7

THE PIG OF THE MAYOR

I limped back and gingerly picked up that big German pistol. In Wyoming, old Jake had taught me about guns. This German pistol wasn’t much different from an American automatic, except that the muzzle was longer.

The thing was loaded. I saw that.

I skinned through the door, starting across the long bare stretch of meadowland to the stone wall. I had the feeling that German was somewhere in the house, right now, watching me. I’d whirl—but, no—I didn’t see anyone. The ruins of the place were unchanging, gaunt and huge, not a sign of anybody.

Clouds had swept across part of the sky, hiding the sun. The wind came up, blowing the leaves in the trees beyond, rattling the branches and ruffling the long grass behind me exactly as if a man was crawling along, quiet and careful, not wanting to be seen.

The weeks I’d practiced walking came in helpful now. Probably being scared clear down to the bone helped too, the fear pouring along through the muscles and temporarily making me forget my bum leg.

I flung myself over the stone wall, panting, landing on the bad leg. I felt the jab of pain as I landed. I squatted on the grass, turning my head back and forth, hanging on to that loaded pistol, determined to let blaze with it at the first sign of someone.

Everything came back to me now, about Monsieur Simonis in Paris, meeting him on the train. The police must have been wrong. Monsieur Simonis probably had followed me as far as St. Chamant. Now he was hiding in the ruins of la maison de ma mère and this could be his gun.

I don’t know how long I crouched against the stone wall. You’ve seen animals, small ones, when they’re scared? Some of them will halt instead of running and try to burrow into the ground. That always had puzzled me, why they did that instead of trying to escape—but now I understood. I had the same impulse. It seemed to me that I couldn’t move.

I forced myself to crawl away from the wall. I had to get to le village. I found I’d lost my way to the lane down the mountain. Ahead of me was nothing but the dark forest. The moving shadows of clouds passed along the meadow and the ruins. Over toward the east, in the brambles growing to one side of the ruins, it seemed to me as if something had moved—and dropped—and was wriggling toward the wall.

I gave a jump. I snaked through underbrush, crashing away, with the branches reaching for me, trying to grab at me as if they were the long dry fingers of Monsieur Simonis. The land began to slope. The trees became thicker.

I ran into a tree and stopped, winded, my leg hurting more. I laid flat, hanging on to the pistol. The leg was throbbing. It was like having a charley-horse—you know how that is, an awful sort of cramp.

Presently, I heard a rustling from behind me.

The brambles and long green grass were dense, like moving screens. The rustling came again, louder. I hugged the ground, about paralyzed. For a moment everything was silent, the way a silence comes into a forest. You hear little sounds, the birds, perhaps a chipmunk. In between there isn’t anything except perhaps the wind—and all that, somehow, makes a bigger silence than ever, a sort of lonely silence. Next, the rustle was there once more, off through the brambles, exactly as if some tall big thing was crawling forward on hands and knees.

In a minute or so I expected to see Monsieur Simonis’ white head thrust itself through the bushes, his teeth grinning at me, with a hand reaching out for me. I hauled up the German pistol. I’d forgotten the cramp in my leg. I dragged to another tree and from there limped to a second tree, zig-zag style. It was as though everything in the forest was watching and holding its breath and looking to see if I was going to be nabbed by the Germans tracking after me.

By now I recognized there wasn’t any chance of it being my imagination, either. Every time I halted, straining my ears, by and by, I’d catch a sound of something soft, sliding closer and closer to me through the brush under the trees. The branches overhead were so thick they shut out a lot of light. It was gloomy here, with the ground all slanting, uneven, hidden by brush, the trees high and dark like pillars in some enormous old church.

The next minute I saw a dark thick shape about twenty yards away, above me, on the slope. I shoved my pistol forward—I said, “Don’t move another step or I’ll shoot!” It had the great enormous head of a man, peering at me. I pulled the trigger.

The pistol didn’t go off. I’d forgotten it was an automatic and that you had to jerk the slide back to cock the trigger. I just stood, holding that pistol.

