Justice

  Table of Contents

  Also by Larry Watson

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Justice

  Outside the Jurisdiction - (1924)

  Julian Hayden - (1899)

  Enid Garling - (1906)

  Thanksgiving - (1927)

  Len McAuley - (1935)

  The Sheriff’s Wife - (1937)

  The Visit - (1937)

  Also available in paperback, from your local bookseller

  Copyright Page

  Also by Larry Watson

  novels

  Montana 1948

  White Crosses

  In a Dark Time

  Laura

  Orchard

  Sundown, Yellow Moon

  poetry

  Leaving Dakota

  For Susan

  Justice

  Outside the Jurisdiction

  (1924)

  WHEN Tommy Salter, Lester Hoenig, and the Hayden brothers left Bentrock, Montana, at dawn, only a gentle snow—flakes fat as bits of white cloth—fell from the November sky. But the spaces between those flakes filled in fast, and soon it became impossible to see more than fifty yards down the highway. Where the road dipped or was sheltered from the wind, snow lay so thick on the road that the bottom of the Model T, even with its high clearance, scraped the tops of drifts.

  “We get high-centered,” Tommy Salter said from the backseat, “we’re done for. We ain’t going nowhere.”

  Frank Hayden, the driver, said, “We’re all right.” He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and kept the car aimed for the tracks made by the last car that had passed that way.

  “You bring a shovel?” Lester asked.

  Frank glanced quickly at his brother then shook his head.

  Wesley Hayden tilted his head until it rested against the window’s icy glass. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the car’s slow, wobbly motion down the highway. Goddamn, he had wanted so badly for this trip to go well. Next fall, Frank, two years older than Wesley, would be in college, seven hundred miles away at the University of Minnesota. This could be the last time the brothers took this trip together for years. For years? Wesley reconsidered. This could be the last time. Ever.

  “Anyone want to turn around? Go back?” Frank asked.

  Tommy laughed. “Where the hell you going to turn around?”

  “It could let up,” Lester offered. “Down the road. I guess I’m for pushing on.”

  Wesley kept his eyes closed. “It isn’t going to let up.”

  “You know that, do you?” Frank asked his brother.

  “You know it too,” Wesley answered.

  “We ain’t going to freeze to death anyway,” said Tommy.

  Wesley knew Tommy was referring to the three bottles of bootleg whiskey, purchased for them by Dale Paris, a hired hand on the Hayden ranch.

  “What’s the nearest town?” Frank asked.

  Lester asked, “Are we in North Dakota?”

  “We’ve been in North Dakota since breakfast,” Tommy answered.

  “You know damn well the closest town,” Wesley said to his brother. “McCoy.”

  Frank nodded. “If it doesn’t let up I’m thinking we’ll head for McCoy. That’s got to be less than fifty miles.”

  The plan had been to leave their home in northeast Montana, cross over into North Dakota, and head south. Eventually they would set up camp on the banks of the Little Missouri and from there hunt the red rocky bluffs, the dark wooded draws, and the sagebrush flats of the Dakota Badlands. They had hunted that region for years, and just last year they returned with four deer and over fifty pheasant and partridge. Lester had even shot a coyote. Of course last year the weather had been much different—three days of sunshine and uncommonly warm temperatures.

  “I don’t hear you,” Frank said, cupping his ear to the group.

  “What’s in McCoy?” asked Lester. “Anything?”

  Tommy laughed. “It’s right off the reservation. You know what’s in McCoy.”

  Lester looked down the road. “It sure as hell ain’t letting up.”

  “What about you?” Frank asked Wesley.

  “Do what you want. You don’t need my permission.” When they were first planning this trip, Wesley had hoped that he and his brother would go alone. But Frank invited friends, and now Wesley not only had to share his brother, but since Lester and Tommy were Frank’s age, Wesley was stuck being the youngest as well. He was the little brother; he didn’t have any influence with this group. Hell, Wesley had hoped they’d actually hunt. Just hunt. But this snow covered that hope too.

  Frank said to Wesley, “I’m not taking anyone where they don’t want to go. If you don’t want to go to McCoy, say the word.”

