Contents
Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Also by John Williams
Title Page
Epigraph
Introduction
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part Two
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part Three
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
The History of Vintage
Copyright
Nothing But the Night
Stoner
Augustus
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Epub ISBN: 9781448191789
Version 1.0
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Vintage Classics,
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London SW1V 2SA
Vintage Classics is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
Copyright © John Williams 1971
Copyright renewed © John Williams 1988
Introduction copyright © Bret Easton Ellis 2014
John Williams has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
First published by Vintage Classics in 2015
www.penguin.co.uk/vintage
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 9780099589679
… everything that has life gives sign of satisfaction, and the cattle that lie on the ground seem to have great and tranquil thoughts. These halcyons may be looked for with a little more assurance in that pure October weather which we distinguish by the name of the Indian summer. The day, immeasurably long, sleeps over the broad hills and warm wide fields. To have lived through all its sunny hours, seems longevity enough. The solitary places do not seem quite lonely. At the gates of the forest, the surprised man of the world is forced to leave his city estimates of great and small, wise and foolish. The knapsack of custom falls off his back with the first step he takes into these precincts. Here is sanctity which shames our religions, and reality which discredits our heroes. Here we find Nature to be the circumstance which dwarfs every other circumstance, and judges like a god all men that come to her.
Nature, Ralph Waldo Emerson
Aye, and poets send out the sick spirit to green pastures, like lame horses turned out unshod to the turf to renew their hoofs. A sort of yarb-doctors in their way, poets have it that for sore hearts, as for sore lungs, nature is the grand cure. But who froze to death my teamster on the prairie? And who made an idiot of Peter the Will Boy?
The Confidence Man, Herman Melville
A novel is about the opening of consciousness, in both the characters who inhabit the fictional narrative as well as that of the reader envisioning the novel in their head as they explore the terrain the author has laid out. Some novels are more obvious about revealing themselves than others, crudely over-explanatory and making sure the reader gets everything, and other novels move in the opposite direction and reveal themselves in more opaque and indirect ways. Very few writers successfully find the magical balance – the alchemy – that is a fusion of plain-spoken simplicity that becomes the complexly lyrical. The American writer John Williams (1922–1994) is one of those rare stylists who achieved this, most notably in Stoner (1965). The tale of the rediscovery of Stoner forty years after it was published is one of those unique and heartening stories that give writers hope. Published to good reviews but no sales, Stoner, like most novels, kind of disappeared. But it had a small group of fans, and since its reprint a few years ago it has now sold hundreds of thousands of copies around the world in twenty-one countries – and this was purely by word of mouth. The success of Stoner has led to the republication of Williams’s only other two novels (he disowned his debut): Butcher’s Crossing (1960) and Augustus (1972).
I remembered hearing about Stoner and thinking that everyone recommending it to me must think I’d like it because the title made it seem like it was about drugs – and I shrugged it off. But it kept being recommended to me and finally I bought it but didn’t read it immediately. And as it, yes, kept being recommended to me, Stoner moved to the top of my reading pile and I soon found out that Stoner was about William Stoner, a farm boy who enters the University of Missouri in 1910 and becomes a teacher there until his death in 1956 and the book simply, powerfully, catalogues the disappointments that make up a life, which makes the book sound depressing, which it isn’t, because we identify with Stoner and his failures are our failures and the book is clear-eyed in its compassion and though you may be weeping at the end it’s also a very consoling book, because it says we aren’t alone in our suffering – everyone suffers. But it’s William Stoner’s stoicism in the face of disappointment and loss that makes the book such an unusual novel – the drama stems from the fact that Stoner deals with and processes the things that happen to him with an acceptance of the vagaries of life instead of lashing out and making a huge drama out of everything. This reticence is what makes the novel gripping because it is so unlike other novels, which place a demand on their main characters being active participants in the narrative drama swirling around them. Butcher’s Crossing, published five years before Stoner, is a more conventionally dramatic novel though its main male character shares similarities with Stoner – that stoicism in the face of futility, loss of innocence, looming death, annihilation.
