Rock Island Line by David Rhodes (i am reading a book TXT) 📕

the canyon and that he was to go get him and, if he was alive, take him over to Carson City, when the marshal took off his gun belt and badge and put them on the desk. ‘I quit.’ “ Then July’s head refilled with the image of behind the rock—only this time it was totally himself that crouched there crying.

“. . . they sent twenty men on horses out into the hills after him, hoping to recover the money and collect the state’s reward. They had no intention of bringing him back alive, and had food and ambition enough to be gone several months. They assumed Kingfisher would not expect so many, and that they would have a chance to get a couple of slugs into the gray before he could begin his run. The excitement was like a fever. After several days they located him and he began to run. Twodays later they had him trapped somewhere in Plum Valley, his horse dead. The twenty riders formed a line, not more than thirty yards between each man, like for driving deer, and started into the valley. Four hours later, two of them rode out, one with a bullet in his chest. The other one, just as they were leaving the valley, looked back and for the first time in his life saw the great Kingfisher, on foot, leading one of their horses, going up into the hills, a rifle on his shoulder and a dagger which reflected the sunlight in his hand.

“He was a killer,” his father explained. “In his life he killed more than a hundred men. You shouldn’t get the wrong image of him: he was nothing to admire. He was an outlaw, and so the least of all kinds of persons to admire, but it’s interesting how even in such a low, low person—how his life can be kind of an inspiration—but only in idea—only in idea. Killing is the ugliest thing in the world. But if you don’t think about that—if you just think of the strength—the unyielding cunning to stay alive at all costs, against all odds. He was in prison once where he went a week without water, and when they took him out and let him walk along the wall—this was in New York—he saw ten thousand people, all of them come to see him die. They gave him some water and led him back to the cell (he wasn’t going to be hanged until that afternoon) and he got away. He got away! It’s unbelievable! Maybe it’s because we all have a private fantasy of doing something unbelievable—at just the moment when everyone else has given us up, when the odds are ten thousand to one, to snap out and unbelievably get away. How sweet life must seem after that! And a legend like Kingfisher is only an attempt to capture that sweetness. Oh, they had him there, right there in the prison—can’t you imagine it?—this fellow who’s nearly sixty—who’s never been caught before—and he gets away!”

John got up and went over to the cash register. The tired waitress squashed out the last quarter-inch of her cigarette and came over. Behind the counter, she lit another. He put a fifty-centpiece on the rubber mat. Thirty-five cents came up at the top of the register.

“Say, mister,” she said, blowing smoke through her words, “that was some story, about that Kingfisher.” She handed him back fifteen cents in yellow fingers. “Come again.”

The cook turned. “Stop flirting,” she said, and swatted her on the rump. They looked at each other and laughed and looked at John.

“Thank you,” he said, blushed and quickly left.

SIX

The Funeral—1953

July was sitting on the porch looking through the screen, and then at it, wondering how he was able to see the square wire holes so clearly and at the same time see through to the lawn as though there were nothing there. The memory of the last four days was a blur. The square holes. The lawn. He was becoming afraid again. He rocked the swing harder, and made himself do two things: look at the wire holes and review what he had done that morning, from the moment he’d gotten out of bed for the last time. I went over to the window. No, first I put on a shirt—the red one—no, it was green, corduroy—my favorite—can hide in trees with it and no one can see me. Dad always said . . . Dad always said—I went over to the window and looked out. Swallows and flies. I went back and sat on the bed. Put on my socks. Red. Saw the drawer and took out my junk box. I looked at the beebees, chrome buttons, keys, padlock . . . padlock . . . padlock . . . yellow dog chain, broken knife, beer opener. He felt the fear subside and allowed his vision to wander from the screen, outside, inside, around the porch. Red. The shirt was red. The green one was in a lump on the floor. I’d forgotten that, he thought. I’d forgotten that because—Then he was afraid again and went back to the screen. I went over to the window. Swallows and flies. I breathed against the window and drew a circle with my finger. I put a dot in the middle. I sat down on my bed. My socks are red. My shirt is red, the green one on the floor. Hiding in trees. Then I put on the other sock and the drawer was open. I took out my junk box—

“Here, July,” spoke his Aunt Becky, her fleshy arms big all the way to the shoulders, “you must have something to eat. A person can’t go without food. You must eat something.” She carried out a tray and set it next to him on the swing, after stopping its motionwith the side of her hip. July stared at the sandwiches and Jell-O