  “I’ll camp out in the snow,” Lester said. “Don’t bother me.”

  “Go to McCoy,” Wesley said to his brother. “Fuck if I care.

  Frank took his hand from the steering wheel and slapped his brother gently on the arm. “Hey—it’s outside the jurisdiction, right?”

  Outside the jurisdiction. How many times had Wesley heard his brother use that phrase? They were the sons of Julian Hayden, the sheriff of Mercer County, Montana, and that fact made Frank’s and Wesley’s lives both easier and more difficult. They grew up knowing that if they ever got into trouble, their father, proud and protective of his sons, would bail them out. Yet knowing this, they felt they had to behave so it wouldn’t seem as though they were taking advantage of their father’s position. Only when they got out of town, out of the county, out of the jurisdiction, did they feel as though they could be other than the sons of Julian Hayden.

  “Where we going to stay?” Lester asked. “I don’t mind sleeping in the car if we can find someplace to park it out of the wind. Shit, I’ll sleep in the tent for that matter.”

  “We’ll get a room at the hotel,” said Frank.

  “They got a hotel?” asked Lester.

  “Hotel or a boardinghouse. I forget which.”

  “It’s a hotel,” Tommy said. “I think.”

  “You think they’ll give us a room?” Lester asked.

  “Hell, yes,” Frank replied. “Why not? If we can pay they’ll give us a room.”

  Wesley understood that Lester’s true concern was over money. A good many families in Mercer County were poor, but the Hoenigs were worse off than most. Their family was large (Wesley could never keep track——were there nine or ten kids?), and whether it was the land it sat on or Mr. Hoenig’s incompetence Wesley never knew for sure, but their farm, year in and year out, was one of the least productive in the area. Lester tried to cover their poverty by pretending not to care about what other boys cared about—new shotguns or rifles, cars, horses, pretty girls, baseball gloves. Frank and Wesley’s mother had stopped giving Frank’s hand-me-downs to Wesley; instead she had Frank give them to the shorter, slighter Lester.

  “Me and Frank will pay for the room,” Wesley offered.

  “You sure?” Lester said.

  Frank picked up on his brother’s suggestion. “The trip’s our idea. Hell, McCoy’s my idea. It’s only fair.”

  “Okay by me,” agreed Tommy.

  “I still wonder if they’ll give us a room,” worried Lester.

  “Frank’s right,” Tommy said. “If we got the money, we’re in. That’s McCoy.”

  Frank shook his head. “Pop says it’s not as wide open as it used to be.”

  “That’s not what you said last summer,” Tommy replied.

  “What?” Lester asked. “What about last summer?”

  “We had a baseball tournament over there,” Tommy said.

  Wesley interrupted. “It’s hardly even cattle country around there now. Fucking wheat farmers.”

  “Where were you?” Frank asked
Lester. “How come you didn’t play?”

  “Working,” Lester answered. “We was bringing in a crop of hay. Trying to. What there was.” He turned back to Tommy. “What happened in McCoy?”

  Tommy leaned toward Frank. “You want me to tell him?”

  Frank shrugged.

  “How long has it been since we saw another car?” Wesley asked.

  “You never see anybody on this road,” Frank said. “Even when the weather’s good.”

  “You wonder why they put the money in a road nobody uses,” Wesley said.

  Tommy tapped his fingers over his mouth in an imitation war chant. “Woo-woo-woo-woo! You didn’t hear? Frank got himself a little Indian gal in McCoy last summer. Got her good.”

  Tommy had stolen a box of cigars from Douglas’s Rexall before they left, and he and Lester had been smoking since they drove out of town. The car was drafty, but cigar smoke still gathered so thickly in the backseat that when Wesley turned around it looked as though Tommy and Lester sat in their own little blizzard. Ahead or behind, Wesley thought, you can’t see a goddamn thing.

  Lester leaned toward Frank. “Did you force her? Did you have to force her?”

  Frank’s laugh sounded like a bark in the car’s close quarters. “Where did you get an idea like that? Force her. Such language. You read that somewhere?”