The year is 1873 and Butcher’s Crossing is a town in Kansas – a settlement really, an idea that hasn’t happened yet – where William Andrews, a man in his early twenties who has just dropped out of Harvard has come west from Boston vaguely looking for a sense of adventure. William is a dreamy man remembering the lectures Emerson gave at Harvard and saying things like ‘I just want to know more about this country’ when asked why he’s found himself at Butcher’s Crossing. An introduction from a friend of Will’s father, a Unitarian minister, leads him to a man named Miller. Something stirs in Andrews when Miller tells him about a time he was trapping beaver in Colorado and stumbled upon a massive herd of buffalo in a valley that Miller assumed no man had ever seen before. William proposes putting up the money for a hunting expedition – horses, a wagon, provisions. Again, the reasons are vague, inchoate: ‘… he realized that the hunt that he had arranged with Miller was only a stratagem, a ruse upon himself, a palliative for ingrained custom and use. No business led him where he looked, where he would go; he went there free.’ Miller promises to lead them to a valley in the Rocky Mountains where those thousands of buffalo graze, and William, intrigued, lured by the pull of nature – all that Emerson he absorbed at Harvard – gives Miller half of an inheritance to be part of this ‘adventure’ and so the small cast of characters are assembled and given their roles: Miller as the hunter who will shoot the buffalo, practical-minded Fred Schneider who will do the skinning, and Miller’s assistant Charley Hoge, a half-crazed alcoholic who carries a cheap bible stained with buffalo blood and who lost one of his hands in a previous – the last – hunt he went on with Miller (two images that foreshadow the horrors to come) will cook and keep camp. William will be the witness. Amidst the set-up there is the one female in this world, a prostitute named Francine who becomes extremely attracted to William and he’s attracted to her as well but he’s conflicted because she’s a whore even though she seems totally fine about the life she has made for herself in Butcher’s Crossing. ‘It must be a terrible life for you,’ William murmurs as she quietly comes onto him one evening before the men head out of town for the hunt. But there is no love story. It is Miller’s narrative the men are entering – he is Ahab – and an already revisionist Western becomes an increasingly unromantic and harrowing book about the futility of trying to control nature.
Butcher’s Crossing is resolutely a Western though Williams insisted his publisher not put ‘A Western’ on the cover which they wanted to because of the popularity of the genre at the time, and even though it’s one of the more literary Westerns I’ve read, it is a Western, and a precursor to what Cormac McCarthy would do with the genre, especially in his blood-soaked and hallucinatory Blood Meridian or what Robert Altman achieved in his frontier masterpiece McCabe & Mrs Miller. Butcher’s Crossing dismantles the myth of the west revealing a horror story about the grinding day to day of just surviving, which is very much what Stoner is about as well. But Butcher’s Crossing isn’t Stoner. Butcher’s Crossing moves along by incident and increasingly dramatic action set-pieces. Its narrative is quickly swept away by the calm inexorable madness of Miller and we fear for the men who become trapped by that madness. Stoner is about stoicism as a way of life. Butcher’s Crossing is more conventional and straightforward though it contains the same restrained and gorgeous lyricism. Beautiful things happen that you never would have imagined: the thirsty horses smell water and dangerously gallop toward it, dragging the wagon and their respective riders in an out-of-control and deadly race towards a stream. There’s a terrifying blizzard that has been foreshadowed in the opening scenes and where a single flake of snow suddenly causes the men to panic except for William who doesn’t at first understand the danger that snowflake portends – he’s initially delighted by it; and there is a quick, disturbing death as the men try to cross a river where a terrible accident occurs. The fearsome title of Butcher’s Crossing promises something more menacing and savage than anything in Stoner and it leads us into the novel’s greatest set-piece: the slaughter of the buffalo at Miller’s hand.
William’s ultimate disgust with the hunt has a little to do with his sympathy for the murdered buffalo but it also becomes about his youthful narcissism and it mirrors his condescending treatment of Francine and how he had turned away and fled from her when she attempted to seduce him: ‘… it came to him that he had sickened and turned away because of his shock at seeing the buffalo, a few moments before proud and noble and full of the dignity of life, now stark and helpless, a length of inert meat, divested of itself, or his notion of its self, swinging grotesquely, mockingly, before him. It was not itself; or it was not that self that he had imagined it to be. That self was murdered; and in that murder he had felt the destruction of something within him, and he had not been able to face it. So he had turned away.’
That is the closest Butcher’s Crossing comes to being sentimental but even in its softer moments it doesn’t overdo anything, and the moral criticism is in the precision of the language, the now famous Williams prose: simple and elegant, the grave clarity of the sentences, its accessibility. Butcher’s Crossing, like Stoner, is contemplative, a meditation on the well-made book. Both books are resolutely mid-century American – they have an air of solemnity and you can tell from reading these books that the writer was taking this all very seriously: there’s nothing modernist going on here and there’s very little that’s ornamental. And you can’t read Williams through the veil of political correctness that seems to be everywhere now, and the misogyny some of his critics have accused him of, because the only female character in Butcher’s Crossing is the whore. But it’s Will who has the problem with Francine, not Francine or the book she’s a part of. It’s Will’s failure that he is unable to process the lust he feels for her and his fear is tied up with a morality that has no place in the wilds of Butcher’s Crossing.