The thing came on through the bushes. When I saw what it was all the tension broke. I was so relieved and weak I laughed in a silly fashion and lowered the pistol and had to lean against a tree to keep from falling.

It was the same French pig I’d seen a few weeks ago in the rue—the one to whom I’d called, the one that hadn’t noticed me. It was a well-fed pig standing a little higher than my knees. It had a long bristly snout, and tiny eyes. Looking at it head on, in a way it did resemble a man crawling on his hands and knees. Now the pig gave me a glance. It marched toward me, showing its fangs. I moved backwards—tripped—fell. The pig shoved its snout against the roots of the tree, where I’d been standing, and began to push at the dirt, no longer interested in me.

I got up. I wiped dirt off the pistol, slipping the pistol through my belt and pulling my jacket down. I started moving off when from somewhere behind the trees a man’s voice sounded, “Oh, Hippolyte! Où es tu? Où es tu?”

I stopped. That was a French voice. I figured if a Frenchman was up here I’d be safer with company. I started shivering again, waiting for whoever it was to come. In about four minutes Monsieur Capedulocque pushed his way through the bushes, halting when he saw me, scowling. He was wearing a corduroy coat hanging nearly to his knees, with enormous pockets. Today he had wooden shoes stuffed with straw to keep his ankles warm instead of the black leather shoes he usually wore in le village.

Even if it was the mayor of St. Chamant, I can’t tell you how glad I was to see him. I ran to him and gestured and signed to him, trying to explain a German was hiding roundabouts and I wanted protection. We had to go to le village at once. That mayor never did understand me. I was nearly frantic, too. He considered it was—the pig I was scared of.

That pig of his must have meant a lot to him, because he took it as an insult that I’d allowed myself to be scared of his pig. He grabbed on to my arm, scowling all the time, pointing to the pig, saying, “Hippolyte est un bon cochon, un bon cochon!”

Meanwhile the pig—cochon, in French—had rooted up something. That cochon wriggled its little twisty tail. It turned around. Like a trained dog, it trotted over to the mayor. It had something in his mouth, something round and dark, about half as big as a baseball.

Still hanging on to my arm, the mayor took the thing from the cochon’s mouth and thrust it at me. “Truffe,” he said crossly. “Truffe,” he said again, very loudly, the way people do when they think you don’t understand them. Then he let go of my arm and hoisted his sack from his shoulders and dropped this truffe into the sack and snapped his fingers at the cochon and again started up the mountain, as if he didn’t care what happened to me.

With sinking heart I watched the mayor vanish, leaving me alone, lost, not having any idea of how to get down to le village. Later on I learned about truffes—I discovered they were a kind of fungus that grew on oak roots only in this part of the world. They were immensely valuable, cherished as a delicacy by restaurants and the mayor had made a sizable fortune before the war with his cochons—yes, cochons, trained to root up these truffes for him just the way you might train hunting dogs to track down birds.

But at this time, all this was a mystery to me. It made me more addled than ever. In a few minutes the forest once more was empty. The mayor and that cochon of his had gone—and, it seemed I might have dreamed what had happened. They hadn’t been there. Again, I was alone. Somewhere, hiding, watching me, that German was waiting to tackle me.

The fear came, greater than before.

I struck straight through the forest, knowing enough at least to follow the slope of land downwards when I was lost. My leg was causing me more trouble, too. Even with all the time I’d spent strengthening it, my leg wasn’t ready for a couple of mountain miles at the speed I was attempting, floundering through brush, panting, sweat in my eyes, the panic surging over me more and more.

It must have been close to three in the afternoon, along toward the time mon oncle would be expecting me to return. I was going more slowly—I couldn’t go fast as I wanted on account of the pain shooting through my leg. The forest got gloomier and gloomier. Pretty soon I came upon a little creek, sparkling away, clear as glass.

I fell into the thick grass and drank from the water and rested a minute, feeling dizzy. I was about done for. In a few minutes I found I could open my eyes without having the trees move around in a big dizzy circle. I drank a little more water. I shoved my hands against the moss to push me up. I couldn’t wait here. I had to go. I had to reach le village before that German found me.

