OF MICE AND MEN by John Steinbeck (read online)

TWO

The bunkhouse was a long, rectangular building. Inside, the walls
were whitewashed and the floor unpainted. In three walls there were
small, square windows, and in the fourth, a solid door with a wooden
latch. Against the walls were eight bunks, five of them made up with
blankets and the other three showing their burlap ticking. Over each
bunk there was nailed an apple box with the opening forward so that it
made two shelves for the personal belongings of the occupant of the
bunk. And these shelves were loaded with little articles, soap and
talcum powder, razors and those Western magazines ranch men love to
read and scoff at and secretly believe. And there were medicines on
the shelves, and little vials, combs; and from nails on the box sides,
a few neckties. Near one wall there was a black cast-iron stove, its
stovepipe going straight up through the ceiling. In the middle of
the room stood a big square table littered with playing cards, and
around it were grouped boxes for the players to sit on.
At about ten o’clock in the morning the sun threw a bright
dust-laden bar through one of the side windows, and in and out of
the beam flies shot like rushing stars.
The wooden latch raised. The door opened and a tall,
stoop-shouldered old man came in. He was dressed in blue jeans and
he carried a big push-broom in his left hand. Behind him came
George, and behind George, Lennie.
“The boss was expectin’ you last night,” the old man said. “He was
sore as hell when you wasn’t here to go out this morning.” He
pointed with his right arm, and out of the sleeve came a round
stick-like wrist, but no hand. “You can have them two beds there,”
he said, indicating two bunks near the stove.
George stepped over and threw his blankets down on the burlap sack
of straw that was a mattress. He looked into his box shelf and then
picked a small yellow can from it.
“Say. What the hell’s this?”
“I don’t know,” said the old man.
“Says ‘positively kills lice, roaches and other scourges.’ What
the hell kind of bed you giving us, anyways. We don’t want no pants
rabbits.”
The old swamper shifted his broom and held it between his elbow
and his side while he held out his hand for the can. He studied the
label carefully. “Tell you what-” he said finally, “last guy that
had this bed was a blacksmith- hell of a nice fella and as clean a guy
as you want to meet. Used to wash his hands even after he ate.”
“Then how come he got graybacks?” George was working up a slow
anger. Lennie put his bindle on the neighboring bunk and sat down.
He watched George with open mouth.
“Tell you what,” said the old swamper. “This here blacksmith- name
of Whitey- was the kind of guy that would put that stuff around even
if there wasn’t no bugs- just to make sure, see? Tell you what he used
to do- At meals he’d peel his boil’ potatoes, an’ he’d take out
ever’ little spot, no matter what kind, before he’d eat it. And if
there was a red splotch on an egg, he’d scrape it off. Finally quit
about the food. That’s the kinda guy he was- clean. Used ta dress up
Sundays even when he wasn’t going no place, put on a necktie even, and
then set in the bunkhouse.”
“I ain’t so sure,” said George skeptically. “What did you say he
quit for?”
The old man put the yellow can in his pocket, and he rubbed his
bristly white whiskers with his knuckles. “Why… he… just quit, the
way a guy will. Says it was the food. Just wanted to move. Didn’t give
no other reason but the food. Just says ‘gimme my time’ one night, the
way any guy would.”
George lifted his tick and looked underneath it. He leaned over
and inspected the sacking closely. Immediately Lennie got up and did
the same with his bed. Finally George seemed satisfied. He unrolled
his bindle and put things on the shelf, his razor and bar of soap, his
comb and bottle of pills, his liniment and leather wristband. Then
he made his bed up neatly with blankets. The old man said, “I guess
the boss’ll be out here in a minute. He was sure burned when you
wasn’t here this morning. Come right in when we was eatin’ breakfast
and says, ‘Where the hell’s them new men?’ An’ he give the stable buck
hell, too.”
George patted a wrinkle out of his bed, and sat down. “Give the
stable buck hell?” he asked.
“Sure. Ya see the stable buck’s a nigger.”
“Nigger, huh?”
“Yeah. Nice fella too. Got a crooked back where a horse kicked
him. The boss gives him hell when he’s mad. But the stable buck
don’t give a damn about that. He reads a lot. Got books in his room.”
“What kind of a guy is the boss?” George asked.