  Tommy was laughing too. “Shit, she followed him around with her skirt over her head practically. She let him fuck her right by the ball field. In somebody’s truck, wasn’t it?”

  “How come I never heard about this?” asked Lester.

  Wesley wiped his nose on the back of his glove. “You should’ve. Seemed like everybody in the whole school knew about it.”

  “Even Loretta?” asked Lester. Loretta was Loretta Gerber, the girl with whom Frank was supposed to be going steady.

  Frank’s laughter stopped. “She better not. If Loretta found out, I’d know someone was telling tales out of school. Someone would get his ass whipped.”

  “Hey, she ain’t going to hear anything from me,” said Tommy. “But it’s hard to keep a secret in Bentrock.”

  Frank’s smile returned. “I don’t know about that.”

  Wesley turned away from his brother and waited. He thought he knew what would come next.

  Frank said, “You haven’t got the facts quite right.”

  Wesley recognized those words as the same ones that came often from their father’s mouth. When asked about a crime in the county, their father loved to let people speculate on the incident and then to correct them, smiling slyly, with the phrase, “You haven’t got the facts quite right.”

  “I’m surprised at you, Tommy,” said Frank. “What with you being there and all. I didn’t fuck that little Indian girl.”

  “The hell.”

  “I’m telling you.”

  Lester punched Tommy in the shoulder. “Now who’s telling stories.”

  Tommy cocked his fist but didn’t deliver a blow. “Goddamn it!”

  “That’s right,” said Frank. “I didn’t just fuck that little squaw.... I fucked her mama too.”

  Tommy fell back laughing. He kicked the back of the seat so hard Wesley could feel Tommy’s boots right through the springs and the horsehair.

  “No shit?” said Lester. “The both of them? How did you.... Did you do ‘em at the same time?”

  “At the same time, Lester? Fellow would have to have two peckers to do that. Besides, no mama and her daughter are that close.”

  “What did the old one look like?” Tommy wanted to know.

  “She wasn’t old. She was actually pretty young to have a daughter that age.” Frank took one hand off the steering wheel and rested it on the gearshift. “She wasn’t bad looking. But she was on the plump side. Like squaws can get.”

  “Jesus,” said Tommy. “The both of them.”

  “It wasn’t easy. Cost me three bottles of Ole Norgaard’s homemade wine. One for the daugher, two for her mama.”

  When Wesley heard that he remembered a day the previous summer when he and his brother had ridden with their mother out to Ole Norgaard’s place, a little tarpaper shack just outside Bentrock. Ole, everyone agreed, had a gift for growing fruits and vegetables, and even people who had their own gardens bought produce from Ole. He also made homemade beer and wine, and a good many men in the county swore on the superiority of Ole’s products. Once Prohibition went into effect, their father made no effort to close down Ole. Furthermore, if any local man wanted to make a little home brew or buy a couple bottles of gin when he was in Minneapolis and bring it home with him, the sheriff would not object. However, if an outsider tried to come into the county and operate a still or if someone began to run large quantities of bootleg whiskey down from Canada, the sheriff would stop that in a minute. He did not object to a man taking a drink— he was as fond of Ole Norgaard’s beer as anyone—but he would not tolerate an outsider making a profit on the county’s residents.

  On that day, Frank and Wesley waited by the car while their mother went out to Ole’s garden with him. Ole allowed his best customers—and certainly Mrs. Hayden qualified—to pick out their vegetables while they were still on the vine or the stalk or in the ground. Mrs. Hayden had come for sweet corn, and Ole would find a dozen of the best ears for her.

  Once they were certain they weren’t being watched, Frank and Wesley went inside Ole’s shack. The interior was dim, musty, and cluttered with piles of yellowing Swedish newspapers, rows of ripening vegetables, and stacks of wooden crates. The boys knew exactly what they were looking for and found it quickly—the case of bottles of dandelion wine, their corks covered with sealing wax. Frank and Wesley each took two bottles—they had agreed that taking more would somehow escalate their crime into something that would deserve severe punishment if they were caught.

