“Huh?” said Alice.
“How’d you like to dance with me?”
“Dance, you mean?” Alice turned her smoky, promiseful eyes on him, and the stupid question became humorous and delightful, and at the same time it hinted at other things which moved and excited even the cynical Jimmie.
“Dance?” he thought she asked. “Only dance?” And in spite of his high school training, Jimmie’s throat tightened, his feet and hands shifted nervously and the blood rose to his neck.
Alice turned to her mother who was already talking with Mrs. Breman that peculiar culinary gabble of housekeepers. “Ma,” said Alice, “can I dance?”
Katherine smiled. “Go on,” she said, and then, “Enjoy yourself for once.”
Jimmie found that Alice danced badly. When the music stopped, “It’s hot in here, isn’t it? Let’s stroll outside,” he suggested. And he led her out under the willow trees in the schoolhouse yard.
Meanwhile a woman who had been standing on the porch of the schoolhouse went inside and whispered in Katherine’s ear. Katherine started up and hurried outside. “Alice!” she called wildly. “Alice, you come right here!”
When the wayward two appeared out of the shadows, Katherine turned on Jimmie. “You keep away, do you hear me? You keep away from this girl or you’ll get into trouble.”
Jimmie’s manhood melted. He felt like a sent-home child. He hated it, but he couldn’t override it.
Katherine led her daughter into the schoolhouse again. “Didn’t your father tell you to keep away from Jimmie Munroe? Didn’t he?” she demanded. Katherine was terrified.
“Was that him?” Alice whispered.
“Sure it was. What were you two doing out there?”
“Kissing,” said Alice in an awed voice.
Katherine’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, Lord!” she said. “Oh, Lord, what shall I do?”
“Is it bad, Ma?”
Katherine frowned. “No—no, of course it’s not bad,”
she cried. “It’s—good. But don’t you ever let your father know about it. Don’t you tell him even if he asks you! He—why, he’d go crazy. And you sit here beside me the rest of the evening, and don’t you see Jimmie Munroe any more, will you? Maybe your father won’t hear about it. Oh, Lord, I hope he don’t hear about it!”
On Monday Shark Wicks got off the evening train in Salinas, and took a bus to the cross-road which ran from the highway into the Pastures of Heaven. Shark clutched his bag and began the four-mile walk home.
The night was clear and sweet and heavy with stars. The faint mysterious sounds of the hills welcomed him home and set up reveries in his head so that he forgot his footsteps.
He had been pleased with the funeral. The flowers were nice, and there were so many of them. The weeping of the women and the solemn tip-toeing of the men had set up a gentle sorrow in Shark which was far from unpleasant. Even the profound ritual of the church, which no one understands nor listens to, had been a drug which poured sweet mysterious juices into his body and his brain. The church opened and closed over him for an hour, and out of his contact he had brought the drowsy peace of strong flowers and drifting incense, and the glow of relationship with eternity. These things were wrought in him by the huge simplicity of the burial.
Shark had never known his Aunt Nellie very well, but he had thoroughly enjoyed her funeral. In some way his relatives had heard of his wealth, for they treated him with deference and dignity. Now, as he walked home, he thought of these things again and his pleasure speeded up the time, shortened the road and brought him quickly to the Pastures of Heaven General Store. Shark went in, for he knew he could find someone in the store who would report on the valley and its affairs during his absence.
T. B. Allen, the proprietor, knew everything that happened, and also he enhanced the interest of every bit of news by simulating a reluctance to tell it. The most stupid piece of gossip became exciting when old T. B. had it to tell.
No one but the owner was in the store when Shark entered. T. B. let down his chair-back from the wall, and his eyes sparkled with interest.
“Hear you been away,” he suggested in a tone that invited confidence.
“Been up to Oakland,” said Shark. “I had to go to a funeral. Thought I might as well do some business at the same time.”
T. B. waited as long for elaboration as he thought decent. “Anything happen, Shark?”
“Well, I don’t know if you’d call it that. I was looking into a company.”
“Put any money in?” T. B. asked respectfully.
“Some.”
Both men looked at the floor.
“Anything happen while I was gone?”
Immediately a look of reluctance came over the face of the old man. One read a dislike for saying just what had happened, a natural aversion for scandal. “Dance at the schoolhouse,” he admitted at last.
“Yes, I knew about that.”
T. B. squirmed. Apparently there was a struggle going on in his mind. Should he tell Shark what he knew, for Shark’s own good, or should he keep all knowledge to himself? Shark watched the struggle with interest. He had seen others like it many times before.
“Well, what is it?” he prodded.
“Hear there might be a wedding pretty soon.”
“Yeah? Who?”
“Well, pretty close to home, I guess.”
“Who?” Shark asked again.
T. B. struggled vainly and lost. “You,” he admitted.
Shark chuckled. “Me?”
“Alice.”
Shark stiffened and stared at the old man. Then he stepped forward and stood over him threateningly. What do you mean? Tell me what you mean—you!”
T. B. knew he had overstepped. He cowered away from Shark. “Now don’t, Mr. Wicks! Don’t you do nothing!”
“Tell me what you mean! Tell me everything.” Shark grasped T. B. by the shoulder and shook him fiercely.
“Well, it was only at the dance—just at the dance.”
“Alice was at the dance?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What was she doing there?”
“I don’t know. I mean, nothing.”
Shark pulled him out of his chair and stood him roughly on his fumbling feet. “Tell me!” he demanded.
The old man whimpered. “She just walked out in the yard with Jimmie Munroe.”
Shark had both of the shoulders now. He shook the terrified storekeeper like a sack. “Tell me! What did they do?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Wicks.”
“Tell me.”
“Well, Miss Burke—Miss Burke said—they was kissing.”
Shark dropped the sack and sat down. He was appalled with a sense of loss. While he glared at T. B. Allen, his brain fought with the problem of his daughter’s impurity. It did not occur to him that the passage had stopped with a kiss. Shark moved his head and his eyes roved helplessly around the store. T. B. saw his eyes pass over the glass-fronted gun case.
“Don’t you do nothing, Shark,” he cried. “Them guns ain’t yours.”
Shark hadn’t seen the guns at all, but now that his attention was directed toward them, he leaped up, threw open the sliding glass door and took out a heavy rifle. He tore off the price tag and tossed a box of cartridges into his pocket. Then, without a glance at the storekeeper, he strode out into the dark. And old T. B. was at the telephone before Shark’s quick footsteps had died away into the night.
As Shark walked quickly along toward the Munroe place, his thoughts raced hopelessly. He was sure of one thing, though, now that he had walked a little; he didn’t want to kill Jimmie Munroe. He hadn’t even been thinking about shooting him until the storekeeper suggested the idea. Then he had acted upon it without thinking. What could he do now? He tried to picture what he would do when he came to the Munroe house. Perhaps he would have to shoot Jimmie Munroe. Maybe things would fall out in a way that would force him to commit murder to maintain his dignity in the Pastures of Heaven.
Shark heard a car coming and stepped into the brush while it roared by, with a wide open throttle. He would be getting there pretty soon, and he didn’t hate Jimmie Munroe. He didn’t hate anything except the hollow feeling that had entered him when he heard of Alice’s loss of virtue. Now he could only think of his daughter as one who was dead.
Ahead of him, he could see the lights of the Munroe house now. And Shark knew that he couldn’t shoot Jimmie. Even if he were laughed at he couldn’t shoot the boy. There was no murder in him. He decided that he would look in at the gate and then go along home. Maybe people would laugh at him, but he simply could not shoot anybody.
Suddenly a man stepped from the shadow of a bush and shouted at him. “Put down that gun, Wicks, and put up your hands”