HOW big the dark room seemed to John when he went to bed alone. Sometimes at night when Granpap and Basil and Kirk were away the boy wanted to climb in with Emma and Bonnie instead of going to his own place. But he had his code about what a man could rightly do. He would betray himself and his code if he went back to sleeping with the women. And Kirk, who had begun to let John tag along on occasions, would once more think of him as belonging with them. So each night when the others were away John lay alone on his straw bed until he fell asleep or until Basil or Kirk arrived. Sometimes the fleas kept him awake. Recently they had been worse, because on the evenings when Granpap was not expected John took Georgy in to sleep with him.
The night that Kirk and Basil went to meet Granpap John shut Georgy out. He could hear the pup whining at the door. Now he was sorry he had kept him in the bed at all. For the fleas were very bad, and he was afraid Granpap would complain about them to Emma. He did not want the others to know he had kept the dog with him. Of course if they did find out he would not be ashamed before them. He would do as Kirk had done that morning when Basil tattled. He would say he had a right and stand up to what he had done.
Since he had joined the church and even before that Basil would creep around being sorry and ashamed if he had done anything he felt to be wrong, like taking a swallow of drink down his gullet. An example of this was the thing Basil had done that very morning. The night before, as John knew from listening, Kirk and Basil had come home drunk from the small still. Kirk was giggling as he stumbled around John’s bed, and Basil was angrily trying to quiet him. He was anxious for Emma not to know. Yet in the morning he repented and accused Kirk of having tempted him to the drink. And what did he do but go and tell Emma all about it, so she, a woman, had to know about Kirk, too.
Sometimes, big and strong as he was, Basil seemed almost like a woman. And John felt contemptuous of women and of any kind of womanish ways in a man. He was tired of having Bonnie hang around. Two days before he and Basil and Kirk had found it necessary to slip off from her, so they could go hunting.
The boys had taken two guns, Granpap’s and Jim McClure’s, and gone out to shoot the cotton tails off rabbits. If a man could hit the round white spot that was a rabbit’s tail while the little animal was leaping ahead through the woods, he was put down as a fine shot. And he could wear the tail on his hat, or give it to his girl. But the trip had been useless. One or the other of the boys should have proved himself. And they both missed. Granpap would have succeeded, for like his father Granpap was a fine shot. There was a story about Granpap’s father. Once when squirrels were as plentiful as chestnuts in season through the hills, Granpap’s father had seen about forty of them swimming the old South Fork single file with their tails high up; one tail right after the other above the water. He had stood on the bank and blown their tails off with one single shot from his gun.
In a half-sleep dream John saw all the fleas that were biting him lined up in a row. He took the gun from the wall and with one shot killed them all. And Granpap said, “For that, you can have the gun.” Georgy woke him out of the dream, and he cried out “Shet up” for the hundredth time. He turned over and pulled the quilt up to keep out the cool night mist that came in through the wide cracks between the logs. He must have slept heavily when he did get to sleep for he woke to hear Kirk talking. The boys were already in bed. John felt over in his bed for Granpap, but the place was empty.
“Yes, you do,” Kirk said very loud to Basil. “You want to slobber out your misery on some woman’s breast. If it ain’t Ma it’s Minnie Hawkins.”
“You say that because you want Minnie yourself.” Basil’s voice was harsh and ugly.
“If I want Minnie I’ll get her, you God damned baby.”
Basil’s voice rose up in a kind of quaver. “You call me that and blaspheme God. Ye can’t do hit.”
There was a sickening thud of a blow—then another. John raised on his elbow and stared into the room. He could see nothing. But he could hear. He heard the two over in the other bed straining at each other. They sent short panting breaths into the room. John’s elbow trembled under him. He sat up straight in the bed. The sweaty bodies struggling in the other corner creaked against each other. They made a sharp sound like crickets chirping. And every few moments came that other sound of a fist against a body. Both the boys were cursing. The words came singly as if they were forced from the mouths along with the breath. Then it seemed that the breath was gone, for there was silence except for the continual sound of the bodies scraping against each other. This half silence when there seemed no breath in the room lasted for a moment. At the end of that moment the bodies crashed onto the floor. A grunt came from one of them as if a last breath had gone out of a body with a heavy sob.
“John,” Basil’s voice said. “Call Ma. Get the lamp.”
Emma was already up, with her skirt on over her cotton “body.”
“Can’t they ever stop this quarreling?” she said leaning over to get a scrap of paper lit at the fire. The paper flamed up weakly then shrivelled and died out. John took another piece from Emma’s hand and lit the lamp.
Emma held the lamp in both hands. John knew why she did this. When he had touched her back there he had felt her hand tremble. He ran ahead into the other room. Emma was soon there. The light came down from the lamp and spread across the floor at the place where Kirk lay. He was lying with one cheek flat on the floor. His fair hair shone in the light except at the back where there was a black stain. Basil stood by the bed. He looked at Emma and Emma looked at him.