  Weeks passed and no occasion arose that Wesley considered fitting to bring out his bottles of wine. Then the baseball team—of which his brother was the star—went to McCoy, North Dakota, to play in a tournament. While the team was gone, Wesley, on a hunch, checked his cache to see if the bottles were still there. They were gone. Now he knew what his brother had done with the wine.

  Wesley Hayden had never even kissed a girl, unless you counted the quick little brush on the lips Esther Radner gave him at a skating party last winter. And Wesley discounted that incident, since Esther had kissed virtually every male at the party as part of an experiment she said she was conducting to see whose lips were coldest. Wesley was shy around girls, and in their presence being tongue-tied sometimes translated into what looked like anger. On more than one occasion a boy or girl came to him saying something like “Rebecca wants to know why you’re mad at her.” Ironically, Rebecca was probably the last person in the world he was mad at—why, he was as likely to be in love with her! Yet somehow in his ineptitude he would communicate exactly the opposite message.

  Part of the problem was that he couldn’t decide what he wanted girls for. It could change within a day, an hour, a minute. One instant he could regard them as helpless creatures who needed his strength and protection. Around them you had to put on your best manners, your most chivalrous attitude. When he thought of girls in this way he wanted only to be with them, to walk down the streets of Bentrock with one of the pretty girls from his school on his arm. Yet in the next second he might think of performing the most obscene, degrading act with this very girl—she would have no more humanity or identity than the hand with which he masturbated daily.

  That was why he was so angry to hear Frank’s story of the two Indians in McCoy. Damn it, Wesley thought, the wine was his, so the Indian girl should have been as well. The situation was perfect for him. He would have been in a strange community where he knew no one, and no one knew him. He could not have damaged his reputation there, because he had none. And he would not have to worry about facing the girl again.

  But in his heart Wesley knew he was deceiving himself. The wine may have been Wesley’s, but the aud
acity to barter it for sex was Frank’s. In fact, the incident illustrated perfectly the difference between the brothers. Frank had put that stolen wine to use; Wesely could not think of a reason to take his bottles out of hiding. Wesley hated and loved his brother for being everything that Wesley could never be.

  “So let’s not be too quick to get into that hooch,” Frank announced to the group. “You never know what we might be able to buy with it.”

  “We ain’t going to get a taste?” Lester asked.

  Tommy punched Lester again on the arm. “What would you rather have—a piece of ass or a drink of whiskey?”

  Wesley turned around in time to see Lester hang his tongue from his mouth.

  Tommy took his cigar from his mouth and said quietly to the Hayden brothers, “You know, I don’t care anymore if I don’t get off a shot this weekend. This is turning into my kind of hunting trip.”

  Tommy fell back against the backseat, and Frank looked over at his brother and rolled his eyes toward the roof of the car. Wesley pretended not to see his brother’s gesture and turned quickly to the window.

  Was the snow letting up? Wesley had been gauging its intensity all day by looking at the snow against a dark background, an occasional tree trunk or telephone pole or fence post, and as the snow came down harder it became harder to see any sharp, dark outlines. But now his vision seemed to clear slightly. Maybe the snow would stop or let up enough to let them spend these days as they had originally planned.

  In his bedroom, tucked into the frame of his mirror, Wesley had a photograph taken on this trip two years earlier: Wesley, Frank, their father, Len McAuley, their father’s deputy, and Arnold Spence, a friend of their father’s, are standing in front of the camp tent. They are dressed in hunting gear, and since they have been gone for a few days their clothes are rumpled and dirty. The adults have three days’ growth of beard. They are all holding rifles in their gloved hands, and they are smiling widely. They are standing next to four freshly killed deer. The deer—two of them with impressive racks of antlers—are strung up from a tree limb. Their heads are tilted to the sky at such strange angles it looks as though they have been hanged to death. A dusting of snow covers the ground, and you can tell by the expressions on the men’s faces——their smiles are tight, their noses and cheeks are a darker gray in the photograph—that the day is cold. You can also tell that not a single one of them would rather be anywhere else in the world. Wesley had hoped that he would be able to take a similar photograph to commemorate this trip. He doubted now if he would even unpack his gun, much less his camera.