As I unsteadily heaved myself back on my legs again, I heard yells through the trees. Those yells seemed to nail into me. It was like being frozen suddenly in a cake of ice. I was caught. I knew I was caught. The yells came more plainly; they sounded like, “Va-hoo! Va-hoo!”

Now I decided I was crazy, out of my mind. I staggered a little forward to reach a tree, hoping to hide behind it. If I’d been home I would have known what those yells were from: They would have been yells from live Indians or from somebody playing at Indians. However, I knew as well as anyone one thing France didn’t have was live Indians. No German tracking after me was going to lift up such a commotion by shouting those yells.

I waited, getting my breath, feeling for the pistol in my belt, while those yells continued. Something came crackling and shoving through the bush. A second later and I’m hanged if an arrow didn’t wobble out from the bushes and plunk against the tree to fall at my feet!

I say it was an arrow. It was the most unlikely looking arrow I ever did see. It was crooked. It didn’t have any proper feathers at the tip. The point was a small lump of wet mud. An arrow like that couldn’t shoot dust. I felt sorry for whoever made such an arrow. The surprise almost drove from my head the panic I’d had about being tracked by a German. No German ever manufactured such a mean, unhappy arrow as that. I wasn’t so scared that I didn’t know that much.

As I was watching, the bushes parted. A boy about my age, stockier and heavier possibly, and not quite as tall, came out into the clearing. He saw me. He gaped at me and stopped dead.

He had red hair. It was violent red hair. It was the reddest hair ever to exist, I think. He had a freckled face and blue eyes and a wide mouth and the rest of him was covered with one of those ratty old sweaters I’ve seen Frenchmen wearing, the bottom so long it came almost down to his knees. He had patched baggy trousers and no stockings or socks. In his hand he had what I suppose he thought was a bow. It was no more than a stick with a piece of string tied to the ends. Any boy back home in Wyoming could have constructed in one minute, with his eyes closed, a better bow than that. Any boy at home would rather have been dead than be seen with a bow like that one.

He took a breath. He advanced, pointing to his arrow I was holding. He reeled off a whole flow of words, ending by putting his hand to his mouth and shouting, “Va-hoo, Va-hoo,” like as if he actually thought he was an Indian over here in France and probably expected me to fall over on my back in mortal terror.

While he was jumping around in that silly style, the bushes opened again. This time a girl came out. She had red hair, too, but its color wasn’t such a violent red as the boy’s. Where his was an orange-red, hers was more a brownish-red. It hung down long, old-fashioned style. Some leaves were caught in it, and a piece of bark, too, from where she’d passed under the trees.

When she noticed me, she stopped quick. She gave her head a shake. She snatched away the leaves, trying hastily to smooth her hair the way girls probably do anywhere in the world the instant they think anyone’s looking at them.

Her brother stopped dancing. He aimed his arrow at me. He said, “Peau-rouge,” a couple of times. That was too deep for me.

The sun was sliding down the sky and the light was dimming. I had the sense once more of something waiting and watching me, and I didn’t want to be stuck up here with a French boy and a French girl and get caught by a German. After the first surprise of finding them the astonishment wore off and I became more anxious. I started down the montagne. The boy and girl came along with me. I said, impatiently, “Look, I need help,” even though I knew it wouldn’t do any good to try to talk to them. I was desperate.

I was afraid I was lost.

“German,” I said. “German!” and pointed.

That didn’t catch any fish either.

The boy stopped. He scratched his head perplexed while the girl calmly looked on as if she considered all boys were strange articles and she’d been taught to put up with them and not complain.

Finally the boy pointed to himself. “Charles,” he said. “Charles Meilhac.” He pointed to the girl. “Suzanne Meilhac.” He waited.

It was like having a great illumination break through the forest. I should have realized sooner. This was Charles Meilhac! The boy mon oncle had told me about! He could be a friend. He could be somebody who might help after all. I grabbed him in my excitement and he didn’t know what to make of it. I shouted a couple of times, “Jean! Jean Littlehorn!” pointing to myself.

