t much of a talker, is he?"
"No, he ain't, but he's sure a hell of a good worker. Strong as a bull."
Lennie smiled to himself. "Strong as a bull," he repeated.
George scowled at him, and Lennie dropped his head in shame at having forgotten.
The boss said suddenly, "Listen, Small!" Lennie raised his head. "What can you do?"
In a panic, Lennie looked at George for help. "He can do anything you tell him," said George. "He's a good skinner. He can rassle grain bags, drive a cultivator. He can do anything. Just give him a try."
The boss turned on George. "Then why don't you let him answer? What you trying to put over?"
George broke in loudly, "Oh! I ain't saying he's bright. He ain't. But I say he's a God damn good worker. He can put up a four hundred pound bale."
The boss deliberately put the little book in his pocket. He hooked his thumbs in his belt and squinted one eye nearly closed. "Say--what you sellin'?"
"Huh?"
"I said what stake you got in this guy? You takin' his pay away from him?"
"No, 'course I ain't. Why ya think I'm sellin' him out?"
"Well, I never seen one guy take so much trouble for another guy. I just like to know what your interest is."
George said, "He's my . . . cousin. I told his old lady I'd take care of him. He got kicked in the head by a horse when he was a kid. He's awright. Just ain't bright. But he can do anything you tell him."
The boss turned half away. "Well, God knows he don't need any brains to buck barley bags. But don't you try to put nothing over, Milton. I got my eye on you. Why'd you quit in Weed?"
"Job was done," said George promptly.
"What kinda job?"
"We . . . we was diggin' a cesspool."
"All right. But don't try to put nothing over, 'cause you can't get away with nothing. I seen wise guys before. Go on out with the grain teams after dinner. They're pickin' up barley at the threshing machine. Go out with Slim's team."
"Slim?"
"Yeah. Big tall skinner. You'll see him at dinner." He turned abruptly and went to the door, but before he went out he turned and looked for a long moment at the two men.
When the sound of his footsteps had died away, George turned on Lennie. "So you wasn't gonna say a word. You was gonna leave your big flapper shut and leave me do the talkin'. Damn near lost us the job."
Lennie stared hopelessly at his hands. "I forgot, George."
"Yeah, you forgot. You always forget, an' I got to talk you out of it." He sat down heavily on the bunk. "Now he's got his eye on us. Now we got to be careful and not make no slips. You keep your big flapper shut after this." He fell morosely silent.
"George."
"What you want now?"
"I wasn't kicked in the head with no horse, was I, George?"
"Be a damn good thing if you was," George said viciously. "Save ever'body a hell of a lot of trouble."
"You said I was your cousin, George."
"Well, that was a lie. An' I'm damn glad it was. If I was a relative of yours I'd shoot myself." He stopped suddenly, stepped to the open front door and peered out. "Say, what the hell you doin' listenin'?"
The old man came slowly into the room. He had his broom in his hand. And at his heels there walked a drag-footed sheep dog, gray of muzzle, and with pale, blind old eyes. The dog struggled lamely to the side of the room and lay down, grunting softly to himself and licking his grizzled, moth-eaten coat. The swamper watched him until he was settled. "I wasn't listenin'. I was jus' standin' in the shade a minute scratchin' my dog. I jus' now finished swampin' out the wash house."
"You was pokin' your big ears into our business," George said. "I don't like nobody to get nosey."
The old man looked uneasily from George to Lennie, and then back. "I jus' come there," he said. "I didn't hear nothing you guys was sayin'. I ain't interested in nothing you was sayin'. A guy on a ranch don't never listen nor he don't ast no questions."
"Damn right he don't," said George, slightly mollified, "not if he wants to stay workin' long." But he was reassured by the swamper's defense. "Come on in and set down a minute," he said. "That's a hell of an old dog."
"Yeah. I had 'im ever since he was a pup. God, he was a good sheep dog when he was younger." He stood his broom against the wall and he rubbed his white bristled cheek with his knuckles. "How'd you like the boss?" he asked.
"Pretty good. Seemed awright."
"He's a nice fella," the swamper agreed. "You got to take him right."
