Chapter 7: Take It Where You Find It

Harley was afraid he was about to pass out. "God damn it boy, hang on. Just hang on another hundred yards," he growled to himself.

As he drove up into the yard, Ida Marie came hurrying out of the house, an anxious expression on her face. It turned to alarm as she saw her husband step out of the driver's side, naked below the waist, a tired and battered, but triumphant, grin on his face. She ran up to him and hugged him, as she tried from her husband to draw whatever courage was necessary to meet this next, as yet undefined, emergency, or calamity, or whatever it was.

"What's happened? Who took your pants? Where did you get that car? Is the laws after you?" The questions came tumbling out of her mouth, one after the other.

"Honey, I been bruised. Now, if you will be more tender with the side you are huggin' and snugglin' at, I'll tell you what happened. First off, this car is not ours."

She stamped her bare foot impatiently, "Harley, I know that car don't belong to us. Will you stop bein' so dammed exasperatin' and tell me what happened?"

"Well, first a train come by and spilled some wheat and I took my pants off." He paused again and took a deep breath. He fought another wave of dizziness.

"Harley I am going to take that pick handle with all the blood on it and..." She stopped and held the back of her hand to her mouth. The blood on the handle boded no good. Something real bad had to of happened. "Oh my goodness, Harley, what happened?"

"Well, as I started to say, when you interrupted me, I took my overalls off and knotted the legs and picked up all the wheat I could off the ground and stuffed it in my make do grain sack. Then all these birds come and started to eatin' th' grain and there wasn't enough left to try to gather. And I got mad at th' birds and threw rocks and killed the sons of bitches and then I cleaned them to bring home to eat with the boiled grain. We got that bit of salt block we found and I thought you could use that to season the wheat and make a right tasty food dish.

Ida Marie fidgeted, impatient, as she silently willed him to go on. At last he continued. "Then this railroad bull come along and was goin' to take my overalls and our wheat and make me walk home naked without a stitch but my shirt. Then I refused and he hit me on the head with that stick and tried to hit me again and I got hold of the stick and I gave him what for and he fell down and was knocked out and I figured turn about was fair play." He paused and added," He's dead." Ida's hand went to her mouth. "I killed th' son of a bitch and he's dead, plumb stone cold dead as hell dead." He shuddered at the memory.

Harley took a deep breath and resumed his narrative. "So I was goin' to take his pants to teach him a lesson and then I decided to take the gun and then the rest of his clothes. Then I saw the car and I decided that what the hell? So I took it too. Harley gave his wife a gentle smiled and fell to the ground unconscious, as the lack of food and the recent strenuous activity of the fight and his injuries all caught up with him. Everything just got dark and he felt himself as he fell into a dark gray whirlpool.

Later he groaned and tried to sit up. The next thing Harley was aware of was that the sun was setting and he was lying on the floor next to the old saggy spring bed with a damp cloth on his forehead. He reached up and discovered a sizeable knot high up on the side of his forehead and the palm of his right hand hurt where it had been bruised by the blow from the axe handle. Bits and pieces came together in his mind and it all started to come back to him. In his mind's eye he saw the dead bull lying naked in the weeds under the bridge. He saw the birds and he remembered the kaleidoscopic drive home.

"Are you feeling all right, Harley? When you collapsed like a sack of flour, I got scared. Can you see okay Hon? Oh Harley, I worry about you so much. You goin' to be okay, now?"

"Yuh." he grunted as he struggled to sit upright and climb to his feet. He grabbed the side of the bed and stood a moment before a wave of dizziness forced him to sit heavily back down on the edge of the mattress. "My head hurts and my hand hurts an' my gawdammed shoulder feels like it has been broke, but I'm okay, elsewise."

"Here, Hon, I boiled up some of that wheat you provided us with. And I went through that car and I found a fancy lunch box with a hunk of cheese and some baloney in it and some bread. I cut that all up and put it in too, except for a little taste I give to Little Ida.

"Oh Harley, you should of seen her face when she tasted that ol' long horn cheese and that sliced baloney. She just licked her fingers clean. Then I let her have a little of our baloney an' bird stew and our little girl was just so happy." Her voice choked up and glad tears came in her eyes as she related her joys and thankfulness. "You are truly a good man. Me an' Little Ida are surely lucky for you as the daddy." She nuzzled his neck and then planted a wet, sloppy kiss on his cheek.

