Free Nine Stories by J. D. Salinger

Chief crossed the street with
his coat collar up, the bats under his left arm, and his
concentration on the street. His black hair, which had been combed
wet earlier in the day, was dry now and blowing. I remember wishing
the Chief had gloves.
    The
bus, as usual, was quiet when he climbed in--as proportionately
quiet, at any rate, as a theatre with dimming house lights.
Conversations were finished in a hurried whisper or shut off
completely. Nonetheless, the first thing the Chief said to us was
"All right, let's cut out the noise, or no story." In an
instant, an unconditional silence filled the bus, cutting off from
the Chief any alternative but to take up his narrating position. When
he had done so, he took out a handkerchief and methodically blew his
nose, one nostril at a time. We watched him with patience and even a
certain amount of spectator's interest. When he had finished with his
handkerchief, he folded it neatly in quarters and replaced it in his
pocket. He then gave us the new installment of "The Laughing
Man." From start to finish, it lasted no longer than five
minutes.
    Four
of Dufarge's bullets struck the Laughing Man, two of them through the
heart. When Dufarge, who was still shielding his eyes against the
sight of the Laughing Man's face, heard a queer exhalation of agony
from the direction of the target, he was overjoyed. His black heart
beating wildly, he rushed over to his unconscious daughter and
brought her to. The pair of them, beside themselves with delight and
coward's courage, now dared to look up at the Laughing Man. His head
was bowed as in death, his chin resting on his bloody chest. Slowly,
greedily, father and daughter came forward to inspect their spoils.
Quite a surprise was in store for them. The Laughing Man, far from
dead, was busy contracting his stomach muscles in a secret manner. As
the Dufarges came into range, he suddenly raised his face, gave a
terrible laugh, and neatly, even fastidiously, regurgitated all four
bullets. The impact of this feat on the Dufarges was so acute that
their hearts literally burst, and they dropped dead at the Laughing
Man's feet. (If the installment was going to be a short one anyway,
it could have ended there; the Comanches could have managed to
rationalize the sudden death of the Dufarges. But it didn't end
there.) Day after day, the Laughing Man continued to stand lashed to
the tree with barbed wire, the Dufarges decomposing at his feet.
Bleeding profusely and cut off from his supply of eagles' blood, he
had never been closer to death. One day, however, in a hoarse but
eloquent voice, he appealed for help to the animals of the forest. He
summoned them to fetch Omba, the lovable dwarf. And they did. But it
was a long trip back and forth across the Paris-Chinese border, and
by the time Omba arrived on the scene with a medical kit and a fresh
supply of eagles' blood, the Laughing Man was in a coma. Omba's very
first act of mercy was to retrieve his master's mask, which had blown
up against Mlle. Dufarge's vermin-infested torso. He placed it
respectfully over the hideous features, then proceeded to dress the
wounds.
    When
the Laughing Man's small eyes finally opened, Omba eagerly raised the
vial of eagles' blood up to the mask. But the Laughing Man didn't
drink from it. Instead, he weakly pronounced his beloved Black Wing's
name. Omba bowed his own slightly distorted head and revealed to his
master that the Dufarges had killed Black Wing. A peculiar and
heart-rending gasp of final sorrow came from the Laughing Man. He
reached out wanly for the vial of eagles' blood and crushed it in his
hand. What little blood he had left trickled thinly down his wrist.
He ordered Omba to look away, and, sobbing, Omba obeyed him. The
Laughing Man's last act, before turning his face to the bloodstained
ground, was to pull off his mask.
    The
story ended there, of course. (Never to be revived.) The Chief
started up the bus. Across the aisle from me, Billy Walsh, who was
the