who you
are ... all loaded and ready to go."
He swung himself up
onto the buckboard seat with a smooth lithe movement that was
curiously inhuman without being exactly animal. Eggs, bacon, hot
biscuits into the buckboard. Kim swung up beside him, putting his bag
under the seat. The boy jerked the reins and clicked his tongue and
the horse ambled down a red clay road that wound along the bank
of the stream through oaks and elms, maple, and persimmon.
Flint chips glint in
the sun. Kim takes off his jacket and folds it across a crate. He
takes his belt holster and a box of shells out of the Gladstone. The
holster slants slightly backward. While Kim transfers the gun the boy
does not seem to notice. He sits relaxed on the buckboard seat, his
eyes fanning out to both sides. He seems to have no need of talking.
Kim finds the silence and the proximity at once exciting and
unreal, rather like a phantom hard-on, he thinks. The boy reins up
the horse, swings down, and comes back with a beautifully chipped
arrowhead in pink flint. He passes it to Kim without comment. They
crest a little rise from which they can see the valley and the stream
stretching down to the river. The boy points to the farther bank,
which is still shrouded in morning mist.
"When the fog
lifts you can see their fucking church sticking up...The cutoff
to the farmhouse is just ahead, but I guess you'll want to go to the
place on the riverfront."
"You know it?"
"Of course."
The farm was about a
quarter-mile from the river on higher ground and the property line
stretched down to the riverfront. This had been cotton country but
had reverted to subsistence farming. Kim and his father had converted
an old loading shed on the pier to use during the summer since it was
a lot cooler there over the water.
The stream is
widening out. There are marshy ponds on both sides of the road and a
sound of frogs croaking, smell of stagnant water. Flat ground, the
river just ahead. Long low building with a galvanized iron roof:
brady's store. An old man sits on the porch.
"Uncle Kes,
this is Kim Carsons."
The old man speaks
in a dead, dry whisper: "Your hand and your eyes know a lot more
about shootin' than you do. Just learn to stand out of the way."
Now his eyes, old, unbluffed, unreadable, rest on Kim, as if
tracing his outline in the air. "City boy, did you ever see a
dog roll in carrion?"
"Yes sir, I was
tempted to join him, sir."
"Did you ever
see a black snake pretend to be a rattlesnake?"
"Yes sir, he
coiled himself and vibrated the tip of his tail in dry leaves: brrrrrp."
"Kim, if you
had your choice, would you rather be a poisonous snake or a
nonpoisonous snake?"
"Poisonous,
sir, like a green mamba or a spitting cobra."
"Why?"
"I'd feel
safer, sir."
"And that's
your idea of heaven, feeling safer?"
"Yes sir."
"Is a poisonous
snake really safer?"
"Not really in
the long run, but who cares about that? He ust feel real good after
he bites someone."
"Safer?"
"Yes sir. Dead
people are less frightening than live ones, t's a step in the right
direction."
"Young man, I
think you're an assassin."
Along the riverfront
the road is overgrown with weeds and rush that scrape against the
bottom of the buckboard. And there is the shed at the end of the
pier, gleaming white in the sun like a moored ship. Kim opens a heavy
brass padlock. Inside, the shed is paneled in oak and painted
white like a ship's c abin. Two narrow
bunks, side by side to the right of the door, a long bench that runs
along the north wall with a hinged top segmented for storage space. A
table, three stools, a two-burner kerosene stove with shelves above
it and a cabinet under it. A sink with a faucet from a fifty-gallon
drum on the porch. The shed as two doors, one facing the shore, the
other facing the river, and a screened porch. On the south side of
the shed by the porch is a privy with a hinged cover that also serves
as a haman in the Arab style, consisting simply of a bucket and drain
in the floor.
are ... all loaded and ready to go."
He swung himself up
onto the buckboard seat with a smooth lithe movement that was
curiously inhuman without being exactly animal. Eggs, bacon, hot
biscuits into the buckboard. Kim swung up beside him, putting his bag
under the seat. The boy jerked the reins and clicked his tongue and
the horse ambled down a red clay road that wound along the bank
of the stream through oaks and elms, maple, and persimmon.
Flint chips glint in
the sun. Kim takes off his jacket and folds it across a crate. He
takes his belt holster and a box of shells out of the Gladstone. The
holster slants slightly backward. While Kim transfers the gun the boy
does not seem to notice. He sits relaxed on the buckboard seat, his
eyes fanning out to both sides. He seems to have no need of talking.
Kim finds the silence and the proximity at once exciting and
unreal, rather like a phantom hard-on, he thinks. The boy reins up
the horse, swings down, and comes back with a beautifully chipped
arrowhead in pink flint. He passes it to Kim without comment. They
crest a little rise from which they can see the valley and the stream
stretching down to the river. The boy points to the farther bank,
which is still shrouded in morning mist.
"When the fog
lifts you can see their fucking church sticking up...The cutoff
to the farmhouse is just ahead, but I guess you'll want to go to the
place on the riverfront."
"You know it?"
"Of course."
The farm was about a
quarter-mile from the river on higher ground and the property line
stretched down to the riverfront. This had been cotton country but
had reverted to subsistence farming. Kim and his father had converted
an old loading shed on the pier to use during the summer since it was
a lot cooler there over the water.
The stream is
widening out. There are marshy ponds on both sides of the road and a
sound of frogs croaking, smell of stagnant water. Flat ground, the
river just ahead. Long low building with a galvanized iron roof:
brady's store. An old man sits on the porch.
"Uncle Kes,
this is Kim Carsons."
The old man speaks
in a dead, dry whisper: "Your hand and your eyes know a lot more
about shootin' than you do. Just learn to stand out of the way."
Now his eyes, old, unbluffed, unreadable, rest on Kim, as if
tracing his outline in the air. "City boy, did you ever see a
dog roll in carrion?"
"Yes sir, I was
tempted to join him, sir."
"Did you ever
see a black snake pretend to be a rattlesnake?"
"Yes sir, he
coiled himself and vibrated the tip of his tail in dry leaves: brrrrrp."
"Kim, if you
had your choice, would you rather be a poisonous snake or a
nonpoisonous snake?"
"Poisonous,
sir, like a green mamba or a spitting cobra."
"Why?"
"I'd feel
safer, sir."
"And that's
your idea of heaven, feeling safer?"
"Yes sir."
"Is a poisonous
snake really safer?"
"Not really in
the long run, but who cares about that? He ust feel real good after
he bites someone."
"Safer?"
"Yes sir. Dead
people are less frightening than live ones, t's a step in the right
direction."
"Young man, I
think you're an assassin."
Along the riverfront
the road is overgrown with weeds and rush that scrape against the
bottom of the buckboard. And there is the shed at the end of the
pier, gleaming white in the sun like a moored ship. Kim opens a heavy
brass padlock. Inside, the shed is paneled in oak and painted
white like a ship's c abin. Two narrow
bunks, side by side to the right of the door, a long bench that runs
along the north wall with a hinged top segmented for storage space. A
table, three stools, a two-burner kerosene stove with shelves above
it and a cabinet under it. A sink with a faucet from a fifty-gallon
drum on the porch. The shed as two doors, one facing the shore, the
other facing the river, and a screened porch. On the south side of
the shed by the porch is a privy with a hinged cover that also serves
as a haman in the Arab style, consisting simply of a bucket and drain
in the floor.
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