Earth for Inspiration And Other Stories by Clifford D. Simak

Author:Clifford D. Simak [Simak, Clifford D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media Sci-Fi & Fantasy
Published: 2016-07-04T22:00:00+00:00

Good Nesters Are Dead Nesters!

This story was originally published in the July 1945 issue of .44 Western Magazine, and I feel sure that it was not Clifford D. Simak who put the title “Good Nesters Are Dead Nesters!” on it—Cliff’s journals are reasonably comprehensive for the period in which this story was written, and that title never appears in them.

But in looking over those journals, I have noted that two of Cliff’s Westerns seem to be good candidates for having gone through the metamorphosis of names I referred to: a story that Cliff called “Hate Ramrods a Lobo Range,” for which he was paid $125 in 1945, and a story named “Sixguns Write the Law,” for which he received $177 in 1944. The latter story seems the best candidate, since the hero of “Good Nesters” is a frontier lawyer. Moreover, while I do not know to whom “Hate Ramrods a Lobo Range” was sent, “Sixguns Write the Law” was sent to Popular Publications, which was the company that published .44 Western Magazine.

And this is going to sound strange, but … the thing that sticks with me most about this story is that the hero, Crane, just keeps on being wrong—he’s not the kind of hero who gets it all right from the start.

—dww

Chapter One

Lawman—Keep Out!

She didn’t move, just sat on the doorstep of the nester’s shack and stared with hollow eyes across the emptiness of Coyote Flats.

Finally she spoke, “He just rode up and shot him,” her voice was flat—flat with the grief and weariness of utter defeat.

Chester Crane swung off the big roan, stood for a moment looking from the woman to the sprawled figure on the dusty ground.

The woman spoke again and her voice was impersonal, a monotone, as if the crumpled man who lay there was someone she had never seen before. “He never done a thing. We was just trying to make ourselves a home. And then this man rode up …”

Her voice broke, but her face remained unchanged—a pinched and haggard face that seemed drained of life.

A child came timidly to the cabin door and stood beside the woman, staring at Crane with big, blue owl-like eyes.

“When did it happen?” Crane asked.

She seemed to see him for the first time, looking at him with eyes that were great hollows in her parchment face.

“You say your name is Crane?”

“That’s right,” Crane told her. “County attorney from over at Wildcat City. Just riding past …”

“You’re a lawman?”

“Sort of,” said Crane. “You see, I …”

For the first time her voice became human speech, lost the hollow emptiness: “They why don’t you put a stop to things like this? Why do you let them kill us? We ain’t done a thing. We got a right to be here. We ain’t hurting no one. Ain’t right that folks can ride up and kill us. Like we was dogs …”

Her voice broke again and for a moment Crane thought she was going to weep, almost wished she would, for this was unnatural.

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