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One end of the great barn was piled high with new hay and over
the pile hung the four-taloned Jackson fork suspended from its
pulley. The hay came down like a mountain slope to the other end
of the barn, and there was a level place as yet unfilled with
the new crop. At the sides the feeding racks were visible, and
between the slats the heads of horses could be seen.
It was Sunday afternoon. The resting horses nibbled the
remaining wisps of hay, and they stamped their feet and they bit
the wood of the mangers and rattled the halter chains. The
afternoon sun sliced in through the cracks of the barn walls and
lay in bright lines on the hay. There was the buzz of flies in
the air, the lazy afternoon humming.
From outside came the clang of horseshoes on the playing peg and
the shouts of men, playing, encouraging, jeering. But in the
barn it was quiet and humming and lazy and warm.
Only Lennie was in the barn, and Lennie sat in the hay beside a
packing case under a manger in the end of the barn that had not
been filled with hay. Lennie sat in the hay and looked at a
little dead puppy that lay in front of him. Lennie looked at it
for a long time, and then he put out his huge hand and stroked
it, stroked it clear from one end to the other.
And Lennie said softly to the puppy, "Why do you got to get
killed? You ain't so little as mice. I didn't bounce you hard."
He bent the pup's head up and looked in its face, and he said to
it, "Now maybe George ain't gonna let me tend no rabbits, if he
fin's out you got killed."
He scooped a little hollow and laid the puppy in it and covered
it over with hay, out of sight; but he continued to stare at the
mound he had made. He said, "This ain't no bad thing like I got
to go hide in the brush. Oh! no. This ain't. I'll tell George I
foun' it dead."
He unburied the puppy and inspected it, and he stroked it from
ears to tail. He went on sorrowfully, "But he'll know. George
always knows. He'll say, 'You done it. Don't try to put nothing
over on me.' An' he'll say, 'Now jus' for that you don't get to
tend no rabbits!'"
Suddenly his anger arose. "God damn you," he cried. "Why do you
got to get killed? You ain't so little as mice." He picked up
the pup and hurled it from him. He turned his back on it. He sat
bent over his knees and he whispered, "Now I won't get to tend
the rabbits. Now he won't let me." He rocked himself back and
forth in his sorrow.
From outside came the clang of horseshoes on the iron stake, and
then a little chorus of cries. Lennie got up and brought the
puppy back and laid it on the hay and sat down. He stroked the
pup again. You wasn't big enough, he said. "They tol' me and
tol' me you wasn't. I di'n't know you'd get killed so easy." He
worked his fingers on the pup's limp ear. "Maybe George won't
care," he said. "This here God damn little son-of-a-bitch wasn't
nothing to George." Curley's wife came around the end of the
last stall. She came very quietly, so that Lennie didn't see
her. She wore her bright cotton dress and the mules with the red
ostrich feathers. Her face was made up and the little sausage
curls were all in place. She was quite near to him before Lennie
looked up and saw her.
In a panic he shoveled hay over the puppy with his fingers. He
looked sullenly up at her.
She said, "What you got there, sonny boy?"
Lennie glared at her. "George says I ain't to have nothing to do
with you- talk to you or nothing."
She laughed. "George giving you orders about everything?"
Lennie looked down at the hay. "Says I can't tend no rabbits if
I talk to you or anything."
She said quietly, "He's scared Curley'll get mad. Well, Curley
got his arm in a sling- an' if Curley gets tough, you can break
his other han'. You didn't put nothing over on me about gettin'
it caught in no machine."
But Lennie was not to be drawn. "No, sir. I ain't gonna talk to
you or nothing."
She knelt in the hay beside him. "Listen," she said. "All the
guys got a horseshoe tenement goin' on. It's on'y about four
o'clock. None of them guys is goin' to leave that tenement. Why
can't I talk to you? I never get to talk to nobody. I get awful
lonely."
Lennie said, "Well, I ain't supposed to talk to you or nothing."
"I get lonely," she said. "You can talk to people, but I can't
talk to nobody but Curley. Else he gets mad. How'd you like not
to talk to anybody?"
Lennie said, "Well, I ain't supposed to. George's scared I'll
get in trouble."
She changed the subject. "What you got covered up there?"
Then all of Lennie's woe came back on him. "Jus' my pup," he
said sadly. "Jus' my little pup." And he swept the hay from on
top of it.
"Why, he's dead," she cried.
"He was so little," said Lennie. "I was jus' playin' with him...
an' he made like he's gonna bite me... an' I made like I was
gonna smack him... an'... an' I done it. An' then he was dead."
She consoled him. "Don't you worry none. He was jus' a mutt. You
can get another one easy. The whole country is fulla mutts."
"It ain't that so much," Lennie explained miserably. "George
ain't gonna let me tend no rabbits now."
"Why don't he?"
"Well, he said if I done any more bad things he ain't gonna let
me tend the rabbits."
She moved closer to him and she spoke soothingly. "Don't you
worry about talkin' to me. Listen to the guys yell out there.
They got four dollars bet in that tenement. None of them ain't
gonna leave till it's over."
"If George sees me talkin' to you he'll give me hell," Lennie
said cautiously. "He tol' me so."
Her face grew angry. "Wha's the matter with me?" she cried.
"Ain't I got a right to talk to nobody? Whatta they think I am,
anyways? You're a nice guy. I don't know why I can't talk to
you. I ain't doin' no harm to you."
"Well, George says you'll get us in a mess."
"Aw, nuts!" she said. "What kinda harm am I doin' to you? Seems
like they ain't none of them cares how I gotta live. I tell you
I ain't used to livin' like this. I coulda made somethin' of
myself." She said darkly, "Maybe I will yet." And then her words
tumbled out in a passion of communication, as though she hurried
before her listener could be taken away. "I lived right in
Salinas," she said. "Come there when I was a kid. Well, a show
come through, an' I met one of the actors. He says I could go
with that show. But my ol' lady wouldn't let me. She says
because I was on'y fifteen. But the guy says I coulda. If I'd
went, I wouldn't be livin' like this, you bet." Lennie stroked
the pup back and forth. "We gonna have a little place- an'
rabbits," he explained.
She went on with her story quickly, before she should be
interrupted. "'Nother time I met a guy, an' he was in pitchers.
Went out to the Riverside Dance Palace with him. He says he was
gonna put me in the movies. Says I was a natural. Soon's he got
back to Hollywood he was gonna write to me about it." She looked
closely at Lennie to see whether she was impressing him. "I
never got that letter," she said. "I always thought my ol' lady
stole it. Well, I wasn't gonna stay no place where I couldn't
get nowhere or make something of myself, an' where they stole
your letters, I ast her if she stole it, too, an' she says no.
So I married Curley. Met him out to the Riverside Dance Palace
that same night." She demanded, "You listenin'?"
"Me? Sure."
"Well, I ain't told this to nobody before. Maybe I oughten to. I
don' likeŻ Curley. He ain't a nice fella." And because she had
confided in him, she moved closer to Lennie and sat beside him.
"Coulda been in the movies, an' had nice clothes- all them nice
clothes like they wear. An' I coulda sat in them big hotels, an' had
pitchers took of me. When they had them previews I coulda went to
them, an' spoke in the radio, an' it