Farnham's Freehold

  “Maybe. But I agree with Mother. You were bullying her.”

  “As may be. Go ahead.”

  Duke turned abruptly and left. Karen said quietly, “I think so too, Daddy. You were bullying.”

  “I intended to. I judged it called for bullying. Karen, if I hadn’t tromped on it, she would do no work…and would order Joe around, treat him as a hired cook.”

  “Shucks, Hugh, I don’t mind cooking. It was a pleasure to rustle lunch.”

  “She’s a better cook than you are, Joe, and she’s going to cook. Don’t let me catch you fetching and carrying for her.”

  The younger man grinned. “You won’t catch me.”

  “Better not. Or I’ll skin you and nail it to the barn. Barbara, what do you know about farming?”

  “Very little.”

  “You’re a botanist.”

  “No, I simply might have been one, someday.”

  “Which makes you eight times as much of a farmer as the rest of us. I can barely tell a rose from a dandelion; Duke knows even less and Karen thinks you dig potatoes out of gravy. You heard Joe say he was a city boy. But we have seeds and a small supply of fertilizers. Also garden tools and books about farming. Look over what we’ve got and find a spot for a garden. Joe and I will do the spading and such. But you will have to boss.”

  “All right. Any flower seeds?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I just hoped.”

  “Annuals and perennials both. Don’t look for a spot this afternoon; I don’t want you girls away from the shelter until we know the hazards. Joe, today we should accomplish two things, a ladder and two privies. Barbara, how are you as a carpenter?”

  “Just middlin’. I can drive a nail.”

  “Don’t let Joe do what you can do; those ribs have to heal. But we need a ladder. Karen, my little flower, you have the privilege of digging privies.”

  “Gosh. Thanks!”

  “Just straddle ditches, one as the powder room, the other for us coarser types. Joe and I will build proper Chic Sales jobs later. Then we’ll tackle a log cabin. Or a stone-wall job.”

  “I was wondering if you planned to do any work, Daddy.”

  “Brainpower, darling. Management. Supervision. Can’t you see me sweating?” He yawned. “Well, a pleasant afternoon, all. I’ll stroll down to the club, have a Turkish bath, then enjoy a long, tall planter’s punch.”

  “Daddy, go soak your head. Privies, indeed!”

  “The Kappas would be proud of you, dear.”

  Hugh and his son left a half hour later. “Joe,” Hugh cautioned, “we plan to be back before dark but if we get caught, we’ll keep a fire going all night and come back tomorrow. If you do have to search for us, don’t go alone; take one of the girls. No, take Karen; Barbara has no shoes, just some spike heeled sandals. Damn. Moccasins we’ll have to make. Got it?”

  “Sure.”

  “We’ll head for that hill—that one. I want to get high enough to get the lay of the land—and maybe spot signs of civilization.” They set out—rifles, canteens, hand ax, machete, matches, iron rations, compasses, binoculars, mountain boots, coveralls. Coveralls and boots fitted Duke as well as Hugh; Duke found that his father had stocked clothes for him.

  They took turns, with the man following blazing trail and counting paces, the leader keeping lookout, compass direction, and record.

  The high hill Hugh had picked was across the stream. They explored its bank and found a place to wade. Everywhere they flushed game. The miniature deer were abundant and apparently had never been hunted. By man, at least—Duke saw a mountain lion and twice they saw bears.

  It seemed to be about three o’clock local time as they approached the summit. The climb was steep, cluttered with undergrowth, and neither man was in training. When they reached the flattish summit Hugh wanted to throw himself on the ground.

  Instead he looked around. To the east the ground dropped off. He stared out over miles of prairie.

  He could see no sign of human life.

  He adjusted his binoculars and started searching. He saw moving figures, decided that they were antelope—or cattle; he made mental note that these herds must be watched. Later, later—

  “Hugh?”

  He lowered his binoculars. “Yes, Duke?”

  “See that peak? It’s fourteen thousand one hundred and ten feet high.”

  “I won’t argue.”