It’s easy perhaps to be overly sympathetic to the ‘plight’ of John Williams, to think of him as a failure because he never sold any books in his lifetime. But compared to most writers he had a pretty good ride even if he never had the praise or financial success he craved: he published his first novel at twenty-five, he got a PhD from the University of Missouri, he became the director of the creative writing program at the University of Denver, he became the first editor and publisher of the Denver Quarterly Review, he married three times, he had three children, he won a National Book Award, he lived to seventy-one, he drank a lot. And he produced a masterpiece that is being discovered by an army of readers today, along with two very good novels that are now in print. For a man who came from a broke farming family in the wind-blown Dust Bowl of the 1920s, John Williams, in his own quiet way, becomes as heroic as his most famous fictional character.
Bret Easton Ellis, 2014
The coach from Ellsworth to Butcher’s Crossing was a dougherty that had been converted to carry passengers and small freight. Four mules pulled the cart over the ridged, uneven road that descended slightly from the level prairie into Butcher’s Crossing; as the small wheels of the dougherty entered and left the ruts made by heavier wagons, the canvas-covered load lashed in the center of the cart shifted, the rolled-up canvas side curtains thumped against the hickory rods that supported the lath and canvas roof, and the single passenger at the rear of the wagon braced himself by wedging his body against the narrow sideboard; one hand was spread flat against the hard leather-covered bench and the other grasped one of the smooth hickory poles set in iron sockets attached to the sideboards. The driver, separated from his passenger by the freight that had been piled nearly as high as the roof, shouted above the snorting of the mules and the creaking of the wagon:
‘Butcher’s Crossing, just ahead.’
The passenger nodded and leaned his head and shoulders out over the side of the wagon. Beyond the sweating rumps and bobbing ears of the mules he caught a glimpse of a few bare shacks and tents set in a cluster before a taller patch of trees. He had an instantaneous impression of color – of light dun blending into gray set off by a heavy splash of green. Then the bouncing of the wagon forced him to sit upright again. He gazed at the swaying mound of goods in front of him, blinking rapidly. He was a man in his early twenties, slightly built, with a fair skin that was beginning to redden after the day’s exposure to the sun. He had removed his hat to wipe the sweat from his forehead and had not replaced it; his light brown hair, the color of Virginia tobacco, was neatly clipped, but it lay now in damp unevenly colored ringlets about his ears and forehead. He wore yellowish-brown nankeen trousers that were nearly new, the creases still faintly visible in the heavy cloth. He had earlier removed his brown sack coat, his vest, and his tie; but even in the breeze made by the dougherty’s slow forward progress, his white linen shirt was spotted with sweat and hung limply on him. The blond nap of a two-day-old beard glistened with moisture; occasionally he rubbed his face with a soiled handkerchief, as if the stubble irritated his skin.
As they neared town, the road leveled and the wagon went forward more rapidly, swaying gently from side to side, so that the young man was able to relax his grasp on the hickory pole and slump forward more easily on the hard bench. The clop of the mules’ feet became steady and muffled; a cloud of dust like yellow smoke rose about the wagon and billowed behind it. Above the rattle of harness, the mules’ heavy breathing, the clop of their hooves, and the uneven creaking of the wagon could be heard now and then the distant shout of a human voice and the nickering of a horse. Along the side of the road bare patches appeared in the long level of prairie grass; here and there the charred, crossed logs of an abandoned campfire were visible; a few hobbled horses grazed on the short yellow grass and raised their heads sharply, their ears pitched forward, at the sound of the wagon passing. A voice rose in anger; someone laughed; a horse snorted and neighed, and a bridle jingled at a sudden movement; the faint odor of manure was locked in the hot air.
Butcher’s Crossing could be taken in almost at a glance. A group of six rough frame buildings was bisected by a narrow dirt street; there was a scattering of tents beyond the buildings on either side. The wagon passed first on its left a loosely erected tent of army drab with rolled-up sides, which held from the roof flap a flat board crudely lettered in red, Joe Long, Barbar. On the opposite side of the road was a low building, almost square, windowless, with a flap of canvas for a door; across the bare front boards of this building were the more carefully executed letters, in black, Bradley Dry Goods. In front of the next building, a long rectangular structure of two stories, the dougherty stopped. From within this building came a low, continuous murmur of voices, and there could be heard the regular clink of glass on glass. The front was shaded by a long overhang of roof, but there was discernible in the shadow over the entrance-way an ornately lettered sign, in red with black edging, which said: Jackson’s Saloon. Upon a long bench in front of this place sat several men lethargically staring at the wagon as it came to a halt. The young passenger began to gather from the seat beside him the clothing he had doffed earlier in the heat of the day. He put on his hat and his coat and stuffed the vest and cravat into a carpetbag upon which he had been resting his feet. He lifted the carpetbag over the sideboard into the street and with the same motion lifted a leg over the boards and stepped onto the hanging iron plate that let him descend to the ground. When his boot struck the earth, a round puff of dust flew up, surrounding his foot; it settled on the new black leather and on the bottom of his trouser leg, making their colors nearly the same. He picked up his bag and walked under the projecting roof into the shade; behind him the driver’s curses mingled with the clank of iron and the jingling of harness chain as he detached the rear doubletree from the wagon. The driver called plaintively:
‘Some of you men give me a hand with this freight.’