At that moment a young man came into the bunkhouse; a thin young man with a brown face, with brown eyes and a head of tightly curled hair. He wore a work glove on his left hand, and, like the boss, he wore high-heeled boots. "Seen my old man?" he asked.
The swamper said, "He was here jus' a minute ago, Curley. Went over to the cook house, I think."
"I'll try to catch him," said Curley. His eyes passed over the new men and he stopped. He glanced coldly at George and then at Lennie. His arms gradually bent at the elbows and his hands closed into fists. He stiffened and went into a slight crouch. His glance was at once calculating and pugnacious. Lennie squirmed under the look and shifted his feet nervously. Curley stepped gingerly close to him. "You the new guys the old man was waitin' for?"
"We just come in," said George.
"Let the big guy talk."
Lennie twisted with embarrassment.
George said, "S'pose he don't want to talk?"
Curley lashed his body around. "By Christ, he's gotta talk when he's spoke to. What the hell are you gettin' into it for?"
"We travel together," said George coldly.
"Oh, so it's that way."
George was tense, and motionless. "Yeah, it's that way."
Lennie was looking helplessly to George for instruction.
"An' you won't let the big guy talk, is that it?"
"He can talk if he wants to tell you anything." He nodded slightly to Lennie.
"We jus' come in," said Lennie softly.
Curley stared levelly at him. "Well, nex' time you answer when you're spoke to." He turned toward the door and walked out, and his elbows were still bent out a little.
George watched him out, and then he turned back to the swamper. "Say, what the hell's he got on his shoulder? Lennie didn't do nothing to him."
The old man looked cautiously at the door to make sure no one was listening. "That's the boss's son," he said quietly. "Curley's pretty handy. He done quite a bit in the ring. He's a lightweight, and he's handy."
"Well, let him be handy," said George. "He don't have to take after Lennie. Lennie didn't do nothing to him. What's he got against Lennie?"
The swamper considered. . . . "Well . . . tell you what. Curley's like a lot of little guys. He hates big guys. He's alla time picking scraps with big guys. Kind of like he's mad at 'em because he ain't a big guy. You seen little guys like that, ain't you? Always scrappy?"
"Sure," said George. "I seen plenty tough little guys. But this Curley better not make no mistakes about Lennie. Lennie ain't handy, but this Curley punk is gonna get hurt if he messes around with Lennie."
"Well, Curley's pretty handy," the swamper said skeptically. "Never did seem right to me. S'pose Curley jumps a big guy an' licks him. Ever'body says what a game guy Curley is. And s'pose he does the same thing and gets licked. Then ever'body says the big guy oughtta pick on somebody his own size, and maybe they gang up on the big guy. Never did seem right to me. Seems like Curley ain't givin' nobody a chance."
George was watching the door. He said ominously, "Well, he better watch out for Lennie. Lennie ain't no fighter, but Lennie's strong and quick and Lennie don't know no rules." He walked to the square table and sat down on one of the boxes. He gathered some of the cards together and shuffled them.
The old man sat down on another box. "Don't tell Curley I said none of this. He'd slough me. He just don't give a damn. Won't ever get canned 'cause his old man's the boss."
George cut the cards and began turning them over, looking at each one and throwing it down on a pile. He said, "This guy Curley sounds like a son-of-a-bitch to me. I don't like mean little guys."
"Seems to me like he's worse lately," said the swamper. "He got married a couple of weeks ago. Wife lives over in the boss's house. Seems like Curley is cockier'n ever since he got married."
George grunted, "Maybe he's showin' off for his wife."
The swamper warmed to his gossip. "You seen that glove on his left hand?"
"Yeah. I seen it."
"Well, that glove's fulla Vaseline."
"Vaseline? What the hell for?"
"Well, I tell ya what--Curley says he's keepin' that hand soft for his wife."
George studied the cards absorbedly. "That's a dirty thing to tell around," he said.
The old man was reassured. He had drawn a derogatory statement from George. He felt safe now, and he spoke more confidently. "Wait'll you see Curley's wife."
George cut the cards again and put out a solitaire lay, slowly and deliberately. "Purty?" he asked casually.
"Yeah. Purty . . . but----"
George studied his cards. "But what?"
"Well--she got the eye."
"Yeah? Married two weeks and got the eye? Maybe that's why Curley's pants is full of ants."