Then Suzanne understood. She became excited. “Jean Littlehorn!” she exclaimed. “Tu est le neveu de Paul Langres! Ah!” She snatched at her brother’s sleeve and jabbered at him. Charles’ freckled face seemed to open. His eyes became blue as the sky. He laughed and danced around me and shouted and was pleased and I guessed he’d heard about me from somebody.

Then I worked back to what I was trying to say. I said, “German—” and realized that didn’t make sense to them, so I said, “Nazi!” and that was a word they both understood. “Nazi!” I said again, pointing.

They nodded. Charles solemnly said, “Oui, un Nazi,” and looked ferocious and took hold of his bow and arrow and began stealing around the clearing, as if he were an Indian looking for a Nazi.

Well, I could nearly have cried out of vexation. Yes—they had understood when I’d said, “Nazi.” But they had been playing at Indian and now they figured I was playing along with them, playing we were all Indians—peaurouges, in French—and we were hunting Nazis!

The sweat sprung from me. I could imagine us all walking square into that grinning Monsieur Simonis before any of us ever had a chance to get to le village for help. The afternoon was waning. It grew darker. I asked at last, “Où est le village de St. Chamant?”

Probably they thought it was time to quit playing and I wanted to go home.

Charles pointed southwards, through the trees. “Là.”

It was wrong of me, I know, but I didn’t let on I understood, because I wanted their company all the way to le village. Finally he took my arm and showed all his white teeth in the friendliest smile imaginable, as if he’d forgotten ten minutes ago he was an Indian trying to hunt a play-Nazi. He indicated he’d go along with me to St. Chamant. Nothing could have pleased me more. His sister followed after us. He stopped. He motioned her back and ordered, “Suzanne, reste là!” Well, that order was clear enough to be luminous.

She answered back, “Non, je viens avec Jean et toi.” She was saying to Charles, “No, I come with John and you.” “Toi” wasn’t anything more than “you,” and “moi” was me.

“Viens,” Charles told me, and marched off.

I did as he told me: I came.

Suzanne repeated, “Je viens avec toi et Jean,” and came along, too, just as she said she was going to do. That “viens” was easy as falling off a log, nothing to it—“come”—“I come with you and Jean” was what she’d said.

When we happened to enter another montagne clearing, Charles suddenly halted and pulled me back. I thought it was the German, sure enough. “Sh-h,” he whispered. He motioned to Suzanne and said, “Viens,” and waited until she’d done as he told her to do, and had to come to us. She sat down quietly between us. “Tu vois?” he asked, meaning, “You see?” and pointed through the bushes in front of us toward the clearing.

On the other side of the clearing was a fat rabbit. It was bigger and rounder than our own rabbits. At the same time it wasn’t as big as our jack-rabbits. Charles whispered, “Nazi,” to me, smacking his lips as if he was confusing Nazis and Indians and cannibals in his mind. He rubbed his stomach hungrily. He said, “Très bon. Très bon.” He crept forward, fixing his arrow. He meant to get that rabbit.

Now, with everything else pressing in my mind I wouldn’t have thought another second about that furry rabbit if I hadn’t happened to glance at Suzanne. She was regarding that rabbit as intently as if she hadn’t eaten for weeks and was seeing a whole Sunday dinner before her.

The hollows under her cheeks showed. She stretched out her skinny arms without realizing what she was doing, wanting to grab that rabbit. I sighted at Charles. He was going forward with the same intentness. It might be, for my benefit, he was pretending he was an Indian shooting—but it was more than that to him. That rabbit meant food.

I’d heard how the French had starved during the war and how poor they were now, with very little food. But this was the first time I actually had it brought up smack to me how important food was to these people. Charles took another step, getting closer, the rabbit staying where it was, wriggling its ears. I found I was becoming just as interested and intent on what Charles was doing as Suzanne was. I wanted him to get that rabbit.

