The store in which the justice of the Peace's court was sitting
smelled of cheese. The boy, crouched on his nail keg at the back of
the crowded room, knew he smelled cheese, and more: from where he sat
he could see the ranked shelves close-packed with the solid, squat,
dynamic shapes of tin cans whose labels his stomach read, not from
the lettering which meant nothing to his mind but from the scarlet
devils and the silver curve of fish—this, the cheese which he knew he
smelled and the hermetic meat which his intestines believed he
smelled coming in intermittent gusts momentary and brief between
the other constant one, the smell and sense just a little of fear
because mostly of despair and grief, the old fierce pull of blood.
he could not see the table where the Justice sat and before which
his father and his father's enemy (our enemy he thought in that
despair; ourn! mine and hisn both! He's my father!) stood, but he
could hear them, the two of them that is, because his father had said
no word yet:
"But what proof have you, Mr. Harris?"
"I told you. The hog got into my corn. I caught it up and sent it
back to him, he had no fence that would hold it. I told him so,
warned him. The next time I put the hog in my pen. When he came to
get it I gave him enough wire to patch up his pen. The next time I
put the hog up and kept it. I rode down to his house and saw the wire
I gave him still rolled on to the spool in his yard. I told him he
could have the hog when he paid me a dollar pound fee. That evening
a nigger came with the dollar and got the hog. He was a strange
nigger. He said, 'He say to tell you wood and hay kin burn.' I said,
'What?' 'That whut he say to tell you,' the nigger said. 'Wood and hay kin burn.' That night
my barn burned. I got the stock out
but I lost the barn."
"Where is the nigger? Have you got him?"
"He was a strange nigger, I tell you. I don't know what became of
But that's not proof. Don't you see that's not proof?"
"Get that boy up here. He knows." For a moment the boy thought too
that the man meant his older brother until Harris said, "Not him. The
little one. The boy." and, crouching, small for his age, small and
wiry like his father, in patched and faded jeans even too small for
him, with straight, uncombed, brown hair and eyes gray and wild as
storm scud, he saw the men between himself and the table part and
become a lane of grim faces, at the end of which he saw the justice,
a shabby, collarless, graying man in spectacles, beckoning him, he
felt no floor under his bare feet; he seemed to walk beneath the
palpable weight of the grim turning faces. His father, stiff in his
black Sunday coat donned not for the trial but for the moving, did
not even look at him, He aims for me to lie, he thought, again with
that frantic grief and despair. And I will have to do hit.
'What's your name, boy?" the Justice said.
"Colonel Sartoris Snopes," the boy whispered.
"Hey?" the Justice said. "Talk louder. Colonel Sartoris? I reckon
anybody named for Colonel Sartoris in this country can't help but
tell the truth, can they?" The boy said nothing. Enemy! Enemy! he
thought; for a moment he could not even see, could not see that the
justice's face was kindly nor discern that his voice was troubled
when he spoke to the man named Harris: "Do you want me to question
this boy?" But he could hear, and during those subsequent long
seconds while there was absolutely no sound in the crowded little
room save that of quiet and intent breathing it was as if he had
swung outward at the end of a grape vine, over a ravine, and at the
top of the swing had been caught in a prolonged instant of mesmerized
gravity, weightless in time.
"No!" Harris said violently, explosively. "Damnation! Send him out
of here!" Now time, the fluid world, rushed beneath him again, the
voices coming to him again through the smell of cheese and sealed
meat, the fear and despair and the old grief of blood:
"This case is closed. I can't find against you, Snopes, but I can
give you advice. Leave this county and don't come back to it."
His father spoke for the first time, his voice cold and harsh,
level, without emphasis: "I aim to. I don't figure to stay in a
country among people who . . ." he said something unprintable and
vile, addressed to no one.
"That'll do," the justice said. "Take your wagon and get out of
this county before dark. Case dismissed. "
His father turned, and he followed the stiff black coat, the wiry
figure walking a little stiffly from where a Confederate provost's
man's musket ball had taken him in the heel on a stolen horse thirty
years ago, followed the two backs now, since his older brother had
appeared from somewhere in the crowd, no taller than the father but
thicker, chewing tobacco steadily, between the two lines of
grim-faced men and out of the store and across the worn gallery and
down the sagging steps and among the dogs and half-grown boys in the
mild May dust, where as he passed a voice hissed:
Again he could not see, whirling; there was a face in a red haze,
moonlike, bigger than the full moon, the owner of it half again his
size, he leaping in the red haze toward the face, feeling no blow,
feeling no shock when his head struck the earth, scrabbling up and
leaping again, feeling no blow this time either and tasting no blood,
scrabbling up to see the other boy in full flight and himself already
leaping into pursuit as his father's hand jerked him back, the harsh,
cold voice speaking above him: "Go get in the wagon."
