“Duke!” he cried, in a hoarse, sleep-thickened voice. “Duke, for God’s sake!” He drew the gun from his pocket and faced the front door, shaking his big head groggily as the lights passed the windows and darkness plunged back into the room. Outside the sound of a motor faded and trembled away into silence.
Duke turned on the lamp beside his chair and glanced at his watch. Hank had been stretched out on the sofa but now he sat up, his eyes switching from his brother to Grant.
“It’s only nine-thirty,” Duke said, as a step sounded on the porch. “Sociable hour for callers.”
“Get up!” Grant said, as the steps came solidly toward the front door. “Get up, damn you.”
“Put that gun away,” Duke said. His face was blurred by the shadows, but his eyes were hard splinters of light in the darkness. “We got a caller, a friend of my brother’s maybe.” Without raising his voice he said harshly, “Put it away, you fool!” Duke stood and hitched up his trousers. He looked at Hank and said, “Play along, kid. If anything slips you get it first. Then the nurse and kid.”
A knock sounded and Duke said, “You’re the host, kid. Act like it.”
Hank nodded and got slowly to his feet. As he crossed the room a second knock shook the panel, and a third sounded just as he pulled open the door. Light from behind him slanted through the doorway and touched the smiling face of the big man who stood on the porch: it was Adam Wilson, Hank saw, an amiable giant who ran a sporting goods store in Williamsboro.
“Not too late for a visit, I hope,” Adam said, smiling first at Hank, and then at Grant and Duke who stood together at the fireplace.
“No, come on in,” Hank said. “We were just sitting around talking. You haven’t met my brother, I know, or his friend, Eddie Grant.”
“Glad to meet you both,” Adam said. He smiled at them, turning his hat slowly in his big hands. “I drove out this way to see Pop Macky and I thought I’d drop in on Hank here. I heard he missed his fishing trip because he hurt his hand. A fellow out at the airport told me about it. How’s it coming along, boy?”
“It’s coming along okay,” Hank said.
Adam was staring at the dirty bandage and the deep purple color of his wrist. “You sure?” he said doubtfully.
Duke came across the room smiling. “Nice to meet you, Adam. Maybe you can make him be sensible about that hand of his. I tried to get him in to the doctor twice, but he’s got a superman complex.”
“I’d listen to your brother,” Adam said, glancing at Hank. “That paw don’t look a bit good.”
“Tomorrow he goes to the doctor if I have to carry him,” Duke said. “Sit down now and I’ll find you a drink. Rum okay?”
“Rum’s my drink,” Adam said, smiling again. He took off his heavy jacket, a big man, tall and broad, with a padded, comfortable-looking body. There was a quality of gentleness in his manner; his eyes were clear and innocent behind rimless glasses, and his humor was of an old-fashioned, friendly sort, completely without sting or malice.
Duke turned into the kitchen and Hank and Adam settled themselves before the fire. Grant remained standing at the mantelpiece, watching Wilson with narrow, cautious eyes.
Silence settled in the room. “You in business in town?” Grant said suddenly.
“Yes, that’s right, Mr. Grant. I run a little sports store. Guns and fishing tackle mostly.”
“That’s a pretty good deal, eh?”
Adam looked at him, polite and attentive. “Well, yes and no, I’d say. Not much money, but quite a bit of fun. There’s a good bunch in town, and it’s not too hard sitting around swapping lies with them.”
Grant ran a hand over his forehead and Hank saw him glance at his watch. Adam saw it too...
The silence closed around them once more. Hank knew Adam was no fool; in spite of his bland good humor he was a successful trader in a country of historically good traders. Nothing much escaped his big clear eyes. He knew what went on behind people’s faces; when he lost at poker it was news in town. Now he was curious about Grant’s strained manner, turning it over slowly in his uncomplicated mind.
“Small towns have their points, eh?” Grant said. He made a nervous gesture with his hand. “Everybody knows everybody. A man feels at home, I guess.”
“Yes, that’s true. You live in the city, Mr. Grant?”
“Always have, always will, I suppose,” Grant said, smiling quickly. He put his elbow on the mantel and the cloth of his jacket tightened over the gun he carried in his pocket. Adam saw that; Hank was sure of it. His eyes passed over that significant bulge casually; he paid no more attention to it than he did the buttons on Grant’s coat. But he had recognized it; he knew the shape of guns.
Duke came back into the room with a bottle of rum and a tray of glasses, his manner cheerful and ebullient. “Good thing rum’s your drink, Adam. It’s all we’ve got.”
“Rum’s the next best thing to a good wife,” Adam said. “Some old fellows around here been drinking it since they were kids. Nobody knows how old they are now. They go on about hearing Dan Webster talk though.” Adam raised his glass smiling. “Take it or leave it, that’s their story.”
“I’ll take it,” Duke said. “Well, long life, eh?”
Everyone drank and shifted into more comfortable positions. Duke’s mood was genial and expansive. “The good life, eh? A fire, something to drink — pretty good, eh.”
“You said it.”
“That’s what we city slickers miss,” Grant said. He was taking his cue from Duke now, Hank saw — striking a note of jovial normality. “We don’t relax enough. We think life is just something that gets in the way of work — instead of the other way around.”
“That’s well put,” Adam said, nodding. “We’re just the opposite, eh, Hank? Too much fishing, not enough work.”
“You mean Hank’s turned into a playboy up here?” Duke said.
Adam laughed. “Telling tales out of school. There I go again.”
“Well, watch it,” Hank said easily; but all his senses were suddenly alert. Too much fishing — Adam’s sport was gunning. He was no fisherman.
Adam sipped his drink and smiled into the fire. “Speaking of work, which I hate about as much as working itself, I got those new reels you wanted. Two of ’em, real beauties. It’ll take a lot of fish to make that investment pay off.”
“It’s fun trying,” Hank said. Now he could feel the slow heavy pounding of his heart; he hadn’t ordered any reels from Adam.
“They’re out in the car, as a matter of fact,” Adam said. “In the back under a lot of junk. You want to help me dig ’em out? Or let it ride till you’re in town?”
“Oh, let it ride,” Hank said. Duke wasn’t smiling any more, he saw; he was watching Adam with a puzzled little frown. “I can’t do much fishing with this hand.” They were taking a dangerous chance with Duke; he was always alert for betrayal and deception. When he double-crossed a friend he felt he was simply beating him to the punch.
The conversation drifted into casual channels. Adam told some of his favorite stories, and Duke poured another round of drinks. Grant said he had always wanted to go on a hunting trip in Africa — that had been his ambition as a kid. Adam seemed interested in this, and Duke added a bit of rum to everyone’s glass. The time passed uneventfully. Finally Duke yawned and said, “Look, I hate to be the wet blanket, but I’m bushed.”
“I didn’t mean to keep you up,” Adam said. “I’ve got to be going along.”
“Finish your drink,” Duke said. “Don’t let me spoil things.” He shook hands with Adam and said, “We’ll stop by one of these days. I’d like to see the shop.”