“He cursed God, Ma,” Basil said.
Emma walked swiftly to Kirk and set the lamp on the floor beside him.
“Bring a pan of water,” she said to John. She lifted Kirk’s head in her arm. It hung back like a young baby’s and Emma shifted her arm to bring it up further. With her left hand she felt the wet spot. Blood seeped down on her bare arm, but she made her fingers go further into the hair, feeling the scalp. The bone was sound.
John put the washpan of water by Emma.
“Now hand me a quilt and hold the lamp high,” Emma told him. Basil wanted to be of use. He lifted the quilt from his bed and held it out to his mother.
“Fold it up,” Emma said sharply, “and lay it on the floor.” When Basil had done this and stepped back, she laid Kirk’s cheek carefully against the quilt. Bending her head and lifting her arms, she slipped off the coarse shift. Her back was to John, but Basil, standing in the shadow, saw his mother’s naked breasts and he felt ashamed for her. Emma did not seem to care. She bit into the shift and tore the cloth lengthwise. The noise of the tearing startled John. It was like a gun shot in the still room. Emma bit again. She grasped the cloth with her strong fingers and brought her arms out wide above Kirk’s head, as the cloth split. With what was left from the strips, she washed the wound carefully.
“Get up on the bed,” she said to Basil, “and reach me some cobwebs from the corner.”
She laid the cobwebs against the place and hurriedly wound the two pieces of cotton cloth around Kirk’s head.
“His eyes are opening,” John said. Blood was still coming from the wound, dyeing the bandage, but Kirk’s eyes were quivering open. Seeing this, Emma took up the pan and went outside. John set the lamp on the floor and sat down to watch.
Emma brought back fresh water in the pan. She had slipped on the waist to her skirt and it hung loose outside. With the rag she bathed Kirk’s face, pushing back the heavy light hair slowly from his forehead.
Presently Kirk raised up a little, lifting himself from the shoulders. In a second he sank back again. Emma and John, with the lamp between them, sat on the floor looking for Kirk’s eyes to open again. Basil, sitting on the side of the bed, watched anxiously. He did not want his brother hurt. Yet as soon as Kirk had raised up, he felt an anger at his brother again. Now that Kirk’s eyes were closed he was anxious and sorry about the whole matter. He knew that Kirk went off with Minnie on the sly, and half suspected that Minnie liked Kirk best. But quarreling with his brother was against his religion. He had told the preacher about their quarrels and the preacher had read something from the Bible. “Behold,” the preacher read. “Behold how beautiful a thing it is for brethren to dwell together in unity.” And Basil felt that it was a beautiful thing, and would make up his mind not to quarrel again. Then suddenly this anger and hate came up between them.
Kirk opened his eyes wide and looked at Basil. When he saw his brother his brows came together. He raised himself up with hands clenched on the floor on either side. “You,” he began.
“Lie down and shet up,” Basil said.
Emma touched Basil’s leg. “That’s enough now, Basil.”
“I ain’t a child, Ma.” Basil drew his leg away from her touch. “I’m head of this family.”
“I’d like Granpap to hear ye,” Emma said. She tried to make her voice sound as if she didn’t care much about the whole thing. As if she was making fun of Basil and Kirk.
“Granpap’s a Kirkland, and I’m a McClure. And I’m oldest. So long as I’m here Kirk can’t profane the name of God in this house.”
“Hit’s enough, I tell ye.” Emma could see the hate coming up in Kirk’s face. “Basil,” she said, “take that lamp and lead the way to the other room. Now, John, you get under that arm like me.” Kneeling beside Kirk she lifted his arm over her shoulder. John would not be much support but she had to keep Basil and Kirk from touching.
John lifted himself as high as possible when they had got Kirk standing and he did help, for he could feel his brother’s weight on his shoulder as they walked slowly through the passage and up the steps into Emma’s room. Basil set the lamp on the table and helped the others get Kirk on the bed. He hung back in the doorway until Kirk was covered, then returned to his own place.
He was already troubled in himself about Minnie. All the men knew by this time that she was with child, all but Jim Hawkins unless he suspected and would not let himself see. When Jim Hawkins did find out he might accuse him, Basil McClure. In reality the child might be his, if one time could make it his. But there had been other men. Basil was not taking the blame unless the blame was his, and that could not be proved. He did not want Minnie any more as a wife. She was a whore, had proved it. Yet he did not want Kirk to have her either, not so long as he was there, and could see them together. For, much as he despised Minnie, he still wanted her.