Of course, I should have realized he never had a chance—and so should he and Suzanne. He lifted his little bow and shot the arrow. It wobbled across the clearing. Before it was halfway across, the rabbit took notice of it and without any great hurry ducked into the bushes. The arrow hit against a tree, over six feet to the left of where the rabbit had been. The arrow broke. Suzanne made a sad little cry. “Oh, Charles,” she said. That was all. She clenched her fists tightly together and twisted her head away so nobody could see her face.

Charles stood. He threw down his bow. It wasn’t ever a good one, anyway, but he must have cherished that bow and thought a lot of it—and it showed how crushed he was for him to throw it away. He made an effort to smile. He went to his sister, giving her a clumsy sort of half punch and half pat. She rubbed her eyes with her knuckles, with a queer embarrassed look at me. Charles shrugged his shoulders. “Eh bien,” he said. I didn’t know what that meant; I didn’t have to. He’d lost a good supper.

He nodded at me. “Viens,” he said wearily.

Even as he spoke, that blasted rabbit again poked its head from the bushes. It wriggled its ears. It ducked back in. All three of us considered each other. I think, for a minute, I was just as sorry and disappointed as Charles and Suzanne were. That rabbit acted like it was taunting us. We saw another group of bushes move, off by the tree, as the rabbit passed under them.

I don’t know what came into me. I don’t want anyone to tease me and say I was showing off in front of Suzanne, because I wasn’t—at least, not this time.

I was sorry for both of them. On an impulse I pulled out that big German pistol from under my jacket. Charles’ eyes opened. “Oh!” he gasped.

Suzanne stepped back. “Un gangster!” she exclaimed. Maybe I ought to tell you that because of our American movies Frenchmen have the idea America is filled with gangsters and Indians and cowboys and movie stars and nobody else and the word for “gangster” in French is precisely what we have. Any other time I might have laughed.

I went after that rabbit with the big pistol. I could see the movement of the bushes. It was like shooting a coyote in chaparral. I lifted the pistol and cocked it, this time. I waited. I aimed low down on the bushes. The next time the bushes rustled—I pulled the trigger.

There was an almighty bang from the pistol. It had a tremendous kick. It nearly knocked itself out of my hand. Suzanne yelped. After her yelp, that rabbit in the bushes made the oddest sound ever to come from a rabbit. It let go with a grunt. After a grunt it squealed. It continued to squeal and it was still squealing, only not as loud, when it staggered out from the bushes and laid down in the clearing and stopped moving. Charles took one look at it. He put his hands to his head, rocking his head back and forth as if he’d become afflicted by a sudden splitting headache. “Ai! Ai!” he groaned.

Suzanne ran into the clearing. She looked down at what I had shot. She had eyes big as saucers. “Ah! Ah!” she exclaimed, absolutely horrified. “C’est le cochon de Monsieur Capedulocque!”

And so it was.

Instead of shooting a rabbit for Charles’ and Suzanne’s supper I’d gone and let fly at that conceited, trained, truffe-hunting pig belonging to the mayor of St. Chamant. I wanted to sink right down through the earth and never viens up again.

Suzanne gasped, “Oh, j’ai peur. J’ai peur.”

Charles had one more look at the pig and muttered, “Moi, aussi. J’ai peur. J’ai peur.”

I didn’t know what that “J’ai peur” meant, but from the way they said it anyone could see they were nearly scared to death. A mayor of a French village is an important object in France, much more important than in our own towns. I wasn’t happy, myself. I was scared, too; and if “J’ai peur” meant “I’m scared,” that was what I was, aussi. A lot. Afterwards I learned it almost meant that. Only the French say, “I have fear” instead of “I am afraid.” “Je” was “I” and “ai” was “have” and “peur” was “fear”; and when Charles was saying, “J’ai peur,” he was saying, “I’ve fear.” But right then I didn’t take time to do any cyphering of what he was saying.

Charles pulled my arm. “Viens!” he said, and ran across the clearing, Suzanne following. “Viens!” they called. “Viens vite! Vite!” You didn’t have to hear that “Vite!” more than once to know it meant “quick!” And, je viens vite, too. But not vite enough. Before I reached them Monsieur Capedulocque stepped through the bushes and saw his dead cochon and began to roar at us and groan and tear at his whisper with his hands.