“Well, he’s a pretty nice fella. Gets pretty mad sometimes, but he’s
pretty nice. Tell ya what- know what he done Christmas? Brang a gallon
of whisky right in here and says, ‘Drink hearty, boys. Christmas comes
but once a year.'”
“The hell he did! Whole gallon?”
“Yes sir. Jesus, we had fun. They let the nigger come in that night.
Little skinner name of Smitty took after the nigger. Done pretty good,
too. The guys wouldn’t let him use his feet, so the nigger got him. If
he coulda used his feet, Smitty says he woulda killed the nigger.
The guys said on account of the nigger’s got a crooked back, Smitty
can’t use his feet.” He paused in relish of the memory. “After that
the guys went into Soledad and raised hell. I didn’t go in there. I
ain’t got the poop no more.”
Lennie was just finishing making his bed. The wooden latch raised
again and the door opened. A little stocky man stood in the open
doorway. He wore blue jean trousers, a flannel shirt, a black,
unbuttoned vest and a black coat. His thumbs were stuck in his belt,
on each side of a square steel buckle. On his head was a soiled
brown Stetson hat, and he wore high-heeled boots and spurs to prove he
was not a laboring man.
The old swamper looked quickly at him, and then shuffled to the door
rubbing his whiskers with his knuckles as he went. “Them guys just
come,” he said, and shuffled past the boss and out the door.
The boss stepped into the room with the short, quick steps of a
fat-legged man. “I wrote Murray and Ready I wanted two men this
morning. You got your work slips?” George reached into his pocket
and produced the slips and handed them to the boss. “It wasn’t
Murray and Ready’s fault. Says right here on the slip that you was
to be here for work this morning.”
George looked down at his feet. “Bus driver give us a bum steer,” he
said. “We hadda walk ten miles. Says we was here when we wasn’t. We
couldn’t get no rides in the morning.”
The boss squinted his eyes. “Well, I had to send out the grain teams
short two buckers. Won’t do any good to go out now till after dinner.”
He pulled his time book out of his pocket and opened it where a pencil
was stuck between the leaves. George scowled meaningfully at Lennie,
and Lennie nodded to show that he understood. The boss licked his
pencil. “What’s your name?”
“George Milton.”
“And what’s yours?”
George said, “His name’s Lennie Small.”
The names were entered in the book. “Le’s see, this is the
twentieth, noon the twentieth.” He closed the book. “Where you boys
been working?”
“Up around Weed,” said George.
“You, too?” to Lennie.
“Yeah, him too,” said George.
The boss pointed a playful finger at Lennie. “He ain’t much of a
talker, is he?”
“No, he ain’t, but he’s sure a hell of a good worker. Strong as a
bull.”
Lennie smiled to himself. “Strong as a bull,” he repeated.
George scowled at him, and Lennie dropped his head in shame at
having forgotten.
The boss said suddenly, “Listen, Small!” Lennie raised his head.
“What can you do?”
In a panic, Lennie looked at George for help. “He can do anything
you tell him,” said George. “He’s a good skinner. He can rassel
grain bags, drive a cultivator. He can do anything. Just give him a
try.”
The boss turned on George. “Then why don’t you let him answer?
What you trying to put over?”
George broke in loudly, “Oh! I ain’t saying he’s bright. He ain’t.
But I say he’s a God damn good worker. He can put up a four hundred
pound bale.”
The boss deliberately put the little book in his pocket. He hooked
his thumbs in his belt and squinted one eye nearly closed. “Say-
what you sellin’?”
“Huh?”
“I said what stake you got in this guy? You takin’ his pay away from
him?”
“No, ‘course I ain’t. Why ya think I’m sellin’ him out?”
“Well, I never seen one guy take so much trouble for another guy.
I just like to know what your interest is.”
George said, “He’s my… cousin. I told his old lady I’d take care
of him. He got kicked in the head by a horse when he was a kid. He’s
awright. Just ain’t bright. But he can do anything you tell him.”
The boss turned half away. “Well, God knows he don’t need any brains
to buck barley bags. But don’t you try to put nothing over, Milton.
I got my eye on you. Why’d you quit in Weed?”
“Job was done,” said George promptly.
“What kinda job?”
“We… we was diggin’ a cesspool.”