  “That’s Mount James. Dad, we’re home!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look southwest. Those three gendarmes on that profile. The middle one is where I broke my leg when I was thirteen. That pointed mountain between there and Mount James—Hunter’s Horn. Can’t you see? The skyline is as distinctive as a fingerprint. This is Mountain Springs!”

  Hugh stared. This skyline he knew. His bedroom window had been planned to let him see it at dawn; many sunsets he had watched it from his roof.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes,” Duke agreed. “Damned if I know how. But as I figure it”—he stomped the ground—“we’re on the high reservoir. Where it ought to be. And—” His brow wrinkled. “As near as I can tell, our shelter is smack on our lot. Dad, we didn’t go anywhere!”

  Hugh took out the notebook in which were recorded paces and compasses courses, did some arithmetic. “Yes. Within the limits of error.”

  “Well? How do you figure it?”

  Hugh looked at the skyline. “I don’t. Duke, how much daylight do we have?”

  “Well…three hours. The sun will be behind the mountains in two.”

  “It took two hours to get here; we should make it back in less. Do you have any cigarettes?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I have one? Charged against me of course. I would like to rest about one cigarette, then start back.” He looked around. “It’s open up here. I don’t think a bear would approach us.” He placed his rifle and belt on the ground, settled down.

  Duke offered a cigarette to his father, took one himself. “Dad, you’re a cold fish. Nothing excites you.”

  “So? I’m so excitable that I had to learn never to give into it.”

  “Doesn’t seem that way to other people.” They smoked in silence, Duke seated, Hugh sprawled out. He was close to exhaustion and wished that he did not have to hike back.

  Presently Duke added, “Besides that, you enjoy bullying.”

  His father answered, “I suppose so, if you class what I do as bullying. No one ever does anything but what he wants to do—‘enjoys’—within the possibilities open to him. If I change a tire, it’s because I enjoy it more than being stranded.”

  “Don’t get fancy. You enjoy bullying Mother. You enjoyed spanking me as a kid…until Mother put her foot down and made you stop.”

  His father said, “We had better start back.” He reached for his belt and rifle.

  “Just a second. I want to show you something. Never mind your gear, this won’t take a moment.”

  Hugh stood up. “What is it?”

  “Just this. Your Captain Bligh act is finished.” He clouted his father. “That’s for bullying Mother!” He clouted him from the other side and harder, knocking his father off his feet. “And that’s for having that nigger pull a gun on me!”

  Hugh Farnham lay where he had fallen. “Not ‘nigger,’ Duke. Negro.”

  “He’s a Negro as long as he behaves himself. Pulling a gun on me makes him a goddam nigger. You can get up. I won’t hit you again.”

  Hugh Farnham got to his feet. “Let’s start back.”

  “Is that all you’ve got to say? Go ahead. Hit me. I won’t hit back.”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t break my parole. I waited until we left the shelter.”

  “Conceded. Shall I lead? Better, perhaps.”

  “Do you think I’m afraid you might shoot me in the back? Look, Dad, I had to do it!”

  “Did you?”

  “Hell, yes. For my own self-respect.”

  ?
??Very well.” Hugh buckled on his belt, picked up his gun, and headed for the last blaze.

  They hiked in silence. At last Duke said, “Dad?”

  “Yes, Duke?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Forget it.”

  They went on, found where they had forded the stream, crossed it. Hugh hurried, as it was growing darker. Duke closed up again. “Just one thing, Dad. Why didn’t you assign Barbara as cook? She’s the freeloader. Why pick on Mother?”

  Hugh took his time in answering. “Barbara is no more a freeloader than you are, Duke, and cooking is the only thing Grace knows. Or were you suggesting that she loaf while the rest of us work?”

  “No. Oh, we all have to pitch in—granted. But no more bullying, no more bawling Mother out in public. Understand me?”

  “Duke.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ve been studying karate three afternoons a week the past year.”

  “So?”

  “Don’t try it again. Shooting me in the back is safer.”

  “I hear you.”

  “Until you decide to shoot me, it would be well to accept my leadership. Or do you wish to assume the responsibility?”

