Raintree County (27 page)

It seemed to Johnny that if anyone had found the secret of pure expression, it was Flash Perkins. Everything Flash did was sheer affirmation. He never analyzed, worried, debated. He fought, worked, drank, and talked with the same sublime physical gusto. Johnny had never seen Flash angry. Flash never took the trouble. His motto was, Hit fust and argeefy after. He was a born clown and played to every crowd like a gallery. His blue eyes were those of an
excited child, and one had the feeling that if a single moment of tranquillity were to set in, they would become naïve and baffled. He acted always from sheer impulse, but his impulses were predictable, for he had a code.

It was because of this code that everyone in Raintree County, including Johnny Shawnessy, understood and, after a fashion, adulated Flash Perkins. It was the code of the early Hoosier, the backwoodsman or river man, a type already becoming extinct in Indiana. The code of Flash Perkins was the code of a people who had become great fighters and talkers in a wilderness where there was not much else a man could do for diversion except fight and talk. It was the code of the tellers of tall tales who tried to live up to their tales. It was the code of a competitive people, who had fought the Indian and a still greater antagonist, the wilderness itself, the stubborn, root-filled pioneer earth, the beautiful and deadly river, the sheer space of the West. It was the code of breezy, cocky men, who had no fear in heaven or earth they would admit to. The code involved never hitting a man who was down, never turning down a drink, never refusing to take a dare, never backing out of a fight—except with a woman. The code involved contempt for city folks, redskins, varmints of all kinds, atheists, scholars, aristocrats, and the enemies of the United States of America.

Actually, every Raintree County man had a little of the code in him. It was simply the Code of the West, and though the West had already passed over Raintree County and left it far behind, nevertheless the County had once been and would always be a part of the West. As Professor Jerusalem Webster Stiles was wont to say,

—To the true Easterner, everything on the other side of the Alleghenies is the West. And in a way that's right.

Now as Flash Perkins walked toward the Saloon, chest thrust out, arms swung wide from his hips, feet flung strongly forward, teeth bared in the insolent smile that always preceded the fight, the tall tale, or the dare, Johnny Shawnessy realized that he had arrived at one of the mythical encounters of his life. He had always known that one day he would stand chest to chest with Flash Perkins in the Court House Square, and Flash would suddenly take notice of him. For years he had watched Flash win the applause of the County by swiftness and strength, the all-conquering beauty of execution. He,
too, Johnny Shawnessy, a child of the word and the dream, had always secretly intended to excel as an athlete. Only so, he felt, did one wholly win the applause of Raintree County and its most beautiful women. Only so did one become the completely affirmative man.

For Johnny Shawnessy too had the West in him, the amiably pugnacious West, where a man wanted and meant to get everything the best he could have, where a man meant to be first if he could in everything—from shucking corn to catching the loveliest girl. And because of his great speed of foot, Johnny Shawnessy had long had a special vision of achievement. One day in the Court House Square he would defeat Flash Perkins, and a beautiful girl would fit the crown of oakleaves on his own suncolored locks.

—Are you Jack Shawnessy? Flash said, coming up and standing hands on hips and feet wide apart.

Johnny continued to lean against the plateglass window with a pretense of unconcern. No one had ever called him Jack before.

—I might be, he said. Who wants to know?

—Hear that, boys? Flash said to his crowd. Shall I tell this here kid who I am?

—Go on and tell 'im, Flash.

—Son, Flash said, it gives me great and pecoolyar satisfication and gratifaction to interduce to you and this handsome and intellygent company that emminunt gentleman, Mister Orville—better known as Flash—Perkins, the fastest runner in Raintree County.

—Never heard of him, Johnny said. Who is he?

—Son, Flash said, I'm the originiffical yellin' Yahoo from the banks of Clay Crick. I'm half horse and half alligator, and rastle bulls in my spare time. I've smashed more skulls, drank more corn pisen, and raped more virgins than any other janejumper on the phiz of the arth. I can run like a horse, fight like a barl of wildcats, yell like a skun cattymount, and make love like a bull. I chaw little boys like you up with my terbaccer and I spit holes in walls. Who're you?