It stood in a grove of locusts and mulberries across the road. His
two hulking sisters in their Sunday dresses and his mother and her
sister in calico and sunbonnets were already in it, sitting on and
among the sorry residue of the dozen and more movings which even the
boy could remember-the battered stove, the broken beds and chairs,
the clock inlaid with mother-of-pearl, which would not run, stopped
at some fourteen minutes past two o'clock of a dead and forgotten day
and time, which had been his mother's dowry. She was crying, though
when she saw him she drew her sleeve across her face and began to
descend from the wagon. "Get back," the father said.
He's hurt. I got to get some water and wash his. . .
"Get back in the wagon," his father said, he got in too, over the
tail-gate. His father mounted to the seat where the older brother
already sat and struck the gaunt mules two savage blows with the
peeled willow, but without heat. It was not even sadistic; it was
exactly that same quality which in later years would cause his
descendants to over-run the engine before putting a motor car into
motion, striking and reining back in the same movement. The wagon
went on, the store with its quiet crowd of grimly watching men
dropped behind; a curve in the road hid it. Forever he thought. Maybe
he's done satisfied now, now that he has ... stopping himself, not to
say it aloud even to himself. His mother's hand touched his
"Does hit hurt?" she said.
"Naw," he said. "Hit don't hurt. Lemme be."
"Can't you wipe some of the blood off before hit dries?"
"I'll wash to-night," he said. "Lemme be, I tell you."
The wagon went on. He did not know where they were going. None of
them ever did or ever asked, because it was always somewhere, always
a house of sorts waiting for them a day or two days or even three
days away. Likely, his father bad already arranged to make a crop on
another farm before he ... Again he had to stop himself. He (the
father) always did. There was something about his wolflike
independence and even courage, when the advantage was at least
neutral, which impressed strangers, as if they got from his latent
ravening ferocity not so much a sense of dependability as a feeling
that his ferocious conviction in the rightness of his own actions
would be of advantage to all whose interest lay with his.
That night they camped, in a grove of oaks and beeches where a
spring ran. The nights were still cool and they had a fire against
it, of a rail lifted from a nearby fence and cut into lengths-a small
fire, neat, niggard almost, a shrewd fire; such fires were his
father's habit and custom always, even in freezing weather. Older,
the boy might have remarked this and wondered why not a big one; why
should not a man who had not only seen the waste and extravagance of
war, but who had in his blood an inherent voracious prodigality with
material not his own, have burned everything in sight?
Then he might have gone a step farther and thought that that was
the reason: that niggard blaze was the living fruit of nights passed
during those four years in the woods hiding from all men, blue or
gray, with his strings of horses (captured horses, he called them).
And older still, he might have divined the true reason: that the
element of fire spoke to some deep mainspring of his father's being,
as the element of steel or of powder spoke to other men, as the one
weapon for the preservation of integrity, else breath were not worth
the breathing, and hence to be regarded with respect and used with
But, he did not think this now and he had seen those same niggard
blazes all his life. He merely ate his supper beside it and was
already half asleep over his iron plate when his father called him,
and once more he followed the stiff back, the stiff and ruthless
limp, up the slope and on to the starlit road where, turning, he
could see his father against the stars but without face or depth-a
shape black, flat, and bloodless as though cut from tin in the iron
folds of the frockcoat which had not been made lot him, the voice
harsh like tin and without heat like tin:
"You were fixing to tell them. You would have told him," He didn't
answer. His father struck him with the flat of his hand on the side
of the head, hard but without heat, exactly as he had struck the two
mules at the store, exactly as he would strike either of them with
any stick in order to kill a horse fly, his voice still without heat
or anger: "You're getting to be a man. You got to learn. You got to
learn to stick to your own blood or you ain't going to have any blood
to stick to you. Do you think either of them, any man there this
morning, would? Don't you know all they wanted was a chance to get at
me because they knew I had them beat? Eh?" Later, twenty years later,
he was to tell himself, " If I had said they wanted only truth,
justice, he would have hit me again." But now he said nothing. He was
not crying. He just stood there. "Answer me," his father said.
"Yes," he whispered. His father turned.
"Get on to bed. We'll be there tomorrow."