In the other room Emma pulled a chair up beside the bed. “Better go on to sleep,” she said to John. But he stood at the foot of the bed and watched Kirk. Emma did not urge him to go, and presently she made a place at the foot of her bed for him. She lifted Bonnie toward the head, so there was a small place at the foot. He lay down and went to sleep with his knees strained toward his chin. One skinny arm lay outside the bedclothes, and the hand was clenched into a small fist. She undid the fist and pressed the fingers out straight. When Kirk moved she lifted the covers back to watch his face. Usually Kirk was so full of life even his family had come to think that he could do nothing but laugh, and make fun. Now his face was set in rigid stern lines. It frightened Emma at first, but his regular breathing reassured her. He was sleeping.
The next morning Basil came in for breakfast. Emma waited on him and tried to say some words. But he had only yes or no to give her. Kirk was sitting up in bed. The bandage, passed crossways over his forehead, made him look jaunty, as if he cared for nothing and nobody. While Basil was at the table he pretended to have a banjo in his arms and began singing.
He said “Pore Boy” in such a way, and gave Basil a look.
Bonnie hung onto the side of the bed, looking up at Kirk and listening to the song.
“That’s enough, Kirk,” Emma said. “Hush!”
She was glad Basil did not sit long. Kirk looked as if he was ready to devil anyone who came near, anyone he felt like deviling.
Bonnie liked having her brother there in bed. She took his com pone and fatback over and three cups of coffee one after another. Kirk would not eat, but he wanted the coffee. And after he had the three cups they could not keep him in bed.
About midday he was sitting on the log below the door. Emma was inside, getting ready to wash the clothes.
“Ma,” Kirk said quietly and Emma came and stood above him. She looked up and saw a man riding down the trail. They watched every turn and dip of the trail that brought the horse and rider in sight. When the horse came over the last rise they saw that the man was Hal Swain.
John and Bonnie appeared from somewhere and sat in the yard. Emma heard Basil come through the back door and pull out a chair at the table behind her.
“Well,” Emma said. “Hit’s time Hal came to see us.”
Kirk moved his shoulders impatiently. She was quiet for a little while. She felt that Kirk did not want her to speak. Then in spite of her words came from her mouth again.
“Maybe he’s come to say we can have the cow cheaper.”
That, she knew, was a foolish thing to say. For Hal could just as well say the same thing over the counter at the store to Kirk or Basil—or Granpap.
Hal rode into the yard and slowly got down from his horse.
“Come in,” Emma said. “Hitch the horse, Johnny.” And she stood aside to let Hal come into the house.
John slung the bridle over the limb of a tree and hurried into the cabin. The others were already inside. Kirk was on a chair opposite Hal. Emma and Bonnie were standing close by. Basil sat by the table.
“How’s everybody?” Hal Swain spoke smoothly like a preacher, and with confidence as if he knew something. He did know something, for he could read anything from a government letter for the post office to passages in the Bible.
“Well,” Emma said in answer to his question, and then added, “Kirk hurt his head.”
“Had I better look?” Hal asked. He had medicines on the shelf of his store and sometimes he doctored.
Emma undid the bandages. “Lost some blood,” Hal said after looking at the wound. “But he’ll mend soon.” He wound the bandages back, somewhat better than Emma had done them. But he left everything as she had fixed it the night before. “Wash it to-night,” he told her, “and put on more cobwebs.”
He sat down again. The eyes in the five faces looked at him. He felt the eyes, but kept his own fixed on his hands. He looked at their backs and then at the palms as if he was reading them as he would a book.
“I see your corn’s shucked,” he said at last.
“John and Bonnie helped,” Emma said.
“Many potatoes this year?” He turned and spoke to Basil.
“Some,” Basil answered him.
Again Hal looked at his hands. He examined his right thumb nail carefully as if he was a boy who had bored a hole there to measure the time till the sow would litter.
Then he cleared his throat. “Well, Emma,” he said and hesitated. “Well, I reckon the Law’s got your pap.”
“I was afeared,” Emma said, “hit might happen.”
Basil got up and walked out of the back door.
“Yes,” Emma repeated. “I was afeared.” Her heart felt as heavy as a full bucket from the spring.
“He’s got plenty of friends,” Hal told her. “You ain’t to worry, Emma.”
“No,” Emma said looking at the floor. “Hit’s no use.”
“He sent you this,” Hal said and stood up to reach in his pocket. He laid some change on the table.
As soon as Hal’s horse turned the corner by the spring on the way back to the Crossing, Basil came in.
“Hit’s a disgrace,” he said.
Emma raised herself. “Hit’s not a disgrace, Basil McClure, unless you make it so.”
“Granpap’s broke the law.”
“For you and the others, to get money to feed ye.”
“He had a right,” Kirk said, looking jaunty under his bandage, and very sure of himself.
“Hit’s a disgrace,” Basil repeated. “Up at the settlement they’ll look at us and say, ‘The law’s got Granpap Kirkland.’ ”
Emma looked at him. “And there’ll be plenty to say he had a right,” she told Basil.