The young man who had got off the wagon stood on the rough board sidewalk watching the driver struggle with the reins that had tangled with the harness trace. Two of the men who had been sitting on the bench got up, brushed past him, and went slowly into the street; they contemplated the rope that secured the freight and began unhurriedly to tug at the knots. With a final jerk the driver managed to unsnarl the reins; he led the mules in a long diagonal across the street toward the livery stable, a low open building with a split-log roof supported by unpeeled upright logs.
After the driver led his team into the stable, another stillness came upon the street. The two men were methodically loosening the ropes that held the covered freight; the sounds from inside the saloon were muffled as if by layers of dust and heat. The young man stepped forward carefully upon the odd lengths of scrap board set directly on the earth. Facing him was a half-dugout with a sharply slanting roof at the near edge of which was a hinged covering, held upright by two diagonal poles, which let down to cover the wide front opening; inside the dugout, on benches and shelves, were scattered a few saddles and a half dozen or more pairs of boots; long strips of raw leather hung from a peg that jutted out of the sod wall near the opening. To the left of this small dugout was a double-storied structure, newly painted white with red trimmings, nearly as long as Jackson’s Saloon and somewhat higher. In the dead center of this building was a wide door, above which was a neatly framed sign that read Butchers Hotel. It was toward this that the young man slowly walked, watching the street dust pushed forward in quick, dissipating jets by his moving feet.
He entered the hotel and paused just beyond the open door to let his eyes become accustomed to the dimness. The vague shape of a counter rose in front of him to his right; behind it, unmoving, stood a man in a white shirt. A half dozen straight leather-seated chairs were scattered about the room. Light was given from square windows set regularly in the three walls he could see; the squares were covered with a translucent cloth that billowed slightly inward as if the dimness and comparative coolness were a vacuum. He went across the bare wood floor to the waiting clerk.
‘I would like a room.’ His voice echoed hollowly in the silence.
The clerk pushed forward an opened ledger and handed him a steel-tipped quill. He signed slowly, William Andrews; the ink was thin, a pale blue against the gray page.
‘Two dollars,’ the clerk said, pulling the ledger closer to him and peering at the name. ‘Two bits extra if you want hot water brought up.’ He looked up suddenly at Andrews. ‘Be here long?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Andrews said. ‘Do you know a J. D. McDonald?’
‘McDonald?’ The clerk nodded slowly. ‘The hide man? Sure. Everybody knows McDonald. Friend of yours?’
‘Not exactly,’ Andrews said. ‘Do you know where I can find him?’
The clerk nodded. ‘He has an office down by the brining pits. About a ten-minute walk from here.’
‘I’ll see him tomorrow,’ Andrews said. ‘I just got in from Ellsworth a few minutes ago and I’m tired.’
The clerk closed the ledger, selected a key from a large ring that was attached to his belt, and gave the key to Andrews. ‘You’ll have to carry your own bag up,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring up the water whenever you want it.’
‘About an hour,’ Andrews said.
‘Room fifteen,’ the clerk said. ‘It’s just off the stairs.’
Andrews nodded. The stairs were unsided treads without headers that pitched sharply up from the far wall and cut into a small rectangular opening in the center level of the building. Andrews stood at the head of a narrow hall that bisected the long row of rooms. He found his own room and entered through the unlocked door. In the room there was space only for a narrow rope bed with a thin mattress, a roughly hewn table with a lamp and a tin wash basin, a mirror, and a straight chair similar to those he had seen below in the lobby. The room had one window that faced the street; set into it was a light detachable wood frame covered with a gauzelike cloth. He realized that he had seen no glass windows since he had got into town. He set his carpetbag on the bare mattress.
After he had unpacked his belongings, he shoved his bag under the low bed and stretched himself out on the uneven mattress; it rustled and sank beneath his weight; he could feel the taut ropes which supported the mattress against his body. His lower back, his buttocks, and his upper legs throbbed dully; he had not realized before how tiring the journey had been.
But now the journey was done; and as his muscles loosened, his mind went back over the way he had come. For nearly two weeks, by coach and rail, he had let himself be carried across the country. From Boston to Albany, from Albany to New York, from New York— The names of the cities jumbled in his memory, disconnected from the route he had taken. Baltimore, Philadelphia, Cincinnati, St Louis. He remembered the grinding discomfort of the hard coach chairs, and the inert waiting in grimy depots on slatted wooden benches. All the discomforts of his journey now seeped outward from his bones, brought to consciousness by his knowledge of the journey’s end.
He knew he would be sore tomorrow. He smiled, and closed his eyes against the brightness of the covered window that he faced. He dozed.
