Free Heed the Thunder by Jim Thompson

summer, stifling. Over all, there hung the economy of those generous and unnecessary bedrooms. There was a porch, a lower one, right-angling around the façade of the building, but it contributed little aesthetically and nothing at all utilitarian. There was room and to spare in the house, and the house was too far from the road to see or be seen. The only other relief, aside from the multiped lightning-rod system, was a small platform transfixed by the main chimney and enclosed by a balustrade of gingerbread scrollwork. It had cost nothing, being by way of lagniappe for an expensive job.…It was a bastard house, sired by hope out of a dead faith. To Robert Dillon it was the finest, the best, the friendliest house in the world.
    As he and Sherman rode into the yard, a tiny face that had been pressed against the kitchen window disappeared, the back door flew open, and little Ruthie Fargo came toddling down the steps.
    “Daddy! Daddy!”
    Sherman stopped the sleigh and held out his arms. “Okay, kid. Come a-runnin’!”
    He snatched her up, pulled her beneath his heavy coat, and they rode on toward the barn.
    “Them damn’ big brothers of yours finished the milkin’ yet?”
    “Huh-uh,” said Ruthie. “Nopff, Daddy.”
    “Goddam their hides,” said Sherman. “Bob, you want to do something while I’m unhitching? Go down and tell Gus and Ted to get a move on. Tell ’em to kick plenty of hay down to the cows, too. Cows need lots more this weather.”
    “All right, Sherman,” said Robert.
    “Tell ’em to step lively, now, or I’ll make ’em wish they had.”
    “All right,” said Robert.
    He got out of the sleigh and started across the lot to the cowshed; and Sherman and Ruthie rode on into the black depths of the great red barn.
    Augustus Fargo was thirteen, a year older than his brother Theodore, but they were practically the same size and they looked so much alike that, at first blush, many people took them for twins. They were wiry, square-shouldered lads, buck-toothed and with little close-set eyes which danced constantly with mean merriment.
    They approved heartily of Robert Dillon. Sensitive to his helplessness, they admired his willingness to try anything. Then, too, he had been to far-away places and had interesting things to tell.
    By the dim light of their lantern, Robert saw them seated in opposite stalls. Their milkpails were nearly full, and they were wasting the residue by “jerking teats” at each other. Their faces were white with milk, and they were shaking with laughter as they leaned back on their stools.
    They greeted Robert with profuse, if profane, warmth; and he gave them their father’s message.
    “Oh, he said that, did he?” scowled Gus with pretended ferocity. His voice dropped into Sherman’s explosively controlled tones. “Well, I’ll show that son-of-a-bitch!”
    While Ted and Robert quaked with mirth, he got up and lumbered back and forth, rolling his shoulders, imitating his father to a t . “Haah!” he snorted. “Where’s me a pitchfork? HI’ll shove it so far up his butt he can smoke it for a cigar!”
    “You son-of-a-bitch,” jeered Ted, “you couldn’t lick a cold cowchip!”
    “I couldn’t because you eat ’em all!”
    “Yah!”
    “Yah!”
    They frowned at each other happily.
    “You better get busy,” said Robert.
    “Well, maybe we had,” said Gus. “The old man an’ lady’s gettin’ too damned old to eat real grub. If we don’t get their pap in to ’em, they’re liable to keel over.”
    “I hope the old lady falls outdoors if she’s got to fall,” said Ted. “I’d sure as hell hate to carry her out.”
    “Well, get busy,” said Gus, resuming his stool. “And no more milk-fighting.”
    “No more milk-fighting,” his brother agreed.
    Each turned and buried his head in his cow’s flank. Each grasped two teats. Each whirled, swiftly, and squirted milk at the other.
    “You son-of-a-bitch!” they said in unison.
    Gus arose suddenly,