The other shook his head and whispered back, hissing. “She does it first!”
“I can see ’em anyway! Standing there! Standing there waiting! They soon will! Oh, boy, they soon will!”
The red-haired boy nodded and hissed, “It’s horrible.”
For a while they were content to squat and whisper, but when their legs began to cramp they stood up. The big-eared one even tiptoed cautiously the length of the little room to the window, but drew back at sight of movement in the grounds outside. When, after a little, he returned to the corner, he had something in his hand.
“What you got there?”
“Miss Brand’s bag. Boy, is it heavy!”
“Where’d you find it?”
“There on the shelf.”
“What’s in it?”
To answer that required action, not words, and they proceeded to act. Squatting again, with the handbag on the floor, they opened it.
“Jeeee-sus! She lugs a gat!”
The red-haired boy took it and aimed it at the window, and his whisper was deadly and sinister: “Ping! Ping! Ping!”
“Quit that!” the other commanded. “It may be loaded. You’d better wipe off your fingerprints. Hey! Lookit this! Do you know what’s in that?”
“No. Neither do you.”
“Oh, I don’t, don’t I? Feel the weight. It’s catriches!”
The red-haired boy, grabbing for it but missing, said, “Take off the paper and see.”
“I don’t have to. Of course it’s catriches. What good’s a gat without catriches?”
“Is they any money?”
“I don’t know and I don’t want to know. There’s places to take money and places not to take money.”
“Aw, just a dime or maybe a quarter?”
“No, sir. Hey, lay off! But lissen. These catriches. We can use ’em. Put that in your pocket and give it to me after school.”
“What can we use ’em for?”
“I’ll show you when I get ready. Take it.”
“Why don’t you take it?”
“Because your pockets are better for the weight.”
“If we can take catriches why can’t we take money?”
“Because we can’t. One is negotiable and one isn’t. I’m telling you to take it!”
The red-haired boy, frowning, took the package and stuffed it into his hip pocket. The other nodded and said, “Now we’ve got to wipe everything. Here, we can use this. And put the bag back just where it was. And lissen. You keep your hands off that doorknob. I’ll open it myself. It’s got to be timed right.”
The red-haired boy, feeling of his hip pocket, nodded morosely.
Four days of the week Delia had three schools to cover each afternoon, but on Tuesdays Pendleton was the only one. When she had finished there she got in the car again and headed for Main Street. Turning left, she continued until she had crossed the railroad tracks. After a right turn onto Fresno Street and another block, she pulled up in front of a two-storied frame building which could have used a coat of paint and various other attentions as well, though it was not precisely dilapidated. The ground floor front sported a large plate-glass window, elevated above the sidewalk, and the entire length of the window, inside, was occupied by an enormous brown bear who was licking a cub. Delia had not even the tribute of a glance for it as she mounted four steps and pushed open the wooden door and entered, clutching the handbag under her arm.
The room was about half as large as the one in the school which had been consecrated to Rhythmic Movement and was equally devoid of furniture, but it was by no means empty. On two wide wooden shelves which ran the length of one wall were more than a score of jack rabbits, representing practically every posture in the repertory of those leaping, long-eared crop destroyers. On similar shelves on two other walls were owls, grouse, wild geese, gophers, golden chipmunks, eagles, beaver, and other contemporaries. In one corner, with head up and haughty nostrils dilated, stood a black-tailed deer, a seven-point buck, and across from him was a yearling elk. Suspended from the ceiling by wires was a forked tree limb, and on it crouched a full-grown lynx with its teeth showing. There were black bear, pelicans, coyotes. On a raised platform in the center of the room stood a cougar, fully five feet long, its tail curled against its flank, the sides of its jaws flecked with blood or a simulation of it, and its left forepaw resting on the carcass of a fawn.
Delia, after glancing around, stood beside the cougar and called, “Hello!”
There was no reply. Stepping through a door to a smaller room behind, which had a large workbench and displayed a miscellany of tools, bales and boxes, and work in progress, and finding it uninhabited, she returned to the front and crossed to a stairway which led to living quarters overhead. Her foot was lifted to the first step when she heard a noise at the door, the knob turning. Quick as a flash she made a dive and concealed herself behind a moosehide which hung over the stair rail. One entering could not see her except by going to the stairway, but with an eye applied to a slit between the moose’s side and his hind leg, she had a good view of the room.
She saw a man enter — a middle-aged man, slightly stoop-shouldered, in shirt sleeves and lightweight overalls and no hat, with a tanned face shining with sweat, and dusty graying hair. Three paces from the door he looked sharply around with gray squinting eyes, then, passing his palm over the rump of the yearling elk as he passed, he went to the platform and knelt to inspect the belly of the cougar. Then he leaped as if shot, a leap that would have been a creditable performance for the cougar itself, as an ear-splitting howl rent the air.
He landed flat on his feet, stared for a second, and said in a voice that had a suspicion of a tremble in it, “Good Godamighty. Darn you anyway. Come out of that!”
Delia emerged, approached and stretched on her toes to kiss his cheek. “It’s been over two years since I’ve done that,” she said. “I don’t know why I did it, only I heard you at the door and I was there by the stairs. It’s something to know I can still do a coyote howl. The door was unlocked.”
He nodded. “I stepped down to the corner to phone.” He pulled a handkerchief from his overalls and mopped his face. “I guess I’d better get a phone put in — I would if I could afford it — or lock the door. My gizzard’s not as tough as it used to be. I darn near busted a gut that time.” He mopped his face again.
“I’m sorry, Uncle Quin. I shouldn’t have done it. I’m old enough to know better. What’s the matter with Noel Coward? Is his hair slipping? By the way, you ought to take a look at that coyote down at Kilbourn’s drugstore. The right shoulder.”
Quinby glanced at the cougar. “No, his hair’s all right. I was just looking at a patch. You say the one at Kilbourn’s? I’ll stop in.” His squinting gray eyes inspected her. “Did you come over here just to scare the daylights out of me?”
“No, I came to ask you something.”
“Want to go upstairs?”
“It’s cooler down here.” She went and sat on the edge of the platform which held the cougar, took off her hat and propped it and her handbag against the carcass of the fawn, and frowned at her toes.
Quinby Pellett seated himself beside her and began slowly wiping his face some more.
After a moment Delia said, “It’s still hell about Mother.”
“It sure is.”
“I go to the cemetery every day. I go in the morning.”
“I know you do. You ought to quit it.”
“You go, don’t you?”
“Sure I do.” He glanced at her and away again. “I’m nearly fifty years old and it’s a natural thing for me to fasten onto the past. She was my only sister and I didn’t have any brothers. But you’re just a youngster. Besides, I’m a grouch and that’s a good place for a grouch, a cemetery. But you ought to cut it out. You were strung too tight to begin with.”