“All right. But don’t try to put nothing over, ’cause you can’t
get away with nothing. I seen wise guys before. Go on out with the
grain teams after dinner. They’re pickin’ up barley at the threshing
machine. Go out with Slim’s team.”
“Slim?”
“Yeah. Big tall skinner. You’ll see him at dinner.” He turned
abruptly and went to the door, but before he went out he turned and
looked for a long moment at the two men.
When the sound of his footsteps had died away, George turned on
Lennie. “So you wasn’t gonna say a word. You was gonna leave your
big flapper shut and leave me do the talkin’. Damn near lost us the
job.”
Lennie stared hopelessly at his hands. “I forgot, George.”
“Yeah, you forgot. You always forget, an’ I got to talk you out of
it.” He sat down heavily on the bunk. “Now he’s got his eye on us. Now
we got to be careful and not make no slips. You keep your big
flapper shut after this.” He fell morosely silent.
“George.”
“What you want now?”
“I wasn’t kicked in the head with no horse, was I, George?”
“Be a damn good thing if you was,” George said viciously. “Save
ever’body a hell of a lot of trouble.”
“You said I was your cousin, George.”
“Well, that was a lie. An’ I’m damn glad it was. If I was a relative
of yours I’d shoot myself.” He stopped suddenly, stepped to the open
front door and peered out. “Say, what the hell you doin’ listenin’?”
The old man came slowly into the room. He had his broom in his hand.
And at his heels there walked a dragfooted sheepdog, gray of muzzle,
and with pale, blind old eyes. The dog struggled lamely to the side of
the room and lay down, grunting softly to himself and licking his
grizzled, moth-eaten coat. The swamper watched him until he was
settled. “I wasn’t listenin’. I was jus’ standin’ in the shade a
minute scratchin’ my dog. I jus’ now finished swampin’ out the wash
house.”
“You was pokin’ your big ears into our business,” George said. “I
don’t like nobody to get nosey.”
The old man looked uneasily from George to Lennie, and then back. “I
jus’ come there,” he said. “I didn’t hear nothing you guys was sayin’.
I ain’t interested in nothing you was sayin’. A guy on a ranch don’t
never listen nor he don’t ast no questions.”
“Damn right he don’t,” said George, slightly mollified, “not if he
wants to stay workin’ long.” But he was reassured by the swamper’s
defense. “Come on in and set down a minute,” he said. “That’s a hell
of an old dog.”
“Yeah. I had ‘im ever since he was a pup. God, he was a good sheep
dog when he was younger.” He stood his broom against the wall and he
rubbed his white bristled cheek with his knuckles. “How’d you like the
boss?” he asked.
“Pretty good. Seemed awright.”
“He’s a nice fella,” the swamper agreed. “You got to take him
right.”
At that moment a young man came into the bunkhouse; a thin young man
with a brown face, with brown eyes and a head of tightly curled
hair. He wore a work glove on his left hand, and, like the boss, he
wore high-heeled boots. “Seen my old man?” he asked.
The swamper said, “He was here jus’ a minute ago, Curley. Went
over to the cook house, I think.”
“I’ll try to catch him,” said Curley. His eyes passed over the new
men and he stopped. He glanced coldly at George and then at Lennie.
His arms gradually bent at the elbows and his hands closed into fists.
He stiffened and went into a slight crouch. His glance was at once
calculating and pugnacious. Lennie squirmed under the look and shifted
his feet nervously. Curley stepped gingerly close to him. “You the new
guys the old man was waitin’ for?”
“We just come in,” said George.
“Let the big guy talk.”
Lennie twisted with embarrassment.
George said, “S’pose he don’t want to talk?”
Curley lashed his body around. “By Christ, he’s gotta talk when he’s
spoke to. What the hell are you gettin’ into it for?”
“We travel together,” said George coldly.
“Oh, so it’s that way.”
George was tense, and motionless. “Yeah, it’s that way.”
Lennie was looking helplessly to George for instruction.
“An’ you won’t let the big guy talk, is that it?”
“He can talk if he wants to tell you anything.” He nodded slightly
to Lennie.
“We jus’ come in,” said Lennie softly.
Curley stared levelly at him. “Well, nex’ time you answer when
you’re spoke to.” He turned toward the door and walked out, and his
elbows were still bent out a little.
