The Complete Stories, Vol. 1: Final Reckonings

  Doc shrugged. "I expected as much."

  "What does he mean, Doc?" I asked.

  "He means we're prisoners," Doc told me.

  Then I got the drift of it. Buckton gave a signal and the men eased around behind us, two to each. They all had these pesky little guns out.

  Doc looked at me and I looked at Iron Head, and he said, "Let's raise hair."

  So I tromped out and caught the nearest tad on the shinbone, and then I twisted the gun up and like to blast his head off. Other one let fire but only singed me, and I took and threw him up agin' Lieutenant Thorne. Doc was clubbing with his rifle when Buckton come nigh, but he didn't have to stop — Iron Head broke him in half over one of them metal rump holders. That left two, and we just took aim and let the rifles chaw guts.

  It was powerful smoky in there when we finished, and Iron Head didn't really get riled when Doc stopped him from lifting scalps.

  So we left them with hair after all and just hightailed it out of there.

  The ship, or rocket, or whatever it was, looked mighty peaceful in the moonlight. I squinted up.

  "Reckon they really come from there?" I asked Doc.

  "That's right, Jake."

  "Allow as they'll ever send another ship down?"

  "Doubt it, if this one doesn't come back."

  "Wonder what them hosses from across river will say when they set eyes on this contraption. Figger any of them will get ornery on account of thinking we did wrong?"

  Iron Head grunted. "Maybe they no see it."

  Doc and I looked at each other. That was Injun talk, for fair, and straight talk too.

  We knew what to do.

  We headed west again and come to the buffalo herd. It was a long hike back, singing all the way. Songs like "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling" and "Alexander's Ragtime Band" and the only one that ever makes sense to me, the one with the words a man can understand — "Home on the Range." I guess we sang that one pretty near all the way.

  Then we got through the herd, rumbling and restless-like in the dark, and come out the other side.

  We fanned.

  Then we let fly. We loaded and reloaded, and we kept it up until they were on the run. All of them, a million of them, heading east away from the guns and the noise.

  We run after.

  But you couldn't keep up, not with a million buffalo, a million of them roaring and charging and pouring over the ridge and down into the valley. Into the valley where the rocket pointed at the sky.

  All we could do was get to the top of the ridge in time to see it happen. They didn't stop for the rocket, of course. They kept on going. The moon was bright now, and this child could see everything plain. This child saw them hit the rocket.

  Their hoofs made powerful thunder, and then there was a crash when a thousand hit the side of the rocket and a hundred thousand came on behind, driving them through.

  One minute the rocket stood there, like a big bullet — and the next minute the bullet exploded. This child's never seen sight or heard sound to match. It was something to shake the sky.

  Doc and Iron Head and me, we dropped in our tracks and closed our eyes agin' the light. It rained buffalo meat and hunks of metal.

  "They brought explosives," Doc said.

  "Sure," Iron Head grunted. "The white man's burden."

  I stood up again, watching the critters wheel and fan out for the river.

  "Come on," I hollered. "They'll make for the river from the lodges to get meat now. We better hump along and help."

  So we did, and that was the end of it.

  Doc and Iron Head and this child let on that it was one of them meteors that fell and exploded, and there weren't a contrariwise notion, ever. Because the rocket was gone. Nothing but a big burned-out hole in the prairie.

  Like I say, that was two-three seasons back. I been across just lately, and I see the grass is coming in again. It'll be right pretty in another season or so.

  Meantimes the buffalo are grazing over the plain, like they used to in the old days.

  It's a mighty peaceful sight.

  I Like Blondes

  OF COURSE, it's all a matter of taste, nothing more. It's a weakness with me, I suppose. My friends have their own opinions: some are partial to brunettes or redheads, and I suppose that's all right. I certainly don't criticize them in the least.

  But blondes are my favorites. Tall ones, short ones, fat ones, thin ones, brilliant ones, dumb ones — all sorts, sizes, shapes, and nationalities. Oh, I've heard all the objections: their skin ages faster, they have peculiar personalities; they're giddy and mercenary and conceited. None of which bothers me a bit, even if it's true. I like blondes for their special qualities and I'm not alone in my weakness. I notice Marilyn Monroe hasn't done too badly in general favor. Nor Kim Novak.

