A DEATH
Stephen King
Jim Trusdale had a shack on the west side of his father’s gone-to-seed ranch, and that was where he was when Sheriff Barclay and half a dozen deputized townsmen found him, sitting in the one chair by the cold stove, wearing a dirty barn coat and reading an old issue of the Black Hills Pioneer by lantern light. Looking at it, anyway.
Sheriff Barclay stood in the doorway, almost filling it up. He was holding his own lantern. “Come out of there, Jim, and do it with your hands up. I ain’t drawn my pistol and don’t want to.”
Trusdale came out. He still had the newspaper in one of his raised hands. He stood there looking at the sheriff with his flat gray eyes. The sheriff looked back. So did the others, four on horseback and two on the seat of an old buckboard with “Hines Mortuary” printed on the side in faded yellow letters.
“I notice you ain’t asked why we’re here,” Sheriff Barclay said.
“Why are you here, Sheriff?”
“Where is your hat, Jim?”
Trusdale put the hand not holding the newspaper to his head as if to feel for his hat, which was a brown plainsman and not there.
“In your place, is it?” the sheriff asked. A cold breeze kicked up, blowing the horses’ manes and flattening the grass in a wave that ran south.
“No,” Trusdale said. “I don’t believe it is.”
“Then where?”
“I might have lost it.”
“You need to get in the back of the wagon,” the sheriff said.
“I don’t want to ride in no funeral hack,” Trusdale said. “That’s bad luck.”
“You got bad luck all over,” one of the men said. “You’re painted in it. Get in.”
Trusdale went to the back of the buckboard and climbed up. The breeze kicked again, harder, and he turned up the collar of his barn coat.
The two men on the seat of the buckboard got down and stood either side of it. One drew his gun; the other did not. Trusdale knew their faces but not their names. They were town men. The sheriff and the other four went into his shack. One of them was Hines, the undertaker. They were in there for some time. They even opened the stove and dug through the ashes. At last they came out.
“No hat,” Sheriff Barclay said. “And we would have seen it. That’s a damn big hat. Got anything to say about that?”
“It’s too bad I lost it. My father gave it to me back when he was still right in the head.”
“Where is it, then?”
“Told you, I might have lost it. Or had it stoled. That might have happened, too. Say, I was going to bed right soon.”
“Never mind going to bed. You were in town this afternoon, weren’t you?”
“Sure he was,” one of the men said, mounting up again. “I seen him myself. Wearing that hat, too.”
“Shut up, Dave,” Sheriff Barclay said. “Were you in town, Jim?”
“Yes sir, I was,” Trusdale said.
“In the Chuck-a-Luck?”
“Yes sir, I was. I walked from here, and had two drinks, and then I walked home. I guess the Chuck-a-Luck’s where I lost my hat.”
“That’s your story?”
Trusdale looked up at the black November sky. “It’s the only story I got.”
“Look at me, son.”
Trusdale looked at him.
“That’s your story?”
“Told you, the only one I got,” Trusdale said, looking at him.
Sheriff Barclay sighed. “All right, let’s go to town.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re arrested.”
“Ain’t got a brain in his fuckin’ head,” one of the men remarked. “Makes his daddy look smart.”
They went to town. It was four miles. Trusdale rode in the back of the mortuary wagon, shivering against the cold. Without turning around, the man holding the reins said, “Did you rape her as well as steal her dollar, you hound?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Trusdale said.
The rest of the trip continued in silence except for the wind. In town, people lined the street. At first they were quiet. Then an old woman in a brown shawl ran after the funeral hack in a sort of limping hobble
Stephen King
Jim Trusdale had a shack on the west side of his father’s gone-to-seed ranch, and that was where he was when Sheriff Barclay and half a dozen deputized townsmen found him, sitting in the one chair by the cold stove, wearing a dirty barn coat and reading an old issue of the Black Hills Pioneer by lantern light. Looking at it, anyway.
Sheriff Barclay stood in the doorway, almost filling it up. He was holding his own lantern. “Come out of there, Jim, and do it with your hands up. I ain’t drawn my pistol and don’t want to.”
Trusdale came out. He still had the newspaper in one of his raised hands. He stood there looking at the sheriff with his flat gray eyes. The sheriff looked back. So did the others, four on horseback and two on the seat of an old buckboard with “Hines Mortuary” printed on the side in faded yellow letters.
“I notice you ain’t asked why we’re here,” Sheriff Barclay said.
“Why are you here, Sheriff?”
“Where is your hat, Jim?”
Trusdale put the hand not holding the newspaper to his head as if to feel for his hat, which was a brown plainsman and not there.
“In your place, is it?” the sheriff asked. A cold breeze kicked up, blowing the horses’ manes and flattening the grass in a wave that ran south.
“No,” Trusdale said. “I don’t believe it is.”
“Then where?”
“I might have lost it.”
“You need to get in the back of the wagon,” the sheriff said.
“I don’t want to ride in no funeral hack,” Trusdale said. “That’s bad luck.”
“You got bad luck all over,” one of the men said. “You’re painted in it. Get in.”
Trusdale went to the back of the buckboard and climbed up. The breeze kicked again, harder, and he turned up the collar of his barn coat.
The two men on the seat of the buckboard got down and stood either side of it. One drew his gun; the other did not. Trusdale knew their faces but not their names. They were town men. The sheriff and the other four went into his shack. One of them was Hines, the undertaker. They were in there for some time. They even opened the stove and dug through the ashes. At last they came out.
“No hat,” Sheriff Barclay said. “And we would have seen it. That’s a damn big hat. Got anything to say about that?”
“It’s too bad I lost it. My father gave it to me back when he was still right in the head.”
“Where is it, then?”
“Told you, I might have lost it. Or had it stoled. That might have happened, too. Say, I was going to bed right soon.”
“Never mind going to bed. You were in town this afternoon, weren’t you?”
“Sure he was,” one of the men said, mounting up again. “I seen him myself. Wearing that hat, too.”
“Shut up, Dave,” Sheriff Barclay said. “Were you in town, Jim?”
“Yes sir, I was,” Trusdale said.
“In the Chuck-a-Luck?”
“Yes sir, I was. I walked from here, and had two drinks, and then I walked home. I guess the Chuck-a-Luck’s where I lost my hat.”
“That’s your story?”
Trusdale looked up at the black November sky. “It’s the only story I got.”
“Look at me, son.”
Trusdale looked at him.
“That’s your story?”
“Told you, the only one I got,” Trusdale said, looking at him.
Sheriff Barclay sighed. “All right, let’s go to town.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re arrested.”
“Ain’t got a brain in his fuckin’ head,” one of the men remarked. “Makes his daddy look smart.”
They went to town. It was four miles. Trusdale rode in the back of the mortuary wagon, shivering against the cold. Without turning around, the man holding the reins said, “Did you rape her as well as steal her dollar, you hound?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Trusdale said.
The rest of the trip continued in silence except for the wind. In town, people lined the street. At first they were quiet. Then an old woman in a brown shawl ran after the funeral hack in a sort of limping hobble
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