him. "Come on in and have a drink."

Sam climbed in and squatted down on his heels by the door. Lee kept saying, "You old devil," and "You old b.a.s.t.a.r.d," and holding out the fruit jar. Sam tried to give me one of those knowing and indulgent smiles out of the side of his eyes, the look that two sober people always have between them for a noisy drunk, but it was pretty weak and strained.

"Sam, old boy, old boy, I want to show you the best d.a.m.n shotgun in the United States," Lee said noisily, reaching back on the pile of corn to where he'd thrown the gun. It wasn't until that moment that I remembered that he hadn't unloaded it.

"Yeah, that's a right nice gun, Lee," Sam said politely.

"Right nice! I hope to tell you it's a right nice gun. You can't miss with it. Ask old Plug-Ugly here how many shots I missed with it today. Go on, ask him."

"Yeah," Sam said dutifully. "I sh.o.r.e wisht I could git me one like it. It's right smart of a gun."

"Take it outside and feel the balance of it. Take a shot at something. It's loaded. Say, I'll tell you what. Look, you old boar, I'll tell you what. Why don't you go out and locate a covey and try a couple of shots? Gable here'll go with you. I want you to try it out. I'll just stay here and catch a couple of winks while you're gone."

Sam shook his head regretfully. "I wisht I could, Lee. But it's gettin' close to feedin' time."

"Oh, what the h.e.l.l. It's not late. Go ahead."

"No, but I wisht I could. Mebbe some other time."

Lee's slightly gla.s.sy eyes fastened on his face with a hard stare. "What's the matter, you snoopy b.a.s.t.a.r.d? You afraid to?"

Sam looked at me questioningly and then back to Lee, as though he couldn't make it out. Before I could do anything or say a word, Lee cut loose again.

"Oh, I know what you're up to. You been snoopin' around here the last hour, afraid I might get next to that little b.i.t.c.h. Well, you're not so G.o.dd.a.m.ned smart, mister. She's gettin' plenty of it from somebody, and don't you forget it."

Sam still had the shotgun in his hands. I was afraid to make a sudden move and I knew that any move I made would be too late to do any good anyway. I was watching his eyes and I saw the hot, crazy urgency flooding into them and I could feel the skin on the back of my neck tighten up until it hurt, the way it does when you have a hard chill and it seems like every hair is stabbing you. It was just the way it is when you're skating over deep water when the ice is thin and you hear it start to rumble under you and you try to lift your weight off your feet by sheer will and hold your breath and pray, "Don't let it break. Don't let it break."

He raised the gun slowly and I could hear the ice breaking under all of us, but he was just setting it down in the corner, and he turned his face toward me and the murder was going out of his eyes and there was something hurt in them, a naked and shameful pain that he couldn't hide.

"Sam," I said quietly, and put a hand on his arm. "Come outside a minute."

He nodded dumbly and we went out the small door, leaving Lee cursing behind us. Just before I went out I picked up the gun and took out the two sh.e.l.ls and put them in my pocket and took the ones he had in his coat.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I'm sorry as h.e.l.l," I said as we slowly walked away from the little building, and I was conscious of how futile it was to try to apologize for something like that.

He was silent for a minute and I was afraid he wasn't going to answer. Then he said, "It's all right, Bob. It don't mean nothin'. He's just drunk."

There was still that awful hurt in his eyes and his hands were shaking and I knew he was thinking now of how near he had been to killing a man.

"I'll try to get him away from here. But the best idea is to let him take a few more and he'll pa.s.s out."

"He oughtn't to never drink, Bob."

"I know."

"He jest can't handle it."

"I know."

"Something awful is goin' to happen to that boy someday." He said it quietly and there was regret in his voice.

"I know it, Sam." It was the first time I had ever admitted knowing it, even to myself. I looked down at the ground and aimlessly pushed a piece of oak bark around with the toe of my boot.

"You'll tell him for me, won't you, that I ain't goin' to sell him no more?"

"I'll tell him."

"He oughtn't to have no more, ever. An' I'd rather he didn't come back, nohow."

I didn't say anything and he stood there for a moment, a little embarra.s.sed, and then he said something about feeding and started off. As I stood there watching him I was thinking that there was a lot of man in Sam. If there hadn't been I would have had a brother over there in the corn crib with his guts blown all over seventy bushels of corn.

"Oh, Sam!" I called after him. "I know it's asking a lot, but would you give us a lift out to the highway, where the car is? When he pa.s.ses out, I mean. I can't carry him."

"Well, I'd do it for you, Bob," he said hesitantly, "but my car ain't here. One of the Rucker boys carried Mama and the two little girls to town in it. He left his car here, but it's jest one of them stripdowns. It'll only take two."

I went back to the corn crib and Lee was still sitting there where we had left him. He had the dead, vacant stare of the very drunk.

"Well," he said. "It's my handsome brother." He said "hansshm," so I guessed that's what he meant. He was back on my beauty again.

"You've really played h.e.l.l this time," I told him.

"Jeesus, but you're a homely b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

It's like being on a merry-go-round, I thought.

"Sam can't take us out to the car. His car's not here. All he's got is some kid's stripdown."

"I'll say she's stripped down."

It wasn't any use. We were just going to keep on playing the same records over and over.

"Let's worry about something."

"Go to h.e.l.l," I said.

I thought about this morning when everything was so bright and fresh and cold and old Mike was holding firm close over the birds, and Lee was Lee and everything was perfect. Oh, h.e.l.l, I thought.

"Why don't you have a drink?" I asked. If he'd only go on and pa.s.s out.

"You want to get me drunk so you can get it."

It's funny, I thought, how they can fix their minds on only one thing.

He took another drink, though. When he put down the jar, which was nearly empty now, it fell over and the rest of the moonshine ran through a crack in the floor He lay back on the corn after a while and closed his eyes "Horses," he muttered.

I sat down and took out a cigarette. "What about horses?"

I don't know whether he heard me or not. He seemed to be asleep, but he muttered stupidly now and then "Sharon liked the horses. Horsh is a n.o.ble anim'l."

I sat there moodily smoking the cigarette, being very careful not to start a fire in the corn.

"Poor Sharon. Always hav'n arms twisted. Twists h'r arms."

"Who does? The horse?" Certainly a brilliant conversation, I thought.

"No."

He didn't say anything more and I sat there and watched him for five minutes and he didn't move. It was sooner than I had expected. He usually didn't pa.s.s out so quickly. But then, I thought, it hasn't been much over an hour and a half, but he's drunk nearly a quart of the stuff.

I went outside and found Sam.

"He's gone to sleep," I said. "Pa.s.sed out."

He nodded.

"I'm going out to the highway and get the car. I'll come back and pick him up. "

"That's a long ways," he said thoughtfully.

"Two or three miles."

He didn't say anything else, but walked over toward the corn crib. I went with him, and he opened the door and looked in at Lee, who was sleeping noisily, with his mouth open. There was something queer about it, but I couldn't quite place it. He hadn't moved.

"I'll drive you out to your car, Bob," Sam offered. "It's too fur to walk."

"That's fine, Sam," I said. "I appreciate it."

He pushed the stripdown out of the garage and cranked it. I climbed up with him and we started down the lane. As we went out through the wire gate I saw Angelina come out of the house with a milk bucket.

The car was just a cha.s.sis with an old seat cushion thrown on top of the gasoline tank. It was an old Ford, and there weren't any fenders on it or any hood, just the bare essentials. I could see what Sam had meant by not being able to haul a pa.s.sed-out drunk. It was all we could do to stay on it ourselves.