To-morrow they were there. In the early afternoon the wagon
stopped before a paintless two-room house identical almost with the
dozen others it had stopped before even in the boy's ten years, and
again, as on the other dozen occasions, his mother and aunt got down
and began to unload the wagon, although his two sisters and his
father and brother had not moved.
"Likely hit ain't fitten for hawgs," one of the sisters said.
"Nevertheless, fit it will and you'll hog it and like it," his
father said. "Get out of them chairs and help your Ma unload."
The two sisters got down, big, bovine, in a flutter of cheap
ribbons; one of them drew from the jumbled wagon bed a battered
lantern, the other a worn broom. His father handed the reins to the
older son and began to climb stiffly over the wheel. "When they get
unloaded, take the team to the barn and feed them." Then he said, and
at first, the boy thought he was still speaking to his brother: "Come
"Me?" he said.
"Yes," his father said. "you."
"Abner," his mother said. His father paused and looked back-the
harsh level state beneath the shaggy, graying, irascible brows.
I reckon I'll have a word with the man that aims to begin tomorrow
owning me body and soul for the next eight months."
They went back up the road. A week ago-or before last night, that
is-he would have asked where they were going, but not now. His father
had struck him before last night but never before had he paused
afterward to explain why, it was as if the blow and the following
calm, outrageous voice still rang, repercussed, divulging nothing to
him save the terrible handicap of being young, the light weight of
his few years, just heavy enough to prevent his soaring free of the
world as it seemed to be ordered but not heavy enough to keep him
footed solid in it, to resist it and try to change the course of its
Presently he could see the grove of oaks and cedars and the other
flowering trees and shrubs where the house would be, though not the
house yet. They walked beside a fence massed with honeysuckle and
Cherokee roses and came to a gate swinging open between two brick
pillars, and now, beyond a sweep of drive, he saw the house for the
first time and at that instant he forgot his father and the terror
and despair both, and even when he remembered his father again (who
had not stopped) the terror and despair did not return. Because, for
all the twelve movings, they had sojourned until now in a poor
country, a land of small farms and fields and houses, and he had
never seen a house like this before. Hits big as a courthouse he
thought quietly, with a surge of peace and joy whose reason he could
not have thought into words, being too young for that: They are safe
from him. People whose lives are a part of this peace and dignity are
beyond his touch, he no more to them than a buzzing wasp: capable of
stinging for a little moment but that's all,- the spell of this peace
and dignity rendering even the barns and stable and cribs which
belong to it impervious to the puny flames he might contrive . . .
this, the peace and joy, ebbing for an instant as he looked again at
the stiff black back, the stiff and implacable limp of the figure
which was not dwarfed by the house, for the reason that it had never
looked big anywhere and which now, against the serene columned
backdrop, had more than ever that impervious quality of something cut
ruthlessly from tin, depthless, as though, sidewise to the sun, it
would cast no shadow. Watching him, the boy remarked the absolutely
undeviating course which his father held and saw the stiff foot come
squarely down in a pile of fresh droppings where a horse had stood in
the drive and which his father could have avoided by a simple change
of stride. But it ebbed only for a moment, though he could not have
thought this into words either, walking on in the spell of the house,
which he could ever want but without envy, without sorrow, certainly
never with that ravening and jealous rage which unknown to him walked
in the ironlike black coat before him; Maybe he will feel it too,
Maybe it will even change him now from what maybe be couldn't help
They crossed the portico. Now he could hear his father's stiff
foot as it came down on the boards with clocklike finality, a sound
out of all proportion to the displacement of the body it bore and
which was not dwarfed either by the white door before it, as though
it had attained to a sort of vicious and ravening minimum not to be
dwarfed by anything-the flat, wide, black hat, the formal coat of
broadcloth which had once been black but which had now that
friction-glazed greenish cast of the bodies of old house flies, the
lifted sleeve which was too large, the lifted hand like a curled
claw. The door opened so promptly that the boy knew the Negro must
have been watching them all the time, an old man with neat grizzled
hair, in a linen jacket. who stood barring the door with his body,
saying, "Wipe yo foots, white man, fo you come in here, Major ain't
"Get out of my way, nigger," his father said, without heat too,
flinging the door back and the Negro also and entering, his hat still
on his head. And now the boy saw the prints of the stiff foot on the
doorjamb and saw them appear on the pale rug behind the machinelike
deliberation of the foot which seemed to bear (or transmit) twice the
weight which the body compassed. The Negro was shouting "Miss Lula!