—Son, Johnny said, I'm the cer-tee-fied, gen-u-ine, ripsnortin', ragtearin,' ringtailed, headbustin' mankiller from the banks of the Shawmucky. I fight all the time exceptin' when I'm eatin', and I eat all the time exceptin' when I'm fightin'. I strangle bars with my bar hands fer a livin', I chaw wildcat tails instidder terbaccer, I've slept with ever widder under forty in the County and some of 'em twicet,
and I kin run like a colt with a redhot cob under his tail. I use minners like you to bait muh hook with when I go fishin'.

For answer, Flash Perkins jerked off coat and shirt. He threw his hat on the ground. It looked as though he was going to hit Johnny.

—Fight! Fight! someone yelled.

A big crowd had already gathered. But smiling all the time, Flash sat down on the sidewalk and pulled off his shoes.

—Come on, Jack, he said. No use waitin' till Fourth of July. I'll race you right now from here to the Baptist Church, or anywheres else you wanna run to.

—Make it the church, Johnny said.

He pulled off coat, tie, and shirt. He sat down on the ground and pulled off shoes and socks. Bare to the waist, he shoved through the crowd to Flash Perkins.

In the saloon window, the reflections of two young men leaned slightly forward. The sun shone on the hard, broadshouldered body of Flash Perkins, who stood in stocking feet a trifle shorter than Johnny, shone on the shag of his brown hair, his curly beard, his smiling teeth, shone on the lean ribs and sinewy shoulders of Johnny Shawnessy, shone on his massy chestnutcolored hair. There was a faint prismatic light around both figures.

—Sot us off, Fred, Flash said.

—Just a minute, Cash Carney said, stepping up. Put your duds on, John.

—What fer? Flash said.

—This boy ain't racing today, Cash said. He's under contract to me, and he don't race for any but big stakes.

—If he don't race me now, he's a yallerbellied coward.

—He's not racing, Cash said. That's final. You're afraid to run him regular and official, Perkins, because you're afraid of losing money.

—Get a hat! Flash Perkins yelled.

—Here's a hat! somebody yelled.

—I'll give 'im odds of two to one, Flash said.

—You just say that, Perkins, Cash said, because you know nobody'll bet you. If someone came along with a little hard coin, you'd try to weasel out of them odds, and you know it.

—Try me and see, Flash said.

Cash Carney reached in a back pocket and coolly took out a leather snap-purse. The crowd became reverently silent as Cash took five gold coins out of the purse and held them in the cup of his hand.

—That thar's gold, a citizen said.

—It ain't horse manure, a second citizen said.

—Here's fifty dollars says you're a liar, Perkins, Cash said.

—I'll cover it, Flash said, or if I can't, my sidekicks will before the Fourth of July.

—I'll take some of that, myself, Garwood Jones said. Friendship is friendship, John, but a bet on Flash Perkins is a sure thing.

Johnny began to put on his clothes. He fixed his tie in the plateglass window, where the suncreated images of the crowd mixed incessantly. The hard, high nasal talk rasped in his ears.

—I'll see you racetime, Jack, Flash said. I promise not to beat you more'n a city block.

Flash Perkins walked straight into the batwing doors of the Saloon without bothering to put out his hand. The doors slapped back and forth. Johnny could hear the high, goodhumored voice yelling for a drink, the sound of obsequious laughter.

It was three o'clock as Johnny walked down to a door that had a sign over it reading

PHOTOGRAPHS, DAGUERREOTYPES, and AMBROTYPES

Entering, he climbed a rickety stair to a hall on the second floor. The old building smelled of tobacco, urine, chemicals. Johnny had never been up this stair before, and he didn't know which way to turn for the photographer's. He was half expecting to meet Nell Gaither, as she too had an appointment. Through an open door on the left he saw a dimly lighted gallery, hung with oval pictures. He walked in toward a closed door at the far end, watching his own image grow larger and larger in a full-length mirror hung on the door. He laid his hand on the knob and opened the door.

Light drenched him, a white radiance without warmth, as if he were inside a camera whose shutter had just been opened. He blinked and narrowed his eyes.

The room was bathed in light. A skylight of milky glass slanted almost to the floor on the left wall. The young afternoon flooding in bathed each object in shadowless purity.