George watched him out, and then he turned back to the swamper.
“Say, what the hell’s he got on his shoulder? Lennie didn’t do nothing
to him.”
The old man looked cautiously at the door to make sure no one was
listening. “That’s the boss’s son,” he said quietly. “Curley’s
pretty handy. He done quite a bit in the ring. He’s a lightweight, and
he’s handy.”
“Well, let him be handy,” said George. “He don’t have to take
after Lennie. Lennie didn’t do nothing to him. What’s he got against
Lennie?”
The swamper considered…. “Well… tell you what. Curley’s like a
lot of little guys. He hates big guys. He’s alla time picking scraps
with big guys. Kind of like he’s mad at ’em because he ain’t a big
guy. You seen little guys like that, ain’t you? Always scrappy?”
“Sure,” said George. “I seen plenty tough little guys. But this
Curley better not make no mistakes about Lennie. Lennie ain’t handy,
but this Curley punk is gonna get hurt if he messes around with
Lennie.”
“Well, Curley’s pretty handy,” the swamper said skeptically.
“Never did seem right to me. S’pose Curley jumps a big guy an’ licks
him. Ever’body says what a game guy Curley is. And s’pose he does
the same thing and gets licked. Then ever’body says the big guy
oughtta pick somebody his own size, and maybe they gang up on the
big guy. Never did seem right to me. Seems like Curley ain’t givin’
nobody a chance.”
George was watching the door. He said ominously, “Well, he better
watch out for Lennie. Lennie ain’t no fighter, but Lennie’s strong and
quick and Lennie don’t know no rules.” He walked to the square table
and sat down on one of the boxes. He gathered some of the cards
together and shuffled them.
The old man sat down on another box. “Don’t tell Curley I said
none of this. He’d slough me. He just don’t give a damn. Won’t ever
get canned ’cause his old man’s the boss.”
George cut the cards and began turning them over, looking at each
one and throwing it down on a pile. He said, “This guy Curley sounds
like a son-of-a-bitch to me. I don’t like mean little guys.”
“Seems to me like he’s worse lately,” said the swamper. “He got
married a couple of weeks ago. Wife lives over in the boss’s house.
Seems like Curley is cockier’n ever since he got married.”
George grunted, “Maybe he’s showin’ off for his wife.”
The swamper warmed to his gossip. “You seen that glove on his left
hand?”
“Yeah. I seen it.”
“Well, that glove’s fulla vaseline.”
“Vaseline? What the hell for?”
“Well, I tell ya what- Curley says he’s keepin’ that hand soft for
his wife.”
George studied the cards absorbedly. “That’s a dirty thing to tell
around,” he said.
The old man was reassured. He had drawn a derogatory statement
from George. He felt safe now, and he spoke more confidently. “Wait’ll
you see Curley’s wife.”
George cut the cards again and put out a solitaire lay, slowly and
deliberately. “Purty?” he asked casually.
“Yeah. Purty… but-”
George studied his cards. “But what?”
“Well- she got the eye.”
“Yeah? Married two weeks and got the eye? Maybe that’s why
Curley’s pants is full of ants.”
“I seen her give Slim the eye. Slim’s a jerkline skinner. Hell of
a nice fella. Slim don’t need to wear no high-heeled boots on a
grain team. I seen her give Slim the eye. Curley never seen it. An’
I seen her give Carlson the eye.”
George pretended a lack of interest. “Looks like we was gonna have
fun.”
The swamper stood up from his box. “Know what I think?” George did
not answer. “Well, I think Curley’s married… a tart.”
“He ain’t the first,” said George. “There’s plenty done that.”
The old man moved toward the door, and his ancient dog lifted his
head and peered about, and then got painfully to his feet to follow.
“I gotta be settin’ out the wash basins for the guys. The teams’ll
be in before long. You guys gonna buck barley?”
“Yeah.”
“You won’t tell Curley nothing I said?”
“Hell no.”
“Well, you look her over, mister. You see if she ain’t a tart.” He
stepped out the door into the brilliant sunshine.
George laid down his cards thoughtfully, turned his piles of
three. He built four clubs on his ace pile. The sun square was on
the floor now, and the flies whipped through it like sparks. A sound
of jingling harness and the croak of heavy-laden axles sounded from
outside. From the distance came a clear call. “Stable buck- ooh,
sta-able buck!” And then, “Where the hell is that God damn nigger?”
