Jordan County: A Novel by Shelby Foote

Author:Shelby Foote [Foote, Shelby]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2011-02-08T16:00:00+00:00

There was a full moon, late risen and so bright now that the shadows of trees, cast on the streets which the constable’s buggy followed on its way toward the heart of town, stood out in sharp contrast of black and gold, like filigree, each leaf along the ragged edges as distinct as a saw-tooth. Northwest beyond the river the comet flared, its tail upraised like the tail of a horse on fire, and the stars were spattered thick and hot against the pale gray velvet of the night. Hector had not spoken since the constable told him he thought Ella was dead. They had come down off the veranda, climbed into the buggy from opposite sides, and the constable offered no further information or explanation. Now Hector sat with his hands limp in his lap, gazing straight ahead and listening to the rhythmic clip-clop clip-clop of hoofs on the moon-dappled pavement. The sound had that smooth, effortless quality of something in a dream.

Indeed, there was something dreamlike about this whole affair. The constable had said he thought she was dead. What did that mean? Was she dead or was she not dead? Or had he said that in an attempt to soften the news, to give him some doubt to cling to until he saw for himself? Or was it all a lie, told to make him docile on the way to jail? These questions came fast, one behind another, but Hector made no attempt to answer them. He waited for the illogical to work itself out, the way it always seemed to do in dreams. Meanwhile the shadows flowed over and past them, alternate black and gold. The constable’s nickel-plated revolver twinkled in the moonlight, gleamed in the shadows, and suddenly it occurred to Hector that, though the delta was a widely recognized hunting country, he had never touched a firearm, even a pistol.

This took on an importance in his mind. Like not having learned the names of the stars, it seemed a serious lack. He forgot the questions, forgot even Ella, and concentrated on suppressing a desire to touch the revolver. He told himself that he should not do this, that the constable (his name was Mullins, Pete Mullins, and somewhere Hector had heard that he had killed five men, two of them white) might be alarmed, might even be offended, and any man who had killed five men, two of them white, was no man to offend. The desire, however, was stronger than the fear. He was just reaching out to touch it when the constable reined in the horse. “Here we are, Mr Sturgis,” he said. They were in front of the Bristol Hotel.

A red gig belonging to the fire department was drawn up at the curb. Hector observed that the horse, head down, knees locked in sleep, wore an almost new straw kady, its ears standing stiff and hairy through the holes cut into the brim. Otherwise the street was deserted, stretching long and empty under the drench of moonlight.

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