Some time later the clerk brought up a wooden tub and a bucket of steaming water. Andrews roused himself and scooped up some of the hot water in the tin basin. He soaped his face and shaved; the clerk returned with two more buckets of cold water and poured them in the tub. When he had left the room, Andrews undressed slowly, shaking the dust from his garments as he drew them off; he laid them carefully on the straight chair. He stepped into the tub and sat down, his knees drawn up to his chin. He soaped himself slowly, made drowsy by the warm water and the late afternoon quiet. He sat in the tub until his head began to nod forward; when at last it touched his knees, he straightened himself and got out of the tub. He stood on the bare floor, dripping water, and looked about the room. Finding no towel, he took his shirt off the chair and dried himself.
A dimness had crept into the room; the window was a pale glow in the gathering murk, and a cool breeze made the cloth waver and billow; it appeared to throb like something alive, growing larger and smaller. From the street came the slowly rising mutter of voices and the sounds of boots clumping on the board walks. A woman’s voice was raised in laughter, then abruptly cut off.
The bath had relaxed him and eased the increasing throb of his strained back muscles. Still naked, he pushed the folded linsey-woolsey blanket into a shape like a pillow and lay down on the raw mattress. It was rough to his skin. But he was asleep before it was fully dark in his room.
During the night he was awakened several times by sounds not quite identified on the edge of his sleeping mind. During these periods of wakefulness he looked about him and in the total darkness could not perceive the walls, the limits of his room; and he had the sensation that he was blind, suspended in nowhere, unmoving. He felt that the sounds of laughter, the voices, the subdued thumps and gratings, the jinglings of bridle bells and harness chains, all proceeded from his own head, and whirled around there like wind in a hollow sphere. Once he thought he heard the voice, then the laughter, of a woman very near, down the hall, in one of the rooms. He lay awake for several moments, listening intently; but he did not hear her again.
Andrews breakfasted at the hotel. In a narrow room at the rear of the first floor was a single long table, around which was scattered a number of the straight chairs that appeared to be the hotel’s principal furniture. Three men were at one end of the table, hunched together in conversation; Andrews sat alone at the other end. The clerk who had brought his water up the day before came into the dining room and asked Andrews if he wanted breakfast; when Andrews nodded, he turned and went toward the small kitchen behind the three men at the far end of the table. He walked with a small limp that was visible only from the rear. He returned with a tray that held a large plate of beans and hominy grits, and a mug of steaming coffee. He put the food before Andrews, and reached to the center of the table for an open dish of salt.
‘Where could I find McDonald this time of the morning?’ Andrews asked him.
‘In his office,’ the clerk said. ‘He’s there most of the time, day and night. Go straight down the road, toward the creek, and turn off to your left just before you get to the patch of cottonwoods. It’s the little shack just this side of the brining pits.’
‘The brining pits?’
‘For the hides,’ the clerk said. ‘You can’t miss it.’
Andrews nodded. The clerk turned again and left the room. Andrews ate slowly; the beans were lukewarm and tasteless even with salt, and the hominy grits were mushy and barely warmed through. But the coffee was hot and bitter; it numbed his tongue and made him pull his lips tight along his even white teeth. He drank it all, as swiftly as the heat would allow him.
By the time he finished breakfast and went into the street, the sun had risen high above the few buildings of the town and was bearing down upon the street with an intensity that seemed almost material. There were more people about than there had been the afternoon before, when he first had come into the town; a few men in dark suits with bowler hats mingled with a larger number more carelessly dressed in faded blue Levi’s, soiled canvas, or broadcloth. They walked with some purpose, yet without particular hurry, upon the sidewalk and in the street; amid the drab shades of the men’s clothing there was occasionally visible the colorful glimpse – red, lavender, pure white – of a woman’s skirt or blouse. Andrews pulled the brim of his slouch hat down to shade his eyes, and walked along the street toward the clump of trees beyond the town.
He passed the leather goods shop, the livery stable, and a small open-sided blacksmith shop. The town ended at that point, and he stepped off the sidewalk onto the road. About two hundred yards from the town was the turnoff that the clerk had described; it was little more than twin ribbons of earth worn bare by passing wheels. At the end of this path, a hundred yards or so from the road, was a small flat-roofed shack, and beyond that a series of pole fences, arranged in a pattern he could not make out at this distance. Near the fences, at odd angles, were several empty wagons, their tongues on the earth in directions away from the fences. A vague stench that Andrews could not identify grew stronger as he came nearer the office and the fences.
The shack door was open. Andrews paused, his clenched hand raised to knock; inside the single room was a great clutter of books, papers, and ledgers scattered upon the bare wood floor and piled unevenly in the corners and spilling out of crates set against the walls. In the center of this, apparently crowded there, a man in his shirt sleeves sat hunched over a rough table, thumbing with intense haste the heavy pages of a ledger; he was cursing softly, monotonously.
‘Mr McDonald?’ Andrews said.