George stared at his solitaire lay, and then he flounced the cards
together and turned around to Lennie. Lennie was lying down on the
bunk watching him.
“Look, Lennie! This here ain’t no setup. I’m scared. You gonna
have trouble with that Curley guy. I seen that kind before. He was
kinda feelin’ you out. He figures he’s got you scared and he’s gonna
take a sock at you the first chance he gets.”
Lennie’s eyes were frightened. “I don’t want no trouble,” he said
plaintively. “Don’t let him sock me, George.”
George got up and went over to Lennie’s bunk and sat down on it.
“I hate that kinda bastard,” he said. “I seen plenty of ’em. Like
the old guy says, Curley don’t take no chances. He always wins.” He
thought for a moment. “If he tangles with you, Lennie, we’re gonna get
the can. Don’t make no mistake about that. He’s the boss’s son.
Look, Lennie. You try to keep away from him, will you? Don’t never
speak to him. If he comes in here you move clear to the other side
of the room. Will you do that, Lennie?”
“I don’t want no trouble,” Lennie mourned. “I never done nothing
to him.”
“Well, that won’t do you no good if Curley wants to plug himself
up for a fighter. Just don’t have nothing to do with him. Will you
remember?”
“Sure, George. I ain’t gonna say a word.”
The sound of the approaching grain teams was louder, thud of big
hooves on hard ground, drag of brakes and the jingle of trace
chains. Men were calling back and forth from the teams. George,
sitting on the bunk beside Lennie, frowned as he thought. Lennie asked
timidly, “You ain’t mad, George?”
“I ain’t mad at you. I’m mad at this here Curley bastard. I hoped we
was gonna get a little stake together- maybe a hundred dollars.” His
tone grew decisive. “You keep away from Curley, Lennie.”
“Sure I will, George. I won’t say a word.”
“Don’t let him pull you in- but- if the son-of-a-bitch socks you-
let ‘im have it.”
“Let ‘im have what, George?”
“Never mind, never mind. I’ll tell you when. I hate that kind of a
guy. Look, Lennie, if you get in any kind of trouble, you remember
what I told you to do?”
Lennie raised up on his elbow. His face contorted with thought. Then
his eyes moved sadly to George’s face. “If I get in any trouble, you
ain’t gonna let me tend the rabbits.”
“That’s not what I meant. You remember where we slep’ last night?
Down by the river?”
“Yeah. I remember. Oh, sure I remember! I go there an’ hide in the
brush.”
“Hide till I come for you. Don’t let nobody see you. Hide in the
brush by the river. Say that over.”
“Hide in the brush by the river, down in the brush by the river.”
“If you get in trouble.”
“If I get in trouble.”
A brake screeched outside. A call came, “Stable- buck. Oh!
Sta-able buck.”
George said, “Say it over to yourself, Lennie, so you won’t forget
it.”
Both men glanced up, for the rectangle of sunshine in the doorway
was cut off. A girl was standing there looking in. She had full,
rouged lips and wide-spaced eyes, heavily made up. Her fingernails
were red. Her hair hung in little rolled clusters, like sausages.
She wore a cotton house dress and red mules, on the insteps of which
were little bouquets of red ostrich feathers. “I’m lookin’ for
Curley,” she said. Her voice had a nasal, brittle quality.
George looked away from her and then back. “He was in here a
minute ago, but he went.”
“Oh!” She put her hands behind her back and leaned against the
door frame so that her body was thrown forward. “You’re the new fellas
that just come, ain’t ya?”
“Yeah.”
Lennie’s eyes moved down over her body, and though she did not
seem to be looking at Lennie she bridled a little. She looked at her
fingernails. “Sometimes Curley’s in here,” she explained.
George said brusquely. “Well he ain’t now.”
“If he ain’t, I guess I better look some place else,” she said
playfully.
Lennie watched her, fascinated. George said, “If I see him, I’ll
pass the word you was looking for him.”
She smiled archly and twitched her body. “Nobody can’t blame a
person for lookin’,” she said. There were footsteps behind her,
going by. She turned her head. “Hi, Slim,” she said.
Slim’s voice came through the door. “Hi, Good-lookin’.”
