He jus’ got it.
Runs a few cattle.
Got guards ever’place to keep folks out.
Rides aroun’ in a bullet-proof car.
I seen pitchers of him.
Fat, sof’ fella with little mean eyes an’ a mouth like a ass-hole.
Scairt he’s gonna die.
Got a million acres an’ scairt of dyin’.”
Casy demanded,
“What in hell can he do with a million acres?
What’s he want a million acres for?”
The man took his whitening, puckering hands out of the water and spread them, and he tightened his lower lip and bent his head down to one shoulder.
“I dunno,” he said.
“Guess he’s crazy.
Mus’ be crazy.
Seen a pitcher of him.
He looks crazy. Crazy an’ mean.”
“Say he’s scairt to die?” Casy asked.
“That’s what I heard.”
“Scairt God’ll get him?”
“I dunno.
Jus’ scairt.”
“What’s he care?” Pa said. “Don’t seem like he’s havin’ no fun.”
“Grampa wasn’t scairt,” Tom said. “When Grampa was havin’ the most fun, he come clostest to gettin’ kil’t.
Time Grampa an’ another fella whanged into a bunch a Navajo in the night.
They was havin’ the time a their life, an’ same time you wouldn’t give a gopher for their chance.”
Casy said,
“Seems like that’s the way.
Fella havin’ fun, he don’t give a damn; but a fella mean an’ lonely an’ old an’ disappointed—he’s scared of dyin’!”
Pa asked,
“What’s he disappointed about if he got a million acres?”
The preacher smiled, and he looked puzzled.
He splashed a floating water bug away with his hand.
“If he needs a million acres to make him feel rich, seems to me he needs it ’cause he feels awful poor inside hisself, and if he’s poor in hisself, there ain’t no million acres gonna make him feel rich, an’ maybe he’s disappointed that nothin’ he can do’ll make him feel rich—not rich like Mis’ Wilson was when she give her tent when Grampa died.
I ain’t tryin’ to preach no sermon, but I never seen nobody that’s busy as a prairie dog collectin’ stuff that wasn’t disappointed.” He grinned. “Does kinda soun’ like a sermon, don’t it?”
The sun was flaming fiercely now.
Pa said,
“Better scrunch down under water.
She’ll burn the living Jesus outa you.” And he reclined and let the gently moving water flow around his neck. “If a fella’s willin’ to work hard, can’t he cut her?” Pa asked.
The man sat up and faced him.
“Look, mister. I don’ know ever’thing.
You might go out there an’ fall into a steady job, an’ I’d be a liar.
An’ then, you might never get no work, an’ I didn’ warn ya.
I can tell ya mos’ of the folks is purty mis’able.” He lay back in the water. “A fella don’ know ever’thing,” he said.
Pa turned his head and looked at Uncle John.
“You never was a fella to say much,” Pa said. “But I’ll be goddamned if you opened your mouth twicet sence we lef’ home.
What you think ’bout this here?”
Uncle John scowled.
“I don’t think nothin’ about it.
We’re a-goin’ there, ain’t we?