The man looked up, his small mouth open and his brows raised over protuberant blue eyes whose whites were of the same shaded whiteness as his shirt. ‘Come in, come in,’ he said, thrusting his hand violently up through the thin hair that dangled over his forehead. He pushed his chair back from the table, started to get up, and then sat back wearily, his shoulders slumping.
‘Come on in, don’t just stand around out there.’
Andrews entered and stood just inside the doorway. McDonald waved in the direction of a corner behind Andrews, and said:
‘Get a chair, boy, sit down.’
Andrews drew a chair from behind a stack of papers and placed it in front of McDonald’s desk.
‘What do you want – what can I do for you?’ McDonald asked.
‘I’m Will Andrews. I reckon you don’t remember me.’
‘Andrews?’ McDonald frowned, regarding the younger man with some hostility. ‘Andrews …’ His lips tightened; the corners of his mouth went down into the lines that came up from his chin. ‘Don’t waste my time, goddammit; if I’d remembered you I’d have said something when you first came in. Now—’
‘I have a letter,’ Andrews said, reaching into his breast pocket, ‘from my father. Benjamin Andrews. You knew him in Boston.’
McDonald took the letter that Andrews held in front of him. ‘Andrews? Boston?’ His voice was querulous, distracted. His eyes were on Andrews as he opened the letter. ‘Why, sure. Why didn’t you say you were— Sure, that preacher fellow.’ He read the letter intently, moving it about before his eyes as if that might hasten his perusal. When he had finished, he refolded the letter and let it drop onto a stack of papers on the table. He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘My God! Boston. It must have been twelve, fourteen years ago. Before the war. I used to drink tea in your front parlor.’ He shook his head wonderingly. ‘I must have seen you at one time or another. I don’t even remember.’
‘My father has spoken of you often,’ Andrews said.
‘Me?’ McDonald’s mouth hung open again; he shook his head slowly; his round eyes seemed to swivel in their sockets. ‘Why? I only saw him maybe half a dozen times.’ His gaze went beyond Andrews, and he said without expression: ‘I wasn’t anybody for him to speak of. I was a clerk for some dry goods company. I can’t even remember its name.’
‘I think my father admired you, Mr McDonald,’ Andrews said.
‘Me?’ He laughed shortly, then glowered suspiciously at Andrews. ‘Listen, boy. I went to your father’s church because I thought I might meet somebody that would give me a better job, and I started going to those little meetings your father had for the same reason. I never even knew what they were talking about, half the time.’ He said bitterly, ‘I would just nod at anything anybody said. Not that it did a damn bit of good.’
‘I think he admired you because you were the only man he ever knew who came out here – who came west, and made a life for himself.’
McDonald shook his head. ‘Boston,’ he half whispered. ‘My God!’
For another moment he stared beyond Andrews. Then he lifted his shoulders and took a breath. ‘How did old Mr Andrews know where I was?’
‘A man from Bates and Durfee was passing through Boston. He mentioned you worked for the Company in Kansas City. In Kansas City, they told me you had quit them and come here.’
McDonald grinned tightly. ‘I have my own company now. I left Bates and Durfee four, five years ago.’ He scowled, and one hand went to the ledger he had closed when Andrews entered the shack. ‘Do it all myself, now … Well.’ He straightened again. ‘The letter says I should help you any way I can. What made you come out here, anyway?’
Andrews got up from the chair and walked aimlessly about the room, looking at the piles of papers.
McDonald grinned; his voice lowered. ‘Trouble? Did you get in some kind of trouble back home?’
‘No,’ Andrews said quickly. ‘Nothing like that.’
‘Lots of boys do,’ McDonald said. ‘That’s why they come out here. Even a preacher’s son.’
‘My father is a lay minister in the Unitarian Church,’ Andrews said.
‘It’s the same thing.’ McDonald waved his hand impatiently. ‘Well, you want a job? Hell, you can have a job with me. God knows I can’t keep up. Look at all this stuff.’ He pointed to the stacked papers; his finger was trembling. ‘I’m two months behind now and getting further behind all the time. Can’t find anybody around here to sit still long enough to—’
‘Mr McDonald,’ Andrews said. ‘I know nothing about your business.’
‘What? You don’t what? Why, it’s hides, boy. Buffalo hides. I buy and sell. I send out parties, they bring in the hides. I sell them in St Louis. Do my own curing and tanning right here. Handled almost a hundred thousand hides last year. This year – twice, three times that much. Great opportunity, boy. Think you could handle some of this paper work?’
‘Mr McDonald—’
‘This paper work is what gets me down.’ He ran his fingers through the thin black strands of hair that fell about his ears.