"Well, Honey, me and Little Ida are sorely lucky to have you as the momma. I guess, in spite of all our bad luck, we are still very lucky people, sure as hell lucky." He placed an arm around her hips and gave her a little hug.

She handed him the boiled grain conglomeration and he slowly ate it, savoring every bite. Harley felt the strength return to his body as the food worked its magic. Wordless, he handed her back the shallow soup plate, their only one, and asked, "Is there maybe a little more?" She grabbed the dish and hurried to the big cast iron skillet sitting in the middle of the old rusted out range. Harley had contrived to replace the missing leg with rocks. It was only a little bit wobbly.

She handed it to him and he ate it with enjoyment. "You are a good cook, when you got something to cook," he told her. She blushed her thanks at his praise. He accepted the dish and commenced to eat. When he was through, Harley struggled up off the bed and carried the bowl and the spoon outside and rinsed them off in the tiny stream. She hurried out behind him and handed him his still knotted overalls.

"Harley honey, I couldn't get them knots out, baby, but I tried. You tied 'em too good." He accepted the garment and began to worry at the knots until he had both out. Then he put his clothing on and walked slowly over to the car. He was still a little unsteady on his feet.

He went to the back of the Ford and opened up the rumble seat. He found a toolbox and a twenty-two bolt action rifle, along with two boxes of ammunition, one for the pistol and one for the rifle. The rifle was an old octagonal barreled fifteen shot tube feed model made by Western Fire Arms, years before. It looked to have been well used and well maintained. He smiled to himself and continued to explore, but came up with nothing else of any import.

"Hon, I hope you don't mind that I went through the pants and vest and found some money and a hotel key for the Baker Hotel in Woodman. There was a four shot revolver like my daddy used to have before him and Momma died." Her face clouded at the memory for a moment. Then shaking herself loose from the remembrance, she continued, "What you need a gun for? We goin into bank robbin'? I don't know if that old car would let us make a fast get away." She grinned to show she was joking.

"Well, Honey, in the morning, we are goin' to get out of here. How much money did you find?" He hadn't thought about money during the adventures of the previous day. However, a little money would be quite nice.

"They was a hundred and sixty dollars in cash money, some change coins and a bank draft for two hundred and eighty-seven dollars more. It was made out from the railroad. Is there any ways we can get our hands on that cash money?"

"There sure is, Hon, I do believe there sure is. I can just be like Laz'rus and raise my ass up from th' dead." He laughed at his wife's confusion. I'll pretend be him in the morning and go in and cash it. It's also good at any place where the railroad has an account."

But what if he gets there first?"

"Hon, I don't believe that he will be there ahead of us. I truly don't." She remembered then that Harley had said how he had killed the man. The impact of what he told her sunk in. Harley had killed a man.

"Well, he had this old turnip watch and that was all." Harley saw the word Bulova on the dial of the fat watch. He took the monogrammed fob off the watch and threw it away. He slipped the watch into his front pocket. That saggy gutted son of a bitch wasn't going to need it any more.

By then it was full dark. They went over and sat together on the rickety old porch. Little Ida had fallen asleep, hugging her little stick doll. Oh so gentle, little Ida was picked up and carried inside and put on a pile of rags that was her pallet to sleep on.

He came back outside and took his wife by the hand and led her inside. This time, his shirt, as well as his pants came off and he crawled completely naked in bed to be followed by his equally naked wife. He held her close to him, savoring the feel of her tiny body close against him. She felt his demanding, questing hardness pressing urgently at her. She shoved her body against that hardness with hungry responses of her own.

After a little while there was a grunt and a gasp and a giggle and a moan. The old bedsprings began to squeak just a little at first. Then the cadence picked up and became a syncopated rhythm punctuated by more moans and gasps and brought to a final crescendo in a loud burst of grunting sound as Harley released his seed inside her. Then all was quiet as they slept, secure in each other's arms, safe in their sleep from a hostile world. They slept till dawn.

The next morning, Ida Marie was up first and had the clothes that had belonged to the railroad man washed and hung to dry. Harley yawned and stretched and scratched, still naked. He grinned as he watched her. He was accustomed to his wife's sleeping habits. She was always up first. Even when she was a new bride, she was always the one up first. The sight of her straggly brown frowsy hair, not yet finger brushed out as she was bending over a skillet or a table or some other chore always filled him with great pleasure.