Through Darkest America-Extended Version by Neal Barrett Jr Page A
Authors: Neal Barrett Jr
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easily start their own war right there. They took what Jeffers would give them for the War Tax and went on their way.
There were similar incidents at other ranches. Word got around about what had happened at the Jeffers place and no one was too happy about it. The troopers soon realized they'd made a big mistake backing down once. They were being run off farms now before they got started. And no one was sending anything to the war they didn't want to.
The officer in charge of the troopers was sent back to town and another took his place. The same night that happened Howie and Papa stood out on the porch and watched a red glow light the southern horizon.
"Jess Clayton's place," Papa said soberly. "Can't be anywhere else."
He didn't say anything more, but he stood and watched the fire a long time, and after Howie went to bed he heard Papa and his mother talking. Around midnight, Papa took off walking toward the Claytons.
It was late morning before he came back, and sometime after that before he got around to telling what had happened. Jess Clayton's house and barn were gone. Burned to the ground. Nearly everything he had had been taken off— food and stock alike. Enough to make up for what Clayton's neighbors had held back, it was said. And if any others cared to argue about the War Tax—why, they'd get the same. The country had to come first, now. There was no time for greed and personal wants with good men starving and dying-in the west, while farmers stayed snug and happy back here.
That was what the new officer had told Jess Clayton's wife and his boys, Papa said. And he'd told them all this while he made them stand and watch Clayton being hung from a big oak right on his own front yard, where he could see his home being put to the torch. Next to that, the worst thing was that the man who'd done all this was Colonel Jacob himself—who'd grown up right on the land with Jess Clayton and Papa and most of the others.
Papa told that part last. He hadn't wanted Howie's mother to know at all, but it wasn't something you could keep to yourself, he told her, not with the whole county likely to explode over what had happened.
He told it all quietly, without raising his voice or letting his face change at all. And Howie's mother just listened, the dark hair partly hiding her eyes, the small white hands folded tightly in her lap.
And to Howie, that was the worst part of all—to see them both knowing what the other was thinking and not wanting to let anything show. He'd learned that people did that when they had something on their minds so strong they couldn't bring it out in words, or even let it show through their eyes.
If his mother had cried and Papa had pounded something with his fist, it wouldn't have been nearly as bad. As it was, Howie went to bed scared for the first time he could remember.
Chapter Eight
H e came up from the field by the woods to the back of the house. The last of the mares Papa needed were hobbled between him and old Jaro and causing no trouble for a change. It was a lot easier to bring stock up near the house than it was to drive them back down. They were curious about people and the things they did, and when their attention was on something they forgot about causing mischief.
"You'd think December was here 'stead of near April," grumbled Jaro . He pulled his jacket about spare shoulders and cast a despairing look at the sky.
"Yeah," Howie agreed, "you would." It was true enough; spring had gone back into hiding for the moment. Gray clouds hugged the ground, dragging a light, chilling rain behind them. Just wet and cold enough to bring a fine ache to your bones before you knew it.
Howie left Jaro to pen the stock and walked to the barn for feed. At least, he decided, the weather fit the day. A lazy morning with the sun bringing green out of the earth wouldn't have seemed right—not with all the somber faces around.
Jess Clayton's hanging had started it all. Papa held a meeting, and a
There were similar incidents at other ranches. Word got around about what had happened at the Jeffers place and no one was too happy about it. The troopers soon realized they'd made a big mistake backing down once. They were being run off farms now before they got started. And no one was sending anything to the war they didn't want to.
The officer in charge of the troopers was sent back to town and another took his place. The same night that happened Howie and Papa stood out on the porch and watched a red glow light the southern horizon.
"Jess Clayton's place," Papa said soberly. "Can't be anywhere else."
He didn't say anything more, but he stood and watched the fire a long time, and after Howie went to bed he heard Papa and his mother talking. Around midnight, Papa took off walking toward the Claytons.
It was late morning before he came back, and sometime after that before he got around to telling what had happened. Jess Clayton's house and barn were gone. Burned to the ground. Nearly everything he had had been taken off— food and stock alike. Enough to make up for what Clayton's neighbors had held back, it was said. And if any others cared to argue about the War Tax—why, they'd get the same. The country had to come first, now. There was no time for greed and personal wants with good men starving and dying-in the west, while farmers stayed snug and happy back here.
That was what the new officer had told Jess Clayton's wife and his boys, Papa said. And he'd told them all this while he made them stand and watch Clayton being hung from a big oak right on his own front yard, where he could see his home being put to the torch. Next to that, the worst thing was that the man who'd done all this was Colonel Jacob himself—who'd grown up right on the land with Jess Clayton and Papa and most of the others.
Papa told that part last. He hadn't wanted Howie's mother to know at all, but it wasn't something you could keep to yourself, he told her, not with the whole county likely to explode over what had happened.
He told it all quietly, without raising his voice or letting his face change at all. And Howie's mother just listened, the dark hair partly hiding her eyes, the small white hands folded tightly in her lap.
And to Howie, that was the worst part of all—to see them both knowing what the other was thinking and not wanting to let anything show. He'd learned that people did that when they had something on their minds so strong they couldn't bring it out in words, or even let it show through their eyes.
If his mother had cried and Papa had pounded something with his fist, it wouldn't have been nearly as bad. As it was, Howie went to bed scared for the first time he could remember.
Chapter Eight
H e came up from the field by the woods to the back of the house. The last of the mares Papa needed were hobbled between him and old Jaro and causing no trouble for a change. It was a lot easier to bring stock up near the house than it was to drive them back down. They were curious about people and the things they did, and when their attention was on something they forgot about causing mischief.
"You'd think December was here 'stead of near April," grumbled Jaro . He pulled his jacket about spare shoulders and cast a despairing look at the sky.
"Yeah," Howie agreed, "you would." It was true enough; spring had gone back into hiding for the moment. Gray clouds hugged the ground, dragging a light, chilling rain behind them. Just wet and cold enough to bring a fine ache to your bones before you knew it.
Howie left Jaro to pen the stock and walked to the barn for feed. At least, he decided, the weather fit the day. A lazy morning with the sun bringing green out of the earth wouldn't have seemed right—not with all the somber faces around.
Jess Clayton's hanging had started it all. Papa held a meeting, and a
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