"I seen her give Slim the eye. Slim's a jerkline skinner. Hell of a nice fella. Slim don't need to wear no high-heeled boots on a grain team. I seen her give Slim the eye. Curley never seen it. An' I seen her give Carlson the eye."
George pretended a lack of interest. "Looks like we was gonna have fun."
The swamper stood up from his box. "Know what I think?" George did not answer. "Well, I think Curley's married . . . a tart."
"He ain't the first," said George. "There's plenty done that."
The old man moved toward the door, and his ancient dog lifted his head and peered about, and then got painfully to his feet to follow. "I gotta be settin' out the wash basins for the guys. The teams'll be in before long. You guys gonna buck barley?"
"Yeah."
"You won't tell Curley nothing I said?"
"Hell no."
"Well, you look her over, mister. You see if she ain't a tart." He stepped out the door into the brilliant sunshine.
George laid down his cards thoughtfully, turned his piles of three. He built four clubs on his ace pile. The sun square was on the floor now, and the flies whipped through it like sparks. A sound of jingling harness and the croak of heavy-laden axles sounded from outside. From the distance came a clear call. "Stable Buck-- ooh, sta-able Buck!" And then, "Where the hell is that God damn nigger?"
George stared at his solitaire lay, and then he flounced the cards together and turned around to Lennie. Lennie was lying down on the bunk watching him.
"Look, Lennie! This here ain't no setup. I'm scared. You gonna have trouble with that Curley guy. I seen that kind before. He was kinda feelin' you out. He figures he's got you scared and he's gonna take a sock at you the first chance he gets."
Lennie's eyes were frightened. "I don't want no trouble," he said plaintively. "Don't let him sock me, George."
George got up and went over to Lennie's bunk and sat down on it. "I hate that kinda bastard," he said. "I seen plenty of 'em. Like the old guy says, Curley don't take no chances. He always wins." He thought for a moment. "If he tangles with you, Lennie, we're gonna get the can. Don't make no mistake about that. He's the boss's son. Look, Lennie. You try to keep away from him, will you? Don't never speak to him. If he comes in here you move clear to the other side of the room. Will you do that, Lennie?"
"I don't want no trouble," Lennie mourned. "I never done nothing to him."
"Well, that won't do you no good if Curley wants to plug himself up for a fighter. Just don't have nothing to do with him. Will you remember?"
"Sure, George. I ain't gonna say a word."
The sound of the approaching grain teams was louder, thud of big hooves on hard ground, drag of brakes and the jingle of trace chains. Men were calling back and forth from the teams. George, sitting on the bunk beside Lennie, frowned as he thought. Lennie asked timidly, "You ain't mad, George?"
"I ain't mad at you. I'm mad at this here Curley bastard. I hoped we was gonna get a little stake together--maybe a hundred dollars." His tone grew decisive. "You keep away from Curley, Lennie."
"Sure I will, George. I won't say a word."
"Don't let him pull you in--but--if the son-of-a-bitch socks you--let 'im have it."
"Let 'im have what, George?"
"Never mind, never mind. I'll tell you when. I hate that kind of a guy. Look, Lennie, if you get in any kind of trouble, you remember what I told you to do?"
Lennie raised up on his elbow. His face contorted with thought. Then his eyes moved sadly to George's face. "If I get in any trouble, you ain't gonna let me tend the rabbits."
"That's not what I meant. You remember where we slep' last night? Down by the river?"
"Yeah. I remember. Oh, sure I remember! I go there an' hide in the brush."
"Hide till I come for you. Don't let nobody see you. Hide in the brush by the river. Say that over."
"Hide in the brush by the river, down in the brush by the river."
"If you get in trouble."
"If I get in trouble."
A brake screeched outside. A call came, "Stable-- Buck. Oh! Sta-able Buck."
George said, "Say it over to yourself, Lennie, so you won't forget it."
Both men glanced up, for the rectangle of sunshine in the doorway was cut off. A girl was standing there looking in. She had full, rouged lips and wide-spaced eyes, heavily made up. Her fingernails were red. Her hair hung in little rolled clusters, like sausages. She wore a cotton house dress and red mules, on the insteps of which were little bouquets of red ostrich feathers. "I'm lookin' for Curley," she said. Her voice had a nasal, brittle quality.