Miss Lula! " somewhere behind them, then the boy, deluged as though
by a warm wave by a suave turn of carpeted stair and a pendant
glitter of chandeliers and a mute gleam of gold frames, heard the
swift feet and saw her too, a lady-perhaps he had never seen her like
before either-in a gray, smooth gown with lace at the throat and an
apron tied at the waist and the sleeves turned back, wiping cake or
biscuit dough from her hands with a towel as she came up the hall,
looking not at his father at all but at the tracks on the blond rug
with an expression of incredulous amazement.
"I tried," the Negro cried. "I tole him to . . ."
"Will you please go away?" she said in a shaking voice. "Major de
Spain is not at home. Will you please go away?"
His father had not spoken again. He did not speak again. He did
not even look at her. He just stood stiff in the center of the rug,
in his hat, the shaggy iron-gray brows twitching slightly above the
pebble-colored eyes as he appeared to examine the house with brief
deliberation. Then with the same deliberation he turned; the boy
watched him pivot on the good leg and saw the stiff foot drag round
the arc of the turning, leaving a final long and fading smear. His
father never looked at it, he never once looked down at the rug, The
Negro held the door, It closed behind them, upon the hysteric and
indistinguishable woman-wail. His father stopped at the top of the
steps and scraped his boot clean on the edge of it. At the gate he
stopped again. He stood for a moment, planted stiffly on the stiff
foot, looking back at the house. 'Pretty and white, ain't it?" he
said. "That's sweat. Nigger sweat. Maybe it ain't white enough yet to
suit him. Maybe he wants to mix some white sweat with it."
Two hours later the boy was chopping wood behind the house within
which his mother and aunt and the two sisters (the mother and aunt,
not the two girls, he knew that; even at this distance and muffled by
walls the flat loud voices of the two girls emanated an incorrigible
idle inertia) were setting up the stove to prepare a meal, when he
heard the hooves and saw the linen-clad man on a fine sorrel mare,
whom he recognized even before he saw the rolled rug in front of the
Negro youth following on a fat boy carriage horse-a suffused, angry
face vanishing, still at full gallop, beyond the corner of the house
where his father and brother were sitting in the two tilted chairs;
and a moment later, almost before he could have put the axe down, he
heard the hooves again and watched the sorrel mare go back out of the
yard, already galloping again. Then his father began to shout one of
the sisters' names, who presently emerged backward from the kitchen
door dragging the rolled rug along the ground by one end while the
other sister walked behind it.
"If you ain't going to tote, go on and set up the wash pot," the
"You, Sarty! " the second shouted. "Set up the wash pot!" His
father appeared at the door, framed against that shabbiness, as he
had been against that other bland perfection, impervious to either,
the mother's anxious face at his shoulder.
"Go on," the father said. "Pick it up." The two sisters stooped,
broad, lethargic; stooping, they presented an incredible expanse of
pale cloth and a flutter of tawdry ribbons.
"If I thought enough of a rug to have to git hit all the way from
France I wouldn't keep hit where folks coming in would have to tromp
on hit," the first said. They raised the rug,
"Abner, " the mother said. "Let me do it."
"You go back and git dinner," his father said. "I'll tend to
From the woodpile through the rest of the afternoon the boy
watched them, the rug spread flat in the dust beside the bubbling
wash-pot, the two sisters stooping over it with that profound and
lethargic reluctance, while the father stood over them in turn,
implacable and grim, driving them though never raising his voice
again. He could smell the harsh homemade lye they were using; he saw
his mother come to the door once and look toward them with an
expression not anxious now but very like despair; he saw his father
turn, and he fell to with the axe and saw from the corner of his eye
his father raise from the ground a flattish fragment of field stone
and examine it and return to the pot, and this time his mother
actually spoke: "Abner. Abner. Please don't. Please, Abner,"
Then he was done too. it was dusk; the whippoorwills had already
begun. He could smell coffee from the room where they would presently
eat the cold food remaining from the mid-afternoon meal, though when
he entered the house he realized they were having coffee again
probably because there was a fire on the hearth, before which the rug
now lay spread over the backs of the two chairs. The tracks of his
father's foot were gone. Where they had been were now long,
water-cloudy scoriations resembling the sporadic course of a
lilliputian mowing machine.