“I’m tryin’ to find Curley, Slim.”
“Well, you ain’t tryin’ very hard. I seen him goin’ in your house.”
She was suddenly apprehensive. “‘Bye, boys,” she called into the
bunkhouse, and she hurried away.
George looked around at Lennie. “Jesus, what a tramp,” he said.
“So that’s what Curley picks for a wife.”
“She’s purty,” said Lennie defensively.
“Yeah, and she’s sure hidin’ it. Curley got his work ahead of him.
Bet she’d clear out for twenty bucks.”
Lennie still stared at the doorway where she had been. “Gosh, she
was purty.” He smiled admiringly. George looked quickly down at him
and then he took him by an ear and shook him.
“Listen to me, you crazy bastard,” he said fiercely. “Don’t you even
take a look at that bitch. I don’t care what she says and what she
does. I seen ’em poison before, but I never seen no piece of jail bait
worse than her. You leave her be.”
Lennie tried to disengage his ear. “I never done nothing, George.”
“No, you never. But when she was standin’ in the doorway showin’ her
legs, you wasn’t lookin’ the other way, neither.”
“I never meant no harm, George. Honest I never.”
“Well, you keep away from her, cause she’s a rattrap if I ever
seen one. You let Curley take the rap. He let himself in for it. Glove
fulla vaseline,” George said disgustedly. “An’ I bet he’s eatin’ raw
eggs and writin’ to the patent medicine houses.”
Lennie cried out suddenly- “I don’t like this place, George. This
ain’t no good place. I wanna get outa here.”
“We gotta keep it till we get a stake. We can’t help it, Lennie.
We’ll get out jus’ as soon as we can. I don’t like it no better than
you do.” He went back to the table and set out a new solitaire hand.
“No, I don’t like it,” he said. “For two bits I’d shove out of here.
If we can get jus’ a few dollars in the poke we’ll shove off and go up
the American River and pan gold. We can make maybe a couple of dollars
a day there, and we might hit a pocket.”
Lennie leaned eagerly toward him. “Le’s go, George. Le’s get outa
here. It’s mean here.”
“We gotta stay,” George said shortly. “Shut up now. The guys’ll be
comin’ in.”
From the washroom nearby came the sound of running water and
rattling basins. George studied the cards. “Maybe we oughtta wash up,”
he said. “But we ain’t done nothing to get dirty.”
A tall man stood in the doorway. He held a crushed Stetson hat under
his arm while he combed his long, black, damp hair straight back. Like
the others he wore blue jeans and a short denim jacket. When he had
finished combing his hair he moved into the room, and he moved with
a majesty achieved only by royalty and master craftsmen. He was a
jerkline skinner, the prince of the ranch, capable of driving ten,
sixteen, even twenty mules with a single line to the leaders. He was
capable of killing a fly on the wheeler’s butt with a bull whip
without touching the mule. There was a gravity in his manner and a
quiet so profound that all talk stopped when he spoke. His authority
was so great that his word was taken on any subject, be it politics or
love. This was Slim, the jerkline skinner. His hatchet face was
ageless. He might have been thirty-five or fifty. His ear heard more
than was said to him, and his slow speech had overtones not of
thought, but of understanding beyond thought. His hands, large and
lean, were as delicate in their action as those of a temple dancer.
He smoothed out his crushed hat, creased it in the middle and put it
on. He looked kindly at the two in the bunkhouse. “It’s brighter’n a
bitch outside,” he said gently. “Can’t hardly see nothing in here. You
the new guys?”
“Just come,” said George.
“Gonna buck barley?”
“That’s what the boss says.”
Slim sat down on a box across the table from George. He studied
the solitaire hand that was upside down to him. “Hope you get on my
team,” he said. His voice was very gentle. “I gotta pair of punks on
my team that don’t know a barley bag from a blue ball. You guys ever
bucked any barley?”
“Hell, yes,” said George. “I ain’t nothing to scream about, but that
big bastard there can put up more grain alone than most pairs can.”
Lennie, who had been following the conversation back and forth
with his eyes, smiled complacently at the compliment. Slim looked
approvingly at George for having given the compliment. He leaned
over the table and snapped the corner of a loose card. “You guys
travel around together?” His tone was friendly. It invited
confidence without demanding it.