  Enough of this; after all, I'm not apologizing. What I do is my own business. And if I wanted to stand on the corner of Reed and Temple at eight o'clock at night and pick up a blonde, I owed no apologies to anyone.

  Perhaps I was a bit obvious and overdressed for the occasion. Perhaps I shouldn't have winked, either. But that's a matter of opinion, too, isn't it?

  I have mine. Other people have theirs. And if the tall girl with the page-boy cut chose to give me a dirty look and murmur, "Disgusting old man," that was her affair. I'm used to such reactions, and it didn't bother me a bit.

  A couple of cute young things in blue jeans came sauntering along. Both of them had hair like Minnesota wheat, and I judged they were sisters. Not for me, though. Too young. You get into trouble that way, and I didn't want trouble.

  It was a nice, warm, late-spring evening. Lots of couples out walking. I noticed one blonde in particular—she was with a sailor, I recall — and I remember thinking to myself that she had the most luscious calves I've ever seen. But she was with a sailor. And there was one with a child and one with a party of stenographers out on the town for a night, and one I almost spoke to, until her boyfriend came up suddenly after parking the car.

  Oh, it was exasperating, I can tell you! It was beginning to seem as though everybody had his blonde but me. Sometimes it's like that for weeks, but I'm philosophical about such things.

  I glanced up at the clock, around nine, and concluded that I'd best be on my way. I might be a "disgusting old man" but I know a trick or two. Blondes are where you find them.

  Right now, I knew, the best place to find them would be over at Dream-way. Sure, it's a dime-a-dance hall. But there's no law against that.

  There was no law against my walking in and standing there at the back before I bought tickets. There was no law to prevent me from looking, from sorting out and selecting.

  Ordinarily I didn't much care for these public dance halls. The so-called "music" hurts my ears, and my sensibilities are apt to be offended by the spectacle of dancing itself. There is a vulgar sexual connotation which dismays me, but I suppose it's all a part of the game.

  Dreamway was crowded tonight. The "operators" were out in force: filling-station attendants with long sideburns, middle-aged dandies incongruous in youthfully styled "sharp" suits, wistful little Filipinos and lonesome servicemen on leave. And mixing and mingling with them, the girls.

  Those girls, those hostesses! Where did they get their dresses — the crimson Day-Glow gowns, the orange and cerise abominations, the low-cut black atrocities, the fuchsia horrors? And who did their hair — poodle cuts and pony cuts and tight ringlets and loose maenad swirls? The garish, slashing, red-and-white makeup, the dangling, bangling cheap jewelry gave the effect of pink ribbons tied to the horns of a prize heifer.

  And yet there were some prize heifers here. I don't mean to be crude in the least; merely honest. Here, in the reeking cheap-perfume-deodorant-cigarette-smoke-talcum-scented mist of music and minglement, strange beauty blossomed.

  Poor poetry? Rich truth! I saw a tall girl with the body of a queen, whose eyes held true to a far-off dream. She was only a brunette, of course, but I'm not one to adhere t
o blind prejudice. There was a redhead whose dancing was stiff and stately; she held her body like a white candle surmounted by a scarlet flame. And there was a blonde —

  Yes, there was a blonde! Quite young, a bit too babyishly plump, and obviously a prey to fatigue, but she had what I was looking for. The true, fair-haired type, bred blondely to the bone. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's a fake blonde. Dyed hair, or the partial blonde who becomes a "brown-ette" in her late twenties. I've been fooled by them before, and I know.

  But this was a real blonde, a harvest goddess. I watched her as she swept, in unutterable boredom, around the floor. Her dancing partner was a clod — visiting rancher, I'd guess. Expensively dressed, but with that telltale red neck rising out of the white collar of his shirt. Yes — and unless my eyes deceived me, he was chewing on a toothpick as he danced!

  I made my decision. This was it. I went up and bought myself three dollars' worth of tickets. Then I waited for the number to end.