  “Are you offering it?”

  “I am not in a position to. Perhaps the group would accept you. Your mother would. Possibly your sister would prefer you. Concerning Barbara and Joe, I offer no opinion.”

  “How about you, Dad?”

  “I won’t answer that; I owe you nothing. But until you decide to make a bid for leadership, I expect the same willing discipline you showed under parole.”

  “‘Willing discipline’ indeed!”

  “In the long run there is no other sort. I can’t quell a mutiny every few hours—and I’ve had two from you plus an utter lack of discipline from your mother. No leader can function on those terms. So I will assume your willing discipline. That includes no interference should I decide again to use what you call ‘bullying.’”

  “Now see here, I told you I would not stand for—”

  “Quiet! Unless you make up your mind to that, your safest choice is to shoot me in the back. Don’t come at me with bare hands or risk giving me a chance to shoot first. At the next sign of trouble, Duke, I will kill you. If possible. One of us will surely be killed.”

  They trudged along in silence, Mr. Farnham never looking back. At last Duke said, “Dad, for Christ’s sake, why can’t you run things democratically? I don’t want to boss things, I simply want you to be fair about it.”

  “Mmm, you don’t want to boss. You want to be a backseat driver—with a veto over the driver.”

  “Nuts! I simply want things run democratically.”

  “You do? Shall we vote on whether Grace is to work like the rest of us? Whether she shall hog the liquor? Shall we use Robert’s Rules of Order? Should she withdraw while we debate it? Or should she stay and defend herself against charges of indolence and drunkenness? Do you wish to submit your mother to such ignominy?”

  “Don’t be silly!”

  “I am trying to find out what you mean by ‘democratically.’ If you mean putting every decision to a vote, I am willing—if you will bind yourself to abide by every majority decision. You’re welcome to run for chairman. I’m sick of the responsibility and I know that Joe does not like being my deputy.”

  “That’s another thing. Why should Joe have any voice in these matters?”

  “I thought you wanted to do it ‘democratically’?”

  “Yes, but he is—”

  “What, Duke? A ‘nigger’? Or a servant?”

  “You’ve got a nasty way of putting things.”

  “You’ve got nasty ideas. We’ll try formal democracy—rules of order, debate, secret ballot, everything—any time you want to try such foolishness. Especially any time you want to move a vote of no confidence and take over the leadership…and I’m so bitter as to hope that you succeed. In the meantime we do have democracy.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “I’m serving by consent of the majority—four to two, I think. But that doesn’t suit me; I want it to be unanimous, I can’t put up indefinitely with wrangling from the minority. You and your mother, I mean. I want it to be five to one before we get back, with your assurance that you will not interfere in my efforts to persuade, or cajole, or bully, your mother into accepting her share of the load—until you care to risk a vote of no confidence.”

  “You’re asking me to agree to that?”

  “No, I’m telling you. Willing discipline on your part…or at the next clash one of us will be killed. I won’t give you the slightest warning. That’s why your safest course is to shoot me in the back.”

  “Quit talking nonsense! You know I won’t shoot you in the back.”

  “So? I will shoot you in the back or anywhere at the next hint of trouble. Duke, I can see only one alternative. If you find it impossible to give willing disciplined consent, if you don’t think you can displace me, if you can’t bring yourself to kill me, if you don’t care to risk a clash in which one of us will be killed, then there is still a peaceful solution.”

  “What is it?”

  “Any time you wish, you can leave. I’ll give you a rifle, ammunition, salt, matches, a knife, whatever you find needful. You don’t deserve them but I won’t turn you out with nothing.”

  Duke gave a bitter laugh. “Sending me out to play Robinson Crusoe…and leaving all the women with you!”

  “Oh, no! Any who wish are free to go. With a fair share of anything and some to boot. All three women if you can sell the idea.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Do. And do a little politicking and size up your chances of winning a vote against me ‘democratically’—while being extraordinarily careful not to cross wills with me and thereby bring on a showdown sooner than you wish. I warn you, I’m feeling very short-tempered; you loosened one of my teeth.”

