I’ll shoot ‘im in the guts.
Come on, you guys.”
He ran furiously out of the barn.
Carlson said,
“I’ll get my Luger,” and he ran out too.
Slim turned quietly to George.
“I guess Lennie done it, all right,” he said. “Her neck’s bust.
Lennie coulda did that.”
George didn’t answer, but he nodded slowly.
His hat was so far down on his forehead that his eyes were covered.
Slim went on, “Maybe like that time in Weed you was tellin’ about.”
Again George nodded.
Slim sighed.
“Well, I guess we got to get him.
Where you think he might of went?”
It seemed to take George some time to free his words.
“He — would of went south,” he said.
“We come from north so he would of went south.”
“I guess we gotta get ‘im,” Slim repeated.
George stepped close.
“Couldn’ we maybe bring him in an’ they’ll lock him up?
He’s nuts, Slim.
He never done this to be mean.”
Slim nodded.
“We might,” he said. “If we could keep Curley in, we might.
But Curley’s gonna want to shoot ‘im.
Curley’s still mad about his hand.
An’ s’pose they lock him up an’ strap him down and put him in a cage.
That ain’t no good, George.”
“I know,” said George, “I know.”
Carlson came running in.
“The bastard’s stole my Luger,” he shouted. “It ain’t in my bag.”
Curley followed him, and Curley carried a shotgun in his good hand.
Curley was cold now.
“All right, you guys,” he said. “The nigger’s got a shotgun.
You take it, Carlson.
When you see ‘um, don’t give ‘im no chance.
Shoot for his guts.
That’ll double ‘im over.”
Whit said excitedly, “I ain’t got a gun.”
Curley said, “You go in Soledad an’ get a cop. Get Al Wilts, he’s deputy sheriff.
Le’s go now.” He turned suspiciously on George. “You’re comin’ with us, fella.”
“Yeah,” said George. “I’ll come.
But listen, Curley.
The poor bastard’s nuts.
Don’t shoot ‘im.
He di’n’t know what he was doin’.”
“Don’t shoot ‘im?” Curley cried. “He got Carlson’s Luger.
‘Course we’ll shoot ‘im.”
George said weakly, “Maybe Carlson lost his gun.”