Light in August - William Faulkner [165]
“But he’s not,” one said quickly, immediately; he was of the same cut as the commander, who by the way was not present. “This is not government trouble yet. Kennedy might not like it. This is Jefferson’s trouble, not Washington’s.”
“Make him like it,” Grimm said. “What does your legion stand for, if not for the protection of America and Americans?”
“No,” the other said. “I reckon we better not make a parade out of this. We can do what we want without that. Better. Ain’t that right, boys?”
“All right,” Grimm said. “I’ll do as you say. But every man will want a pistol. We’ll have a small arms’ inspection here in one hour. Every man will report here.”
“What’s Kennedy going to say about pistols?” one said.
“I’ll see to that,” Grimm said. “Report here in one hour exactly, with side arms.” He dismissed them. He crossed the quiet square to the sheriff’s office. The sheriff was at home, they told him. “At home?” he repeated. “Now? What’s he doing at home now?”
“Eating, I reckon. A man as big as him has got to eat several times a day.”
“At home,” Grimm repeated. He did not glare; it was again that cold and detached expression with which he had looked at the legion commander. “Eating,” he said. He went out, already walking fast. He recrossed the empty square, the quiet square empty of people peacefully at suppertables about that peaceful town and that peaceful country. He went to the sheriff’s home. The sheriff said No at once.
“Fifteen or twenty folks milling around the square with pistols in their pants? No, no. That won’t do. I can’t have that. That won’t do. You let me run this.”
For a moment longer Grimm looked at the sheriff. Then he turned, already walking fast again. “All right,” he said. “If that’s the way you want it. I don’t interfere with you and you don’t interfere with me, then.” It didn’t sound like a threat. It was too flat, too final, too without heat. He went on, rapidly. The sheriff watched him; then he called. Grimm turned.
“You leave yours at home, too,” the sheriff said. “You hear me?” Grimm didn’t answer. He went on. The sheriff watched him out of sight, frowning.
That evening after supper the sheriff went back downtown—something he had not done for years save when urgent and inescapable business called. He found a picket of Grimm’s men at the jail, and another in the courthouse, and a third patrolling the square and the adjacent streets. The others, the relief, they told the sheriff, were in the cotton office where Grimm was employed, which they were using for an orderly room, a P.C. The sheriff met Grimm on the street, making a round of inspection. “Come here, boy,” the sheriff said. Grimm halted. He did not approach; the sheriff went to him. He patted Grimm’s hip with a fat hand. “I told you to leave that at home,” he said. Grimm said nothing. He watched the sheriff levelly. The sheriff sighed. “Well, if you won’t, I reckon I’ll have to make you a special deputy. But you ain’t to even show that gun unless I tell you to. You hear me?”
“Certainly not,” Grimm said. “You, certainly—wouldn’t want me to draw it if I didn’t see any need to.”
“I mean, not till I tell you to.”
“Certainly,” Grimm said, without heat, patiently, immediately. “That’s what we both said. Don’t you worry. I’ll be there.”
Later, as the town quieted for the night, as the picture show emptied and the drug stores closed one by one, Grimm