  “I didn’t mean to.”

  “That wasn’t the way it felt. There’s the shelter; you can start that ‘willing discipline’ by pretending that we’ve had a lovely afternoon.”

  “Look, Dad, if you won’t mention—”

  “Shut up. I’m sick of you.”

  As they neared the shelter Karen saw them and yoo-hooed; Joe and Barbara came crawling out the tunnel. Karen waved her shovel. “Come see what I’ve done!”

  She had dug privies on each side of the shelter. Saplings formed frameworks which had been screened by tacking cardboard from liquor cases. Seats had been built of lumber remnants from the tank room. “Well?” demanded Karen. “Aren’t they gorgeous?”

  “Yes,” agreed Hugh. “Much more lavish than I had expected.” He refrained from saying that they had cost most of the lumber.

  “I didn’t do it all. Barbara did the carpentry. You should hear her swear when she hits her thumb.”

  “You hurt your thumb, Barbara?”

  “It’ll get well. Come try the ladder.”

  “Sure thing.” He started inside; Joe stopped him.

  “Hugh, while we’ve still got light, how about seeing something?”

  “All right. What?”

  “The shelter. You’ve been talking about building a cabin. Suppose we do: what do we have? A mud floor and a roof that leaks, no glass for windows and no doors. Seems to me the shelter is better.”

  “Well, perhaps,” agreed Hugh. “I had thought we could use it while pioneering, if we had to.”

  “I don’t think it’s too radioactive, Hugh. That dosimeter should have gone sky-high if the roof is really ‘hot.’ It hasn’t.”

  “That’s good news. But, Joe, look at it. A slant of thirty degrees is uncomfortable. We need a house with a level floor.”

  “That’s what I mean. Hugh, that hydraulic jack—it’s rated at thirty tons. How much does the shelter weigh?”

  “Oh. Let me think how many yards of mix we used and how much steel.” Hugh pondered it, got out his notebook. “Call it two hundred fifty t
ons.”

  “Well, it was an idea.”

  “Maybe it’s a good idea.” Hugh prowled around the shelter, a block twenty feet square and twelve high, sizing up angles, estimating yardages.

  “It can be done,” Hugh decided. “We dig under on the uphill side, to the center line, cutting out enough to let that side settle down level. Damn, I wish we had power tools.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “Two men could do it in a week if they didn’t run into boulders. With no dynamite a boulder can be a problem.”

  “Too much of a problem?”

  “Always some way to cope. Let’s pray we don’t run into solid rock. As we get it dug out, we brace it with logs. At the end we snag the logs out with block and tackle. Then we put the jack under the downhill side and tilt it into place, shore it up and fill with what we’ve removed. Lots of sweat.”

  “I’ll start bright and early tomorrow.”

  “You will like hell. Not until your ribs have healed. I will start tomorrow, with two husky girls. Plus Duke, if his shoulder isn’t sore, after he shoots us a deer; we’ve got to conserve canned goods. Reminds me—what was done with the dirty cans?”

  “Buried ’em.”

  “Dig them up and wash them. A tin can is more valuable than gold; we’ll use them for all sorts of things. Let’s go in. I’ve still to admire the ladder.”

  The ladder was two trimmed saplings, with treads cut from boards and notched and nailed. Hugh reflected again that lumber had been used too lavishly; treads should have been fashioned from limbs. Damn it, there were so many things that could no longer be ordered by picking up a telephone. Those rolls of Scottissue, one at each privy—They shouldn’t be left outdoors; what if it rained? All too soon it would be either a handful of leaves, or do without.

  So many, many things they had always taken for granted! Kotex—How long would their supply last? And what did primitive women use? Something, no doubt, but what?

  He must warn them that anything manufactured, a scrap of paper, a dirty rag, a pin, all must be hoarded. Caution them, hound them, nag them endlessly.

  “That’s a beautiful ladder, Barbara!”

  She looked very pleased. “Joe did the hard parts.”

  “I did not,” Joe denied. “I just gave advice and touched up the chisel.”