It still hung there while they ate the cold food and then went to
bed, scattered without order or claim up and down the two rooms, his
mother in one bed, where his father would later lie, the older
brother in the other, himself, the aunt, and the two sisters on
pallets on the floor. But his father was not in bed yet. The last
thing the boy remembered was the depthless, harsh silhouette of the
hat and coat bending over the rug and it seemed to him that he had
not even closed his eyes when the silhouette was standing over him,
the fire almost dead behind it, the stiff foot prodding him awake.
"Catch up the mule," his father said.
When he returned with the mule his father was standing in the
black door, the rolled rug over his shoulder. "Ain't you going to
ride?" he said.
"No, Give me your foot."
He bent his knee into his father's hand, the wiry, surprising
power flowed smoothly, rising, he rising with it, on to the mule's
bare back (they had owned a saddle once; the boy could remember it
though not when or where) and with the same effortlessness his father
swung the rug up in front of him. Now in the starlight they retraced
the afternoon's path, up the dusty road rife with honeysuckle,
through the gate and up the black tunnel of the drive to the
lightless house, where he sat on the mule and felt the rough warp of
the rug drag across his thighs and vanish.
"Don't you want me to help?" he whispered. His father did not
answer and now he heard again that stiff foot striking the hollow
portico with that wooden and clock like deliberation, that outrageous
overstatement of the weight it carried. The rug, hunched, not flung
(the boy could tell that even in the darkness) from his father's
shoulder struck the angle of wall and floor with a sound unbelievably
loud, thunderous, then the foot again, unhurried and enormous; a
light came on in the house and the boy sat, tense, breathing steadily
and quietly and just a little fast, though the foot itself did not
increase its beat at all, descending the steps now; now the boy could
'Don't you want to ride now?" he whispered. "We kin both ride
now," the light within the house altering now, flaring up and
sinking. He's coming down the stairs now, he thought. fie had already
ridden the mule up beside the horse block; presently his father was
up behind him and he doubled the reins over and slashed the mule
across the neck, but before the animal could begin to trot the hard,
thin arm came round him, the hard, knotted hand jerking the mule back
to a walk.
In the first red rays of the sun they were in the lot, putting
plow gear on the mules. This time the sorrel mare was in the lot
before he heard it at all, the rider collarless and even bareheaded,
trembling, speaking in a shaking voice as the woman in the house had
done, his father merely looking up once before stooping again to the
hame3 he was buckling, so that the man on the mare spoke to his
"You must realize you have ruined that rug, Wasn't there anybody
here, any of your women ." he ceased, shaking, the boy watching him,
the older brother leaning now in the stable door, chewing, blinking
slowly and steadily at nothing apparently "It cost a hundred dollars.
But you never had a hundred dollars. You never will. So I'm going to
charge you twenty bushels of corn against your crop. I'll add it in
your contract and when you come to the commissary you can sign it.
That won't keep Mrs. de Spain quiet but maybe it will teach you to
wipe your feet off before you enter her house again."
Then he was gone. The boy looked at his father, who still had not
spoken or even looked up again, who was now adjusting the
logger-head4 in the hame.
"Pap," he said. I His father looked at him-the inscrutable face,
the shaggy brows beneath which the gray eyes glinted coldly. Suddenly
the boy went toward him, fast, stopping also, suddenly. "You done the
best you could!" he cried. "If he wanted hit done different why
didn't he wait and tell you how? He won't git no twenty bushels! He
won't git none! We'll gether hit and hide hit! I kin watch . . .
"Did you put the cutter back in that straight stock like I told
"No, sir," he said.
"Then go do it."
That was Wednesday. During the rest of that week he worked
steadily, at what was within his scope and some which was beyond it,
with an industry that did not need to be driven nor even commanded
twice; he had this from his mother, with the difference that some at
least of what he did he liked to do, such as splitting wood with the
half-size axe which his mother and aunt had earned; or saved money
somehow, to present him with at Christmas. In company with the two
older women (and on one afternoon, even one of the sisters), he built
pens for the shoat and the cow which were a part of his father's
contract with the landlord, and one afternoon, his father being
absent, gone somewhere on one of the mules, he went to the field.
They were running a middle buster now, his brother holding the
plow straight while he handled the reins, and walking beside the
straining mule, the rich black sod shearing cool and damp against his
bare ankles, he thought Maybe this is the end of it. Maybe even that
twenty bushels that seems hard to have to pay for just a rug will be
a cheap price for him to stop forever and always from being what he
used to he; thinking, dreaming now, so that his brother had to speak
sharply to him to mind the mule: Maybe he even won't collect the
twenty bushels, Maybe it will all add up and balance and vanish-corn,
rug, fire,- The terror and grief the being pulled two ways like
between two teams of horses-gone, done with for ever and ever
Then it was Saturday; he looked Lip from beneath the mule he was
harnessing and saw his father in the black coat and hat. " Not that,
" his father said. "The wagon gear." And then, two hours later,
sitting in the wagon bed behind his father and brother on the seat,
the wagon accomplished a final curve, and he saw the weathered
paintless store with its tattered tobacco- and patent-medicine
posters and the tethered wagons and saddle animals below the gallery.
