THE HUNT
45
the tramping of many men, and then as if at the end of a tunnel,
Pusley bawling, "Where in hell's that Jew, cut one way."
Glasses shattered. A shot. Gordon hurled himself out of bed.
He stumbled and crashed on the floor.
It was dark as a pocket when he woke. His head felt as if
there were an axe in it. He yanked on the light. His gun and
bag were on the bed. There was a plate of ham sandwiches and
another bottle. Well, McFarlane had to keep his nose clean.
He lay down rubbing his head. A shot of pain thru his big
toe flung him up. The old trick. It was his wooden foot. And
for a second the face of his dead confused mother, hanging over
him in the hospital, flashed before him like powder. And now
that free fatass having every night light-footed girls young
enough to be his daughters. Gordon wiped his mouth and cursed.
Lanky and he had fixed him up during the strike, had him
by the crotch. Lanky bringing in farmers to the picket line.
Gordon on the line with a football helmet and camphor for tear
gas. A deputy had splintered the artificial foot with a shot from
the roof of the plant. Gordon had unstrapped it and shouldered
it on the line. His picture, carrying the foot, had appeared in
newspapers all over the country. This had helped win the strike.
This had helped his father get rid of him.
He reached for the bottle, clicked it to his foot, laughing.
He searched for the last letter from Lanky. Lanky wrote that
there would be no great problems getting the Hones and the
others started here. You could get them together on the simplest
grievance. In Minnesota farmers had gotten together on fight–
ing the dog tax and hunting licenses. What steps was Gordon
taking?
Gordon felt suddenly as if he had been hurled into the open
and an iron door bolted fast behind him. He got up and stamped
about the room. He doused his face in the basin. He couldn't
get the fever out. Even the whiskey hung like a knife in his
chest.
He leaned against the window and watched the dawn crack–
ing over the mountains. Couldn't run off without seeing how
the Hones were making out. Couldn't face Lanky empty-handed.
He would shoot a couple pheasants. That would stuff Lanky's
mouth. Tramping the hills all day with a gun would stir up his
guts. Remembering the girl on the wagon, Gordon bawled like
a rutting bull, "Heads up, tails up." He marched downstairs.