“Sure,” said George. “We kinda look after each other.” He
indicated Lennie with his thumb. “He ain’t bright. Hell of a good
worker, though. Hell of a nice fella, but he ain’t bright. I’ve knew
him for a long time.”
Slim looked through George and beyond him. “Ain’t many guys travel
around together,” he mused. “I don’t know why. Maybe ever’body in
the whole damn world is scared of each other.”
“It’s a lot nicer to go around with a guy you know,” said George.
A powerful, big-stomached man came into the bunkhouse. His head
still dripped water from the scrubbing and dousing. “Hi, Slim,” he
said, and then stopped and stared at George and Lennie.
“These guys jus’ come,” said Slim by way of introduction.
“Glad ta meet ya,” the big man said. “My name’s Carlson.”
“I’m George Milton. This here’s Lennie Small.”
“Glad ta meet ya,” Carlson said again. “He ain’t very small.” He
chuckled softly at his joke. “Ain’t small at all,” he repeated. “Meant
to ask you, Slim- how’s your bitch? I seen she wasn’t under your wagon
this morning.”
“She slang her pups last night,” said Slim. “Nine of ’em. I
drowned four of ’em right off. She couldn’t feed that many.”
“Got five left, huh?”
“Yeah, five. I kept the biggest.”
“What kinda dogs you think they’re gonna be?”
“I dunno,” said Slim. “Some kinda shepherds, I guess. That’s the
most kind I seen around here when she was in heat.”
Carlson went on, “Got five pups, huh. Gonna keep all of ’em?”
“I dunno. Have to keep ’em a while so they can drink Lulu’s milk.”
Carlson said thoughtfully, “Well, looka here, Slim. I been thinkin’.
That dog of Candy’s is so God damn old he can’t hardly walk. Stinks
like hell, too. Ever’ time he comes into the bunk house I can smell
him for two, three days. Why’n’t you get Candy to shoot his old dog
and give him one of the pups to raise up? I can smell that dog a
mile away. Got no teeth, damn near blind, can’t eat. Candy feeds him
milk. He can’t chew nothing else.”
George had been staring intently at Slim. Suddenly a triangle
began to ring outside, slowly at first, and then faster and faster
until the beat of it disappeared into one ringing sound. It stopped as
suddenly as it had started.
“There she goes,” said Carlson.
Outside, there was a burst of voices as a group of men went by.
Slim stood up slowly and with dignity. “You guys better come on
while they’s still something to eat. Won’t be nothing left in a couple
of minutes.”
Carlson stepped back to let Slim precede him, and then the two of
them went out the door.
Lennie was watching George excitedly. George rumpled his cards
into a messy pile. “Yeah!” George said, “I heard him, Lennie. I’ll ask
him.”
“A brown and white one,” Lennie cried excitedly.
“Come on. Le’s get dinner. I don’t know whether he got a brown and
white one.”
Lennie didn’t move from his bunk. “You ask him right away, George,
so he won’t kill no more of ’em.”
“Sure. Come on now, get up on your feet.”
Lennie rolled off his bunk and stood up, and the two of them started
for the door. Just as they reached it, Curley bounced in.
“You seen a girl around here?” he demanded angrily.
George said coldly. “‘Bout half an hour ago maybe.”
“Well what the hell was she doin’?”
George stood still, watching the angry little man. He said
insultingly, “She said- she was lookin’ for you.”
Curley seemed really to see George for the first time. His eyes
flashed over George, took in his height, measured his reach, looked at
his trim middle. “Well, which way’d she go?” he demanded at last.
“I dunno,” said George. “I didn’ watch her go.”
Curley scowled at him, and turning, hurried out the door.
George said, “Ya know, Lennie, I’m scared I’m gonna tangle with that
bastard myself. I hate his guts. Jesus Christ! Come on. They won’t
be a damn thing left to eat.”
They went out the door. The sunshine lay in a thin line under the
window. From a distance there could be heard a rattle of dishes.
After a moment the ancient dog walked lamely in through the open
door. He gazed about with mild, half-blind eyes. He sniffed, and
then lay down and put his head between his paws. Curley popped into
the doorway again and stood looking into the room. The dog raised
his head, but when Curley jerked out, the grizzled head sank to the
floor again.