He mounted the gnawed steps behind his father and brother, and there
again was the lane of quiet, watching faces for the three of them to
walk through. I le saw the man in spectacles sitting at the plank
table and he did not need to be told this was a Justice of the Peace;
he sent one glare of fierce, exultant, partisan defiance at the man
in collar and cravat now, whom he had seen but twice before in his
life, and that on a galloping horse, who now wore on his face an
expression riot of rage but of amazed unbelief which the boy could
not have known was at the incredible circumstance of being sued by
one of his own ten ants, and came and stood against his father and
cried at the Justice: "He ain't done it! fie ain't burnt . . "
"Go back to the wagon," his father said.
"Burnt?" the Justice said. "Do I understand this rug was burned
"Does anybody here claim it was?" his father said. "Go back to the
wagon." But he did not, he merely retreated to the rear of the room,
crowded as that other had been, but not to sit down this time,
instead, to stand pressing among the motionless bodies, listening to
"And you claim twenty bushels of corn is too high for the damage
you did to the rug? "
"Ile brought the rug to me and said he wanted the tracks washed
out of it. I washed the tracks out and took the rug back to him,"
"But you didn't carry the rug back to him in the same condition it
was in before you made the tracks on it."
His father (lid not answer, and now for perhaps half a minute
there was no sound at all save that of breathing, the faint, steady
suspiration of complete and intent listening .
"You decline to answer that, Mr. Snopes?" Again his father did not
answer. -Fir going to find against you, Mr. Snopes. I'm going to find
that you were responsible for" the injury to Major de Spain's rug and
hold you liable for it. But twenty bushels of corn seems a little
high for a man in your circumstances to have to pay. Major de Spain
claims it cost a hundred dollars. October corn will be worth about
fifty cents. I figure
that if Major de Spain can stand a ninety-five dollar loss on
something he paid cash for, you can stand a five-dollar loss you
haven't earned yet. I hold you in damages to Major de Spain to the
amount of ten bushels of corn over and above your contract with him,
to be paid to him out of your crop at gathering time. Court
It had taken no time hardly, the morning was but half begun. He
thought they would return home and perhaps back to the field, since
they were late, far behind all other farmers. But instead his father
passed on behind the wagon, merely indicating with his hand for the
older brother to follow with it, and crossed the road toward the
blacksmith shop opposite, pressing on after his father, overtaking
him, speaking, whispering up at the harsh, calm face beneath the
weathered hat: "He won't git no ten bushels neither. Ile won't git
one. We'll . , . " until his father glanced for an instant down at
him, the face absolutely calm, the grizzled eyebrows tangled above
the cold eyes, the voice almost pleasant, almost gentle:
"You think so? Well, we'll wait till October anyway."
The matter of the wagon-the setting of a spoke or two and the
tightening of the tires-did not take long either, the business of the
tires accomplished by driving the wagon into the spring branch behind
the shop and letting it stand there, the mules nuzzling into the
water from time to time, and the boy on the seat with the idle reins,
looking up the slope and through the sooty tunnel of the shed where
the slow hammer rang and where his father sat on an upended cypress
bolt, easily, either talking or listening, still sitting there when
the boy brought the dripping wagon up out of the branch and halted it
before the door.
"Take them on to the shade and hitch," his father said. He did so
and returned. His father and the smith and a third man squatting on
his heels inside the door were talking, about crops and animals; the
boy, squatting too in the ammoniac dust and hoof parings and scales
of rust, heard his father tell a long and unhurried story Out of the
time before the. birth of the older brother even when he had been a
professional horsetrader. And then his father came Lip beside him
where he stood before a tattered last year's circus poster on the
other side of the store, gazing rapt and quiet it the scarlet horses,
the incredible poisings and convolutions of tulle and tights and
painted leers of comedians, and said, "It's time to eat."
