The Cold Millions: A Novel, стр. 87
“Cornmeal and lard,” the woman said simply, and Mr. Schulte said, “Yes, Sarah,” and clicked at his team, the horses lurched, and she said, “Goodbye, sir,” and I nodded, and then she carried that huge baby back into the house. I felt for Schulte then, and even found myself regretting my joke about his Bible, for I suspected he made good use of that faith.
In town, Schulte stopped his wagon in front of a hotel on Main Street, took off a glove, and offered me a worn hand. “God bless,” he said. “I am going to pray for you, Gregory.”
“Thank you,” I said, and normally, I would have made some joke, Ask him for an extra pint, but I did not. I just watched him ride that loaded wagon through town. A squalling sleet was moving in, so I went inside that Ritzville hotel to bunk up for the night.
I had a meal and two beers and then one more, and the barkeep said they had whiskey downstairs, and who should show up but my old pal Thirst, Get in here, you son of a bitch, and he talked me into four of those dirty glasses, and I woke the next day sick and already down half my pay from the Anabaptist lumberman with the giant baby. If I didn’t leave Ritzville, I would be busted fast. At the café, another farmhand agreed to run me partway down the Lind road, and I walked the rest, over wet rolling hills, into needles of driving icy rain.
I dropped happily from the upper road down into the draw where that little farm town lay like eggs in a nest. Walked through that brick downtown and stepped happy into Slim’s toasty bar and grill. I called out, “Heaven!”
“You again,” Slim said. “What happened to you?”
“Worst thing possible,” I said, “work.” I pulled off my soaked coat, hat, and gloves and laid them next to the boiler, spun another dollar on the bar top, and said, “The usual, Slim.”
“Can a man have a usual if it’s only his second time in my bar?” He pulled me a glass of Schade.
“Well, as we’re about to get engaged, that beer and me, I would say yes.”
I sneaked in a cup of bean soup amid two more drafts, and the bar grew more crowded, two hands coming in, and then a couple of old farmers with their sons, younger men debating the upcoming boxing match between Jeffries and the champ Johnson. I was in the mood for a book or at least a smart conversation, but I just nodded in agreement when the more evolved of the boys said the champ was likely to kill Jeffries and that the old alfalfa farmer should’ve stayed on his farm.
“Not a chance,” the other boy said. “Jeffries lost a hundred pounds to come out of retirement and fight for the white race.”
“He’s come out of retirement to fight for a hundred thousand dollars,” said a familiar voice behind me, “that’s what he’s come back for.”
I turned and there was Early Reston in the doorway. He had grown a beard and was wearing a new-looking rain slicker. Otherwise, it was him, that welcome plain stalk of wheat. “Hello, Gig,” he said. “I hear you’ve been looking for me.”
We had a drink and a good clap of the shoulders. I told him about the riot, about jail, about Clegg beating us, about the hunger strike by the union leaders.
“That must’ve taught them quite a lesson,” he said, “you fellas starving yourselves that way. Did you think of knocking yourselves in the heads, too?”
“They had that part covered pretty good.”
He said he’d gone to Idaho and Montana with my brother and with Gurley Flynn, and I said yes, so I’d heard.
“I gave your union a shot,” he said, “but it wasn’t for me. Too much traveling preacher in that business, and I’m not sure I believe in Gurley Flynn’s religion any more than I believe in the others.”
I said, “I’ve become something of a union agnostic myself.”
He considered the whiskey in front of him and then turned to me. “And how are you with an automobile, Gig?”
I told him I’d operated a truck once or twice in log camps and farm jobs. “I’m no mechanic, but I know my way around a wheel.”
We paid up, Slim nodding goodbye at Early without ever having said a word to him. My clothes were dry and I settled into my coat, buttoned it to my neck. Outside, the rain had stopped.
Early went straight to a Tin Lizzy parked on the street, the cover and front glass on it.
“This your Ford, Early?”
“For the time being,” he said. He climbed inside, set the hand brake, and adjusted the float while I primed and cranked the handle under the grille. The first pull nearly broke my forearm, but then the engine caught.
When I came around, Early was in the passenger seat. “Let’s see what kind of driver you make. That’s the only opening I got right now.”
It took me a moment to reacquaint myself with the instruments. “Switch over the magneto,” he said, and I said, “Uh-huh,” and tested out the three pedals on the floor, brake on the right, reverse in the middle, and clutch on the left. A hand brake was between my legs, the up-down hand throttle next to the steering wheel.
“Clutch all the way down for first. Up for high, and neutral in the middle.”
“How long you had this car?” I asked.
“Just got it,” he said.
I lurched it a block but had it smooth by the time we left Lind. I veered us off an old wagon road, northeast toward Spokane. It was icy cold, even with the top and front glass on, and we had to yell over the wind.