David and I were walking just behind them, and I put out my hand, about to correct Mr. Hansen, but David quickly took my arm and shook his head.
Mr. Hansen was going on cordially, “One son’s in the air force and the other’s in college. Fine boys, but neither one of them is going to make a farmer. You’re not planning to be a farmer yourself, are you?”
“No.”
“No, I suppose not.”
Mr. Hansen ushered us in, asked the boy and me to be seated and said, “There’s some magazines on that table if you want them.
The boy silently took a proffered magazine and sat with it unopened on his knee.
“And now, Mr. O’Neill,” Mr. Hansen went on, “you please come over here. You’re a city man, and I want to get your opinion on all this extra wheat we’re growing in North Dakota. And then I want to tell you how honest and independent farmers feel about what’s happening to us.” And he seated David in one of two facing over-stuffed chairs placed very close to the big front window, and eased himself into the other.
The boy was restless and wary. He got up and moved about the room, noticing everything, and then sat down on the edge of a chair near the front door.
My chair was close to the hall door, opposite the men, and I listened to their conversation while I kept the boy in the corner of my eye.
After fifteen minutes or so the boy began to fidget. He got up, rotated a world globe on the table, looked at the two men who were absorbed in conversation, went back to his chair and sat again. I too thought that the woman was taking a great deal of time.
When the conversation paused for a moment I said to Mr. Hansen, “Perhaps I could help Mrs. Hansen in the kitchen?”
“Yes, yes,” he boomed, looking up. “She’d be glad to have you. Through the door behind you. You’ll see the kitchen on the right.”
So I rose and went into the small, and from there into the kitchen. I realized that everything could be heard between the two rooms, but nothing at all could be seen.
“This is nice of you,” Mrs. Hansen said. “I’ll put you right to work. Would you slice a little more ham? This is the knife.”
But the handed me no knife, and the sandwiches were already prepared, stacked on a huge platter on the sink. Milk was in the glasses, coffee was percolating on the electric stove, and Mrs. Hansen was taking dishes out of the cup-board and putting them back again with a clatter.
“When you’ve finished with that maybe you’d get cream for the coffee out of the refrigerator. I’m nearly ready.
She was shaking her head at me while she talked, pointing a dabbing forefinger into the living room and then at the telephone that was hanging on the kitchen wall.
Ah! So David had called the police.
I nodded, understanding, and helped her make kitchen noises, and asked her where they got vegetables and fruits in the long winters when the ground was frozen.
Then presently Mr. Hansen’s big voice was made bigger to reach the kitchen. “What’s taking you so long out there, Clara? This boy’s famished.” And in a slightly lower tone, “Calm down, son. It’ll be along.”
“Coming,” Mrs. Hansen called. “It’s ready.” She threw out her hands. Nothing for it but to take it in.
We put the glasses on a tray and I went in with them. Mrs. Hansen followed with the sandwiches and a stack of small plates. The men accepted their food, and with only a pause for a “Thank you” went on with their conversation. Mrs. Hansen and I sat near the kitchen door, tried to include the boy in our talk, but with no success. He gulped four sandwiches before we had done with our first.
Suddenly he said, “Let’s go.” It was an explosive, violent sound, and we all looked at him, startled.
“Oh my, no,” Mrs. Hansen said pleasantly, and she put her half-eaten sandwich on her plate, got up and started toward the kitchen. “I’ve got fresh coffee for you.”
I went to help her, and we took as long with that as we dared.
When we returned to the living room the draperies had been drawn shut. Mrs. Hansen said in surprise, “Lars, why did you pull the curtains?”
Her husband looked at them, and back at her. “I didn’t shut them, Clara. I didn’t notice they were shut.” And he got up and pulled the cord and opened them again.
He said, half apologetically, “You’ve no idea how lonesome it is out here. My wife likes to see the lights of the cars go by in the evenings. Even if people never stop, she knows they are there.”
With the agility of a cat the boy sprang to the window and gave the cord a violent yank. “I shut the curtains,” he said nastily, “and I want them shut.” He sauntered back, sat oner more, and picked up his coffee.
Mr. Hansen, unbelieving, gaped at the boy. “All right, boy,” he said evenly. “We aim to make our guests happy. ” Then he turned to let his eyes ark for some explanation from David.
David examined his hands and tried to extend the time a little more. “What was I saying? Oh, yes— How often do you get into Winnipeg, Mr. Hansen?”
I noticed that the curtains were still swaying from the violence of their motion, and that the hem of one of them had adhered to the coarse frieze of the upholstery of David’s chair, leaving a small triangle of window exposed.
“Winnipeg?” Mr. Hansen repeated vaguely. “Not often.”
Then abruptly the vagueness was gone, and he looked appraisingly at David. “By the way, Mr. O’Neill, I haven’t asked you what your profession is?” There was an edge of coldness, even of suspicion in his voice.
David hesitated, and I held my breath. To reply just now would do none of us any good.
“Come along,” Mr. Hansen insisted, and hostility was only barely below the surface. “What do you two fine city fellows do for a living?”
“Why, Mr. Hansen—”
But he didn’t have to say it, for the boy was on his feet.
“Let’s go,” he said in a hard voice. “Now.”
Thinking it might lull the boy’s suspicions if one of us seemed to be on his side I said, “It is getting late, David. Don’t you think we had better be on our way?”
But as I looked at him I saw through the gap in the curtains a car’s headlights turn into the driveway and then blink off. David was looking at me, and must have seen my eyes widen and have noted the direction of their gaze. He glanced down, and then cautiously sideways, directly at the gap in the curtain.
“David!”
He looked up quickly. The boy was standing before him, a steady gun in his hand.
“What is this!” Mr. Hansen shouted, and started to get to his feet.
“Sit down, pop,” the boy said, and moved the gun.
“Yes, Hansen, sit down,” David repeated mildly. And as Mr. Hansen did so the gun moved smoothly until it was a scant foot from David’s face again.
“Give me your car keys,” the boy said tightly, his lips pulled hard and straight.
And quietly David said, “All right. But you would have been safer entering Canada with us.”
“I know that. But I’m not about to wait for you.” For a second he looked startled at what David had said and what he himself had answered, and then a look of murderous hatred crossed his face. “O. K., smart guy, just give me the keys — or else.” I thought how easy the “or else” would be, except that we were four and he was one.
David leaned over toward the window, his right arm on the arm of the chair, and reached with his left hand into his pants pocket. As he brought out the car keys he swung his window-side elbow over the top of the chair, and took the curtain with it.
That was all they needed out there. The shot spun the gun from the boy’s hand and sent it into a far corner. There was one noisy, frightening moment of shattering glass. Then as the boy started after the gun, David trust out his leg and tripped him, and in a split second was on top of him.