But not at home. Squatting beside his brother against the front
wall, he watched his lather emerge from the store and produce from a
paper sack a segment of cheese and divide it carefully and
deliberately into three with his pocket knife and produce crackers
from the same sack. They all three squatted on the gallery and ate,
slowly, without talking; then in the store again, they drank from a
tin dipper tepid water 'Melling of the cedar bucket an(.] of
living beech trees. And still they did not go home. It was as a horse
lot this time, a tall rail fence upon and along which men stood and
sat and out of which one by one horses were led, to be walked and
trotted and then cantered back and forth along the road while the
slow swapping and buying went on and the sun began to slant westward,
they-the three of them-watching and listening, the older brother with
his Muddy eyes and his steady, inevitable tobacco, the father
commenting now and then on certain of the animals, to no one in
It was after sundown when they reached home. They ate supper by
lamplight, then, sitting on the doorstep, the boy watched the night
fully accomplish, listening to the whippoorwills and the frogs, when
he heard his mother's voice: "Abner! No! No! 0h, God. 0h, God.
Abner!" and he rose, whirled, and saw the altered light through the
door where a candle stub now burned in a bottle neck on the table and
his father, still in the hat and coat, at once formal and burlesque
as though dressed carefully for some shabby and ceremonial violence,
emptying the reservoir of the lamp back into the five-gallon kerosene
can from which it had been filled, while the mother tugged at his arm
until he shifted the lamp to the other hand and flung her back, not
savagely or viciously, just hard, into the wall, her hands flung out
against the wall for balance, her mouth open and in her face the same
quality of hopeless despair as had been in her voice. Then his father
saw him standing in the door. "Go to the barn and get that can of oil
we were oiling the wagon with," he said. The boy did not move. Then
he could speak.
"What . . ." he cried. "What are you
"Go get that oil," his father said. "Go,"
Then he was moving, running, outside the house, toward the stable:
this the old habit, the old blood which he had not been permitted to
choose for himself, which had been bequeathed him willy nilly and
which had run for so long (and who knew where, battening on what of
outrage and savagery and lust) before it came to him. I could keep
on, he thought. I could run on and on and never look back, never need
to see his face again. Only I can't, I can't, the rusted can in his
hand now, the liquid sploshing in it as he ran back to the house and
into it, into the sound of his mothers weeping in the next room, and
handed the can to his father.
"Ain't you going to even send a nigger? " he cried. "At least you
sent a nigger before! "
This time his father didn't strike him, The hand came even faster
than the blow had, the same hand which had set the can on the table
with almost excruciating care flashing from the can toward him too
quick for him to follow it, gripping him by the back of his shirt and
on to tiptoe before he had seen it quit the can, the face stooping at
him in breathless and frozen ferocity, the cold, dead voice speaking
over him to the older brother who leaned against the table, chewing
with that steady, curious, sidewise motion of cows:
"Empty the can into the big one and go on. I'll catch up with
"Better tie him up to the bedpost," the brother said.
"Do like I told you", the father said. Then the boy was moving,
his bunched shirt and the hard, bony hand between his shoulder der-
blades, his toes just touching the floor, across the room and into
the other one, past the sisters sitting with spread heavy thighs in
the two chairs over the cold hearth, and to where his mother and aunt
sat side by side on the bed, the aunt's arms about his mother's
"Hold him," the father said. The aunt made a startled movement.
"Not you.' the father said. "Lennie. Take hold of him. I want to see
you do it." His mother took him by the wrist. "You'll hold him better
than that. If he gets loose don't you know what he is going to do? He
will go up yonder." Ile jerked his head toward the road"Maybe I'd
better tie him."
"I'll hold him," his mother whispered.
"See you do then." Then his father was gone, the stiff foot heavy
and measured upon the boards, ceasing at last.
Then he began to struggle. His mother caught him in both arms, he
jerking and wrenching at them. He le would be stronger in the end, he
knew that. But he had no time to wait for it. "Lemme go!" he cried.
"I don't want to have to hit you!"
"Let him go! " the aunt said. "If he don't go, before God, I am
going up there myself! "
"Don't you see I can't?" his mother cried. "Sarty! Sarty! No! No!
Help me, Lizzie! "
Then he was free. His aunt grasped at him but it was too late. He
whirled, running, his mother stumbled forward on to her knees behind
him, crying to the nearer sister: "Catch him, Net! Catch him! " But
that was too late too, the sister (the sisters were twins, born at
the same time, yet either of them now gave the impression of being,
encompassing as much living meat and volume and weight as any other
two of the family) not yet having begun to rise from the chair, her
head, face, alone merely turned, presenting to him in the flying
instant an astonishing expanse of young female features untroubled by
any surprise even, wearing only an expression of bovine interest.