  They play short numbers at Dreamway, of course. In about a minute the clamor ceased. My blonde was standing on the edge of the floor. The rancher broke away, apparently determined to buy more tickets.

  I walked over to her, displayed my handful. "Dance?" I asked. She nodded, scarcely looking at me. She was tired. She wore an emerald-green gown, low-cut and sleeveless. There were freckles on her plump arms and — intriguingly enough — on her shoulders and down the neckline to the V. Her eyes seemed green, but that was probably the dress. No doubt they were actually gray.

  The music started. Now I may have given the impression that, since I dislike dance halls and dancing, I am not particularly adept at the ballet of the ballroom. In all modesty, this is far from the case. I have made it my business to become an expert dancer. I find it inevitably to be of help to me in establishing contacts.

  Tonight was no exception.

  We weren't out on the floor thirty seconds before she glanced up and looked at me — really looked at me, for the first time. "Gee, you're a good dancer!"

  That "Gee" was all I needed. Together with her rather naive tone of voice, it gave me an immediate insight into her character and background. Small-town girl, probably, who quit school and came to the city. Perhaps she came with some man. If not, she met one shortly after her arrival. It ended badly, of course. Maybe she took a job in a restaurant or a store. And then she met another man, and the dance hall seemed easier. So here she was.

  Quite a lot to adduce from a single exclamation? Yes, but then I've met so many blondes in similar situations, and the story is always the same; that is, if they're the "Gee!" type. And I'm not deprecatory in the least. I happen to like the "Gee!" type best of all.

  She could tell that I liked her, of course, from the way I danced. I almost anticipated her next remark. "There's life in the old boy yet."

  I smiled, not at all resentful. "I'm younger than I look." I winked. "You know, I could dance with you all night — and something tells me that's not a bad idea."

  "You flatter me." But she looked worried. That was the whole idea. She believed me.

  I gave her just under a minute for the thought to take hold. Then I pulled the switch. "I wouldn't fool you," I told her. "I'm like all the other men you meet—just lonely. I'm not going to ask if we couldn't go somewhere and talk, because I know the answer. You're paid to dance. But I happen to know that if I buy, say, ten dollars' more worth of tickets, you can get off. And we can sneak off for a few drinks." I winked again. "Sitting down."

  "Well, I don't know — "

  "Of course you don't. But I do. Look, if you have any worries about me pulling a fast one, I'm old enough to be your grandfather."

  It was obvious, and she considered it. She also considered the delightful prospect of sitting down. "I guess it's OK," she murmured. "Shall we go, Mr.—?"

  "Beers," I said.

  "What?" She checked a giggle. "Not really?"

  "Really. Beers is the name. Not the drink. You can drink anything you like, Miss — "

  "Shirley Collins." Now the giggle came out. "Sort of a coincidence, don't you think? Beers and Collins."

  "Come on, what are we waiting for?" I steered her over to the edge of the floor, went to buy my tickets, and made the necessary arrangements with the manager while she got her coat. It cost me an extra five for his tip, but I didn't begrudge him the money. We all have to eat, you know.

  She didn't look bad at all, once she had some of that mascara washed off. Her eyes were gray, I discovered. And her arms were soft and rounded. I escorted her quite gallantly to the bar down the street and hung up her coat when we found a nice quiet back booth.

  The waitress was one of those scrawny, sallow-faced brunettes. She wore slacks and chewed gum; I'd never consider her for a moment. But she served her purpose — drinks, rather. I ordered rye on the rocks and she brought the two glasses.

  I paid her, not forgetting to tip, because I'd be wanting prompt service. She snapped her gum in friendly acknowledgment and left us alone. I pushed my drink over to Shirley.

  "What's the matter?" she said.

  "Nothing. It's just that I don't indulge."

  "Now, wait a minute, Mr. Beers. You aren't trying to get a girl loaded, are you?"

  "My dear young lady — please!" I sounded for all the world like an elderly college professor admonishing his class. "You don't have to drink if you don't want to."