‘I’m grateful, sir,’ Andrews said. ‘But I’m not sure—’
‘Hell, it’s only a start. Look.’ With a thin hand like a claw he grasped Andrews’s arm above the elbow and pushed him toward the doorway. ‘Look out there.’ They went into the hot sunlight; Andrews squinted and winced against the brightness. McDonald, still clutching at his arm, pointed toward the town. ‘A year ago when I came here there were three tents and a dugout over there – a saloon, a whorehouse, a dry goods store, and a blacksmith. Look at it now.’ He pushed his face up to Andrews and said in a hoarse whisper, his breath sweet-sour from tobacco: ‘Keep this to yourself – but this town’s going to be something two, three years from now. I’ve got a half dozen lots staked out already, and the next time I get to Kansas City, I’m going to stake out that many more. It’s wide open!’ He shook Andrews’s arm as if it were a stick; he lowered his voice, which had grown strident. ‘Look, boy. It’s the railroad. Don’t go talking this around; but when the railroad comes through here, this is going to be a town. You come in with me; I’ll steer you right. Anybody can stake out a claim for the land around here; all you have to do is sign your name to a piece of paper at the State Land Office. Then you sit back and wait. That’s all.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Andrews said. ‘I’ll consider it.’
‘Consider it!’ McDonald released his arm and stepped back from him in astonishment. He threw up his hands and they fluttered as he walked around once in a tight, angry little circle. ‘Consider it? Why, boy, it’s an opportunity. Listen. What were you doing back in Boston before you came out here?’
‘I was in my third year at Harvard College.’ ‘You see?’ McDonald said triumphantly. ‘And what would you have done after your fourth year? You’d have gone to work for somebody, or you’d have been a schoolteacher, like old Mr Andrews, or— Listen. There ain’t many like us out here. Men with vision. Men who can think to tomorrow.’ He pointed a shaking hand toward the town. ‘Did you see those people back there? Did you talk to any of them?’
‘No, sir,’ Andrews said. ‘I only got in from Ellsworth yesterday afternoon.’
‘Hunters,’ McDonald said. His dry thin lips went loose and open as if he had tasted something rotten. ‘All hunters and hard cases. That’s what this country would be if it wasn’t for men like us. People just living off the land, not knowing what to do with it.’
‘Are they mostly hunters in town?’
‘Hunters, hard cases, a few eastern loafers. This is a hide town, boy. It’ll change. Wait till the railroad comes through.’
‘I think I’d like to talk to some of them,’ Andrews said.
‘Who?’ McDonald shouted. ‘Hunters? Oh, my God! Don’t tell me you’re like the other younguns that come in here. Three years at Harvard College, and you want to use it that way. I ought to have known it. I ought to have known it when you first came.’
‘I just want to talk to some of them,’ Andrews said.
‘Sure,’ McDonald said bitterly. ‘And the first thing you know, you’ll be wanting to go out.’ His voice became earnest. ‘Listen, boy. Listen to me. You start going out with those men, it’ll ruin you. Oh, I’ve seen it. It gets in you like buffalo lice. You won’t care any more. Those men—’ Andrews clawed in the air, as if for a word.
‘Mr McDonald,’ Andrews said quietly, ‘I appreciate what you’re trying to do for me. But I want to try to explain something to you. I came out here—’ He paused and let his gaze go past McDonald, away from the town, beyond the ridge of earth that he imagined was the river bank, to the flat yellowish green land that faded into the horizon westward. He tried to shape in his mind what he had to say to McDonald. It was a feeling; it was an urge that he had to speak. But whatever he spoke he knew would be but another name for the wildness that he sought. It was a freedom and a goodness, a hope and a vigor that he perceived to underlie all the familiar things of his life, which were not free or good or hopeful or vigorous. What he sought was the source and preserver of his world, a world which seemed to turn ever in fear away from its source, rather than search it out, as the prairie grass around him sent down its fibered roots into the rich dark dampness, the Wildness, and thereby renewed itself, year after year. Suddenly, in the midst of the great flat prairie, unpeopled and mysterious, there came into his mind the image of a Boston street, crowded with carriages and walking men who toiled sluggishly beneath the arches of evenly spaced elms that had been made to grow, it seemed, out of the flat stone of sidewalk and roadway; there came into his mind the image of tall buildings, packed side by side, the ornately cut stone of which was grimed by smoke and city filth; there came into his mind the image of the River Charles winding among plotted fields and villages and towns, carrying the refuse of man and city out to the great bay.
He became aware that his hands were tightly clenched; the tips of his fingers slipped in the moisture of his palms. He loosened his fists and wiped his palms on his trousers.
‘I came out here to see as much of the country as I can,’ he said quietly. ‘I want to get to know it. It’s something that I have to do.’
‘Young folks,’ said McDonald. He spoke softly. Flat lines of sweat ran through the glinting beads of moisture that stood out on his forehead, and ran into his tangled eyebrows, which were lowered over the eyes that regarded Andrews steadily. ‘They don’t know what to do with themselves. My God, if you’d start now – if you had the sense to start now, by the time you’re forty, you could be—’ He shrugged. ‘Ahhh. Let’s get back out of the sun.’
