The Reivers by William Faulkner

Author:William Faulkner [Faulkner, William]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Classics, Pulitzer
ISBN: 9780140029932
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 2009-11-14T13:00:00+00:00

“I thought you went all the way to Washington,” Boon said.

“Who, me?” Sam said. “That’s just the train. I’m going to double back from Chattanooga tonight on Two-O-Nine. Ill be back in Parsham at seven oclock tomorrow morning. I’d go with you now and pick up Two-O-Eight in Parsham tonight, only I got to get some sleep. Besides, you wont need me anyhow. You can depend on Ned until then.”

So did Boon and I. I mean, need sleep. We got some, until the conductor waked us and we stood on the cinders at Parsham in the first light and watched the engine (there was a cattle-loading chute here) spot the boxcar, properly this time, and take its train again and go on, clicking car by car across the other tracks which went south to Jefferson. Then the three of us dismantled the stall and Ned led the horse out; and of course, naturally, materialised from nowhere, a pleasant-looking Negro youth of about nineteen, standing at the bottom of the chute, said, “Howdy, Mr McCaslin.”

“That you, son?” Ned said. “Whichaway?” So we left Boon for that time; his was the Motion role now, the doing: to find a place for all of us to live, not just him and me, but Otis and Everbe when they came tonight: to locate a man whose name Ned didn’t even know, whom nobody but Ned said owned a horse, and then persuade him to run it, race it—one figment of Ned’s imagination to race another figment—in a hypothetical race which was in the future and therefore didn’t exist, against a horse it had already beaten twice: (this likewise according only to Ned, or Figment Three), as a result of which Ned intended to recover Grandfather’s automobile; all this Boon must do while still keeping clear of being challenged about who really did own the horse. We—Ned and the youth and me —were walking now, already out of town, which didn’t take long in those days—a hamlet, two or three stores where the two railroads crossed, the depot and loading chute and freight shed and a platform for cotton bales. Though some of it has not changed: the big rambling mul-tigalleried multistoried steamboatgothic hotel where the overalled aficionados and the professionals who trained the fine bird dogs and the northern millionaires who owned them (one night in the lounge in 1933, his Ohio business with everybody else’s under the Damocles sword of the federally closed banks, I myself heard Horace Lytle refuse five thousand dollars for Mary Montrose) gathered for two weeks each February; Paul Rainey also, who liked our country enough—or anyway our bear and deer and panther enough—to use some of the Wall Street money to own enough Mississippi land for him and his friends to hunt them in: a hound man primarily, who took his pack of bear hounds to Africa to see what they would do on lion or vice versa.

“This white boy’s going to sleep walking,” the youth said. “Aint you got no saddle?” But I wasn’t going to sleep yet.

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