  "Oh, that's OK. Only you know, a girl has to be careful." The way she downed the first rye belied her words. She toyed with the second glass. "Say, this can't be much fun for you, sitting and watching me drink."

  "If you only knew," I said. "Didn't I tell you I was lonely? And wanted someone to talk to?"

  "A girl hears some funny lines, but I guess you're on the level. What'll we talk about?"

  That was an easy one. "You." From now on I didn't even need to think about what I was saying. Everything proceeded automatically. My mind was free to consider her blondeness, her ripe and ample richness. Why should anyone insist on the presence of a brain in a body like that?

  I certainly didn't. I was content to let her ramble on, ordering drinks for her whenever the glass was empty. "And honest, you have no idea what that grind does to your feet — "

  "Excuse me a moment," I said. "I must say hello to an old friend."

  I walked down to the other end of the bar. He had just come in and was standing there with a lovely black girl. Ordinarily I wouldn't have known him, but something about the way he kept staring at her tipped me off.

  "Hello," I said softly. "See you're up to your old tricks."

  "Look here!" He tried to appear arrogant, but he couldn't hide the fright. "I don't know you."

  "Yes, you do," I told him. "Yes, you do." I pulled him away and put my mouth to his ear. When he heard what I had to say he laughed.

  "Dirty trick, trying to scare me, but I forgive you. It's just that I didn't expect to see you here. Where you located?"

  "Something called the Shane Apartments. And you?"

  "Oh, I'm way outside town. How do you like her?" He nudged me and indicated his girl.

  "Nice. But you know my weakness."

  We both laughed.

  "Well," I concluded, "I won't disturb you any longer. I just wondered if you were making out all right."

  "Perfectly. No trouble at all."

  "Good," I said. "We've got to be extra careful these days, with all that cheap publicity going around."

  "I know." He waved me along. "Best of luck."

  "Same to you," I said and walked back to the booth. I felt fine.

  Shirley Collins felt fine too. She'd ordered another drink during my absence. I paid and tipped the waitress.

  "My, my!" the blonde gushed. "You certainly do throw your dough around."

  "Money means nothing to me," I said. I fanned five twenties from the roll. "Here — have some."

  "Why, Mr. Beers! I couldn't, really."

  She was positively drooling. "Go ahead," I urged. "Ple
nty more where that come from. I like to see you happy."

  So she took the money. They always do. And, if they're as high as Shirley was, their reactions are always the same.

  "Gee, you're a nice old guy." She reached for my hand. "I've never met anyone quite like you. You know, kind and generous. And no passes, either."

  "That's right." I drew my hand away. "No passes."

  This really puzzled her. "I dunno, I can't figure you out, Mr. Beers. Say, by the way, where'd you get all this money?"

  "Picked it up," I told her. "It's easy if you know how."

  "Now you're kidding me. No fooling, what do you do for a living?"

  "You'd be surprised." I smiled. "Actually you might say I'm retired. I devote all my time to my hobbies."

  "You mean, like books or paintings or something? Are you a collector?"

  "That's right. Come to think of it, maybe you'd like to get acquainted with my collection."

  She giggled. "Are you inviting me up to see your etchings?"

  I went right along with the gag.."Certainly. You aren't going to pretend that you won't come, are you?"

  "No. I'll be glad to come."

  She put the five twenty-dollar bills in her purse and rose. "Let's go, Pappy."

  I didn't care for that "Pappy" stuff at all — but she was such a luscious blonde. Even now, slightly tipsy, she was wholly delectable. What the young folks call "a real dish."

  A half-dozen stares knifed my back as we walked past the bar on our way outside. I knew what they were thinking. "Old dried-up fossil like that with a young girl. What's the world coming to nowadays?"

  Then, of course, they turned back to their drinks, because they really didn't want to know what the world was coming to nowadays. Bombs can drop, saucers can fly, and still people will sit at bars and pass judgments between drinks. All of which suits me perfectly.

  Shirley Collins suited me perfectly, too, at the moment. I had no difficulty finding a cab or bundling her inside. "Shane Apartments," I told the driver. Shirley snuggled up close to me.