They re-entered the dim little shack. Andrews discovered that he was breathing heavily; his shirt was soaked with perspiration, and it clung to his skin and slid unpleasantly over it as he moved. He removed his coat and sank into the chair before McDonald’s table; he felt a curious weakness and lassitude descend from his chest and shoulders to his fingertips. A long silence fell upon the room. McDonald’s hand rested on his ledger; one finger moved aimlessly above the page but did not touch it. At last he sighed deeply and said:
‘All right. Go and talk to them. But I’ll warn you: Most of the men around here hunt for me; you’re not going to have an easy time getting into a party without my help. Don’t try to hook up with any of the men I send out. You leave my men alone. I won’t be responsible. I won’t have you on my conscience.’
‘I’m not even sure I want to go on a hunt,’ Andrews said sleepily. ‘I just want to talk to the men that do.’
‘Trash,’ McDonald muttered. ‘You come out here all the way from Boston, Massachusetts, just to get mixed up with trash.’
‘Who should I talk to, Mr McDonald?’ Andrews asked.
‘What?’
‘Who should I talk to?’ Andrews repeated. ‘I ought to talk to someone who knows his business, and you told me to keep away from your men.’
McDonald shook his head. ‘You don’t listen to a word a man says, do you? You got it all figured out.’
‘No, sir,’ Andrews said. ‘I don’t have anything figured out. I just want to know more about this country.’
‘All right,’ McDonald said tiredly. He closed the ledger that he had been fingering and tossed it on a pile of papers. ‘You talk to Miller. He’s a hunter, but he ain’t as bad as the rest of them. He’s been out here most of his life; at least he ain’t as bad as the rebels and the hard Yankees. Maybe he’ll talk to you, maybe he won’t. You’ll have to find out for yourself.’
‘Miller?’ Andrews asked.
‘Miller,’ McDonald said. ‘He lives in a dugout down by the river, but you’ll more likely find him in Jackson’s. That’s where they all hang out, day and night. Ask anybody; everybody knows Miller.’
‘Thank you, Mr McDonald,’ Andrews said. ‘I appreciate your help.’
‘Don’t thank me,’ McDonald said. ‘I’m doing nothing for you. I’m giving you a man’s name.’
Andrews rose. The weakness had gone into his legs. It is the heat, he thought, and the strangeness. He stood still for a moment, gathering his strength.
‘One thing,’ McDonald said. ‘Just one thing I ask you.’ He appeared to Andrews to recede into the dimness.
‘Of course, Mr McDonald. What is it?’ ‘Let me know before you go out, if you decide to go. Just come back here and let me know.’
‘Of course,’ Andrews said. ‘I’ll be seeing you often, I hope. It’s just that I want to have a little more time before I decide anything.’
‘Sure,’ McDonald said bitterly. ‘Take all the time you can. You got plenty.’
‘Goodbye, Mr McDonald.’
McDonald waved his hand, angrily, and turned his attention abruptly to the papers on his desk. Andrews walked slowly out of the shack, into the yard, and turned on the wagon trail that led to the main road. At the main road, he paused. Across from him and some yards to his left was the clump of cottonwoods; beyond that, intersecting the road, must be the river; he could not see the water, but he could see the humped banks clustered with low-growing shrub and weed winding off into the distance. He turned and went back toward the town.
It was near noon when he arrived at the hotel; the tiredness that had come upon him in McDonald’s shack remained. In the hotel dining room he ate lightly of tough fried meat and boiled beans, and sipped bitter hot coffee. The hotel clerk, who limped in and out of the dining room, asked him if he had found McDonald; he replied that he had; the clerk nodded and said nothing more. Soon Andrews left the dining room, went up to his room, and lay on his bed. He watched the cloth screen at his window billow softly inward until he was asleep.
When he awoke his room was dark; the cloth screen at his window let in a flickering brightness from the street below. He heard distant shouts beneath the querulous murmur of many voices, and the snorting of a horse and the clop of hooves. For a moment he could not remember where he was.
He got up abruptly and sat on the edge of his bed. The mattress rustled beneath him; he relaxed, and ran his fingers through his hair, down over the back of his head and neck, and stretched his head backward, welcoming the soreness that warmed pleasantly up between his shoulder blades. In the darkness he walked across his room to the small table, which was outlined dimly beside the window. He found a match on the table and lit the lamp beside the washbasin. In the mirror his face was a sharp contrast of yellow brightness and dark shadow. He put his hands in the lukewarm water of the basin and rinsed his face. He dried his hands and face on the same shirt he had used the day before. By the flickering light of the lamp, he put on his black string tie and brown sack coat, which was beginning to smell of his own sweat, and stared at himself in the mirror as if he were a stranger. Then he blew the lamp out, and made his way out of the room.