Pop. 1280 (1964) by Jim Thompson

Author:Jim Thompson
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

15

What I wanted things to look like was that

UncleJohn had shot Tom with his own gun and then

Tom had got the gun away from him and shot Uncle

John. Or vice versa. Anyways, when I got to

thinking about it afterward, it seemed to me that

people weren't going to see it that way at all.

Which meant that they were apt to start looking for

the real killer. And for a spell there, I was pretty

worried. But I didn't need to be. As plumb crazy as

it was, with Uncle John getting killed almost two

days after Tom and with both of 'em obviously

dying almost the instant they was shot, it turned out

no one thought anything of it. They didn't wonder at

all about how one dead man could've killed

another.

Of course, both bodies were wet and muddied

up, so you couldn't say offhand just when they'd

died; and we just ain't equipped to do a lot of

scientific examination and investigation here in

Potts County. If things look a certain way, folks

usually figure that's the way they are. And if they'd

had a mind to kick up a fuss about anyone, it

wouldn't be Tom Hauck or Uncle John.

The plain fact was that no one much gave a

good god-dang about either one of 'em. It was a

plain case of good riddance to bad rubbish as far

as Tom was concerned; and who cared about one

colored fella more or less, unless it was some

other colored folks, and who cared if they did

care?

But I guess I'm getting ahead of myself a little . .

.

I dropped the shotgun between Tom and Uncle

John. Then, leaving John's horse and wagon where

they were, I plodded back across country to the

Hauck farm.

It was pretty late by that time, or pretty early I

should say. An hour or so short of dawn. I hitched

up, without going to the house, and headed for

town.

The livery stable door was open, the hostler

snoring like a buzz saw up in the hayloft. A lantern

stood burning in a tub of sand, casting a flickering

light along the row of stalls. I put up the horse and

buggy without hardly a sound, and the hostler went

on snoring. And I went out into the dark again, the

dark and the rain.

There wasn't no one on the street, of course.

Even without the rain, no one would have been out

at that hour. I got to the courthouse, took off my

boots and sneaked upstairs to bed.

The dry-warm felt awful good after them wet

clothes, and I guess I was plumb wore out.

Because I went to sleep right away, instead of

tossing around fifteen, twenty minutes like I usually

do.

Then, just about the time my head touched the

pillow it seemed like, Myra started yelling and

shaking me.

"Nick! Nick Corey, you get up from there! My

goodness, do you want to sleep all night and all

day, too?"

"Why not?" I mumbled, hanging on to the

pillows. "Sounds like a danged good idea."

"I said to _get up!_ It's almost noon, and Rose

is on the phone!"

I let her get me up, and I talked to Rose for a

minute or two. I said I was sorry to hear that

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