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.”
“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.”