George looked away from her and then back. "He was in here a minute ago, but he went."
"Oh!" She put her hands behind her back and leaned against the door frame so that her body was thrown forward. "You're the new fellas that just come, ain't ya?"
"Yeah."
Lennie's eyes moved down over her body, and though she did not seem to be looking at Lennie she bridled a little. She looked at her fingernails. "Sometimes Curley's in here," she explained.
George said brusquely, "Well he ain't now."
"If he ain't, I guess I better look someplace else," she said playfully.
Lennie watched her, fascinated. George said, "If I see him, I'll pass the word you was looking for him."
She smiled archly and twitched her body. "Nobody can't blame a person for lookin'," she said. There were footsteps behind her, going by. She turned her head. "Hi, Slim," she said.
Slim's voice came through the door. "Hi, Good-lookin'. "
"I'm tryin' to find Curley, Slim."
"Well, you ain't tryin' very hard. I seen him goin' in your house."
She was suddenly apprehensive. " 'Bye, boys," she called into the bunkhouse, and she hurried away.
George looked around at Lennie. "Jesus, what a tramp," he said. "So that's what Curley picks for a wife."
"She's purty," said Lennie defensively.
"Yeah, and she's sure hidin' it. Curley got his work ahead of him. Bet she'd clear out for twenty bucks."
Lennie still stared at the doorway where she had been. "Gosh, she was purty." He smiled admiringly. George looked quickly down at him and then he took him by an ear and shook him.
"Listen to me, you crazy bastard," he said fiercely. "Don't you even take a look at that bitch. I don't care what she says and what she does. I seen 'em poison before, but I never seen no piece of jail bait worse than her. You leave her be."
Lennie tried to disengage his ear. "I never done nothing, George."
"No, you never. But when she was standin' in the doorway showin' her legs, you wasn't lookin' the other way, neither."
"I never meant no harm, George. Honest I never."
"Well, you keep away from her, 'cause she's a rat-trap if I ever seen one. You let Curley take the rap. He let himself in for it. Glove fulla Vaseline," George said disgustedly. "An' I bet he's eatin' raw eggs and writin' to the patent medicine houses."
Lennie cried out suddenly--"I don' like this place, George. This ain't no good place. I wanna get outta here."
"We gotta keep it till we get a stake. We can't help it, Lennie. We'll get out jus' as soon as we can. I don't like it no better than you do." He went back to the table and set out a new solitaire hand. "No, I don't like it," he said. "For two bits I'd shove out of here. If we can get jus' a few dollars in the poke we'll shove off and go up the American River and pan gold. We can make maybe a couple of dollars a day there, and we might hit a pocket."
Lennie leaned eagerly toward him. "Le's go, George. Le's get outta here. It's mean here."
"We gotta stay," George said shortly. "Shut up now. The guys'll be comin' in."
From the washroom nearby came the sound of running water and rattling basins. George studied the cards. "Maybe we oughtta wash up," he said. "But we ain't done nothing to get dirty."
A tall man stood in the doorway. He held a crushed Stetson hat under his arm while he combed his long, black, damp hair straight back. Like the others he wore blue jeans and a short denim jacket. When he had finished combing his hair he moved into the room, and he moved with a majesty only achieved by royalty and master craftsmen. He was a jerkline skinner, the prince of the ranch, capable of driving ten, sixteen, even twenty mules with a single line to the leaders. He was capable of killing a fly on the wheeler's butt with a bull whip without touching the mule. There was a gravity in his manner and a quiet so profound that all talk stopped when he spoke. His authority was so great that his word was taken on any subject, be it politics or love. This was Slim, the jerkline skinner. His hatchet face was ageless. He might have been thirty-five or fifty. His ear heard more than was said to him, and his slow speech had overtones not of thought, but of understanding beyond thought. His hands, large and lean, were as delicate in their action as those of a temple dancer.
He smoothed out his crushed hat, creased it in the middle and put it on. He looked kindly at the two in the bunkhouse. "It's brighter'n a bitch outside," he said gently. "Can't hardly see nothing in here. You the new guys?"
"Just come," said George.
"Gonna buck barley?"
"That's what the boss says."
Slim