George was sitting in front of the card table and had already shuffled the deck of cards about twenty times. He wasn’t really thinking about the cards as much as he was about what he had done. He thought about things he would miss, and things he wouldn’t.
In the corner of the room sat Slim, Candy, and Whit, huddled together and whispering softly. Suddenly, the door swung open with a loud slam and the boss, looking very red walked right up to the card table and yelled,
“What in the hell is going on here? First you murder my son’s wife, then you murder one of my workers – I ain’ takin' no more of this bull –––!” Then his voice became smaller and softer, “Now I tell you what – I foun’ me self a nice vacancy in the oil business. I’m gonna leave Curley in charge here. I don’t want no trouble outta you bastards! You all listenin’? If I hear ‘bout you messin’ aroun’, you all be takin’ a nice hike!”
He swiveled around on his heels and stormed out of the room, promptly slamming the door behind him. Before the four guys had time to react, the door opened slightly, and the boss’s head stuck back into the room.
“Oh, and Candy,” he said with sarcastic politeness, “you’re fired, along with that cripple of a nigger in the barn over there.” He licked his fat lips, “You’re too old anyway.”
The door shut and the footsteps echoed away. Everyone in the room looked at each other, and Candy had such and expression of helplessness slowly spreading over his face, that you would want to run up and hug him to comfort him. He rose to his feet, and said softly,
“How dare he?”
He walked up to George, grabbed the deck of cards from his motionless hands, and flung them at the wall, scattering the painted rectangles over the floor. He walked out of the room, and though the hallway beyond, in the opposite direction the boss had taken.
“How dare he?” echoed once again through the silent room.
***
It was evening and George was the only person in the bunkhouse. Candy gad packed his bags and left without warning. His destination was unknown since no one bothered to ask. Slim was in the barn stroking one of the horses and the sadness on his face made the barn even gloomier than it already was. Crooks was sleeping on the hay, after having been yelled at previously by the boss. Whit was working out on the field where he could think about all that he had lost. George was lying on the bed, motionless. His eyes pointed straight up, to where the angels fly high above, looking down upon the mourning ranch. Clutched in his hand was a small bottle with a dark inscription. There was a note on the table, and on it was the simplest phrase, and yet it was full of meaning.
“I don’t travel alone.”
No comments:
Post a Comment