Then he was out of the room, out of the house, in the mild dust of
the starlit road and the heavy rifeness of honeysuckle, the pale
ribbon unspooling with terrific slowness under his running feet,
reaching the gate at last and turning in, running, his heart and
lungs drumming, on up the drive toward the lighted house, the lighted
door. I le did not knock, he burst in, sobbing for breath, incapable
for the moment of speech; he saw the astonished face of the Negro in
the linen jacket without knowing when the Negro had appeared.
"De Spain! " he cried, panted. "Where's then he saw the white man
too emerging from a white door down the hall. "Barn!" he cried.
"What?" the white man said. "Barn?
"Yes!" the boy cried. "Barn!"
"Catch him!" the white man shouted,
But it was too late this time too. The Negro grasped his shirt,
but the entire sleeve, rotten with washing, carried away, and he was
out that door too and in the drive again, and had actually never
ceased to run even while he was screaming into the white man's
Behind him the white man was shouting, "My horse! Fetch my horse!"
and he thought for an instant of cutting across the park and climbing
the fence into the road, but he did not know the park nor how high
the vine-massed fence might be and he dared not risk it. So he ran on
(town the drive, blood and breath roaring; presently he was in the
road again though he could not see it. He could not hear either: the
galloping mare was almost upon him before he heard her, and even then
he held his course, as if the \,cry urgency of his wild grief and
need must in a moment more find him wings, waiting until the ultimate
instant to hurl himself aside and into the weed-choked roadside ditch
as the horse thundered past and on, for an instant in furious
silhouette against the stars, the tranquil early summer night sky
which, even before the shape of the horse and rider vanished, stained
abruptly and violently upward: a long, swirling roar incredible and
soundless, blotting the stars, and he springing up and into the road
again, running again, knowing it was too late yet still running even
after he heard the shot and, an instant later, two shots, pausing now
without knowing he had ceased to run, crying "Pap! Pap!," running
again before he knew he had begun to run, stumbling, tripping over
something and scrabbling Lip again without ceasing to run, looking
backward over his shoulder at the glare as he got up, running on
among the invisible trees, panting, sobbing, "Father! Father!"
At midnight he was sitting on the crest of a hill. He did not know
it was midnight and he did not know how far he had come. But there
was no glare behind him now and he sat now, his back toward what he
had called home for four days anyhow, his face toward the dark woods
which he would enter when breath was strong again, small, shaking
steadily in the chili darkness, hugging himself into the remainder of
his thin, rotten shirt, the grief and despair now no longer terror
and fear but just grief and despair. Father, My father, he thought,
"He was brave!" he cried suddenly, aloud but not loud, no more than a
whisper: "Ile was! He was in the war! lie was in Colonel Sartoris'
cav'ry! " not knowing that his father had gone to that war a private
in the fine old European sense, wearing no uniform, admitting the
authority of and giving fidelity to no man or army or flag, going to
war as Malbrouck6 himself did; for booty--it meant nothing and less
than nothing to him if it were enemy booty or his own.
The slow constellations wheeled on. It would be dawn and then sun
-up after a while and he would he hungry But that would be to-morrow
and now he was only cold, and walking would cure that. His breathing
was easier now, and he decided to get up and go on, and then he found
that he bad been asleep because he knew it was almost dawn, the night
almost over. He could tell that from the whippoorwills. They were
everywhere now among the dark trees below him, constant and
inflectioned and ceaseless, so that, as the instant for giving over
to the day birds drew nearer and nearer, there was no interval at all
between them. He got up. He was a little stiff, but walking would
cure that too as it would the cold, and soon there would be the sun.
He went on down the hill, toward the dark woods within which the
liquid silver voices of the birds, called unceasing-the rapid and
urgent beating of the urgent and quiring heart of the late spring
night. He did not look back.
1 Many rural counties had laws that said if a domestic animal
wandered into someone fields the field owner could charge a fee to
return the animal.
2 Extremely small, like the 6-inch inhabitants of the land of
Lilliput in Jonathan Swift's Gut liver's Travels (1726).
3 one of two curved wooden or metal pieces of a harness,
4Clutter ... straight stock: the blade and frame of a plow.
5 Plowhead; harness piece.
6. The chief character in a popular and pervasive 18th century
nursery ditty about a legendary warrior. Originally, this warrior
figure may have derived from the character and exploits of John
Churchill (1650-1722) duke of Marlborough.