A young woman stood posed for a picture. Her jetblack hair was shaken out over her shoulders and down her cloudy white gown, which resembled a nightdress. She leaned against a cardboard column, holding an artificial lily in her left hand. The backdrop showed a riverscene: a landing in the foreground piled up with cottonbales, a steamboat in the middle distance, and in the background pillared ruins beside the river.

The photographer had just slipped the cap over the lens. The girl relaxed from her pose and turning looked right at Johnny. Instantly she gave a little shriek and clutched her throat with her left hand.

—O, it's you! she said.

Her olivecolored skin blushed scarlet and she began to laugh.

—O, hello, Johnny said, and backed out and closed the door.

The girl had spoken as if she had recognized him or had even been waiting for him, but he knew that he had never seen a face like hers before. Seen bare and sudden in the white light, the face in the studio had burned its image so brightly on his memory that it was more like an afterimage than a recollection as he paced in the dark little gallery.

In this face innocence was strangely confused with sensuality. The upper part of the face, the patrician brow, the delicately limned eyebrows and the great blue eyes, childlike and almost unnaturally vivid, suggested purity and romantic sadness. But these qualities were lost in the barbarously lovely lower face. The cheekbones were wide. The jawlines swept in to a precise little chin. The nose flared from a fine bridge to wide nostrils. The mouth though not big was deeplipped and protrudent, and challenged the eyes for dominance. It was in a perpetual pout, as if about to offer itself for a kiss. Yet it too, this savage little mouth, when he had first seen it, had been touched by an expression childlike and tender.

Later, the door opened, and the girl came out. She was dressed in a white satin gown, chastely high at the neck and completed by a scarlet neckband, matching her parasol. Her hair, bound up to show her ears and brushed down in bangs over her forehead, emphasized the sensual breadth of her face. Her skin was a beautiful smooth olive, firm and free of blemish. Johnny couldn't help thinking that the same olivecolored skin covered her whole body, including the breasts, which had been admired by the local experts. They did
indeed command admiration, tilting steeply under the white satin.

—I didn't mean to scream, she said. I saw you all down in the street getting ready to run, and I didn't expect to see you in the studio. Why didn't you run?

Her slight drawl was pleasantly Southern and vaguely querulous.

—We're going to postpone it until the Fourth of July, Johnny said.

—Are you a fast runner?

—Pretty fast, ma'am.

—I'm a good runner myself, the girl said.

—How about a race sometime?

—You don't believe me, do you? the girl purred. You'd be surprised how fast I can run. I'm as quick as a cat.

She gazed candidly into his eyes, her face turned up just at his shoulder, her eyes drinking his. Her lashes were long and coarse. The whites of her eyes were veined with little violet lines.

—I wouldn't be at all surprised, he said.

He would not have been surprised. Doubtless, this olivecolored softness could be curved and sudden with catlike muscles.

The girl was still looking at his face when the voice of the photographer broke in.

—Come in, young man.

Johnny went in and had his picture taken. When he came out ten minutes later, the girl was still in the gallery, posing in front of a portrait with both hands on a femininely thrustout hip.

—Hello, she said.

—Hello.

—You're John Shawnessy, the girl said.

—Thanks for letting me know, Johnny said, grinning.

To his surprise, the girl didn't smile at all.

—You're Susanna Drake, he said.

—How'd you know?

—From Uncle Garwood.

This time the girl laughed. Her laughter was like that of an excited child. While she laughed, she put her left hand on her throat.

—What did he say? she asked.

Johnny began obediently to recite what Garwood had said, omitting certain personalities. They walked down the stair together,
and it was natural for Johnny to ask her if he might take her home.

—I'd be hurt if you didn't, she said.

Outside in the Square, her scarlet parasol bloomed suddenly into a taut dome. Johnny was aware of hundreds of eyes turning to watch him. She took his arm, and they walked past the Saloon. She had a cute, bouncy way of walking, moving her shoulders with little thrusts and swaying her hips.

—Hello, Uncle Garwood, she said archly.

Garwood pursed his lips and nodded his head approvingly like a judge at the County Fair appraising a well-proportioned heifer. Cash Carney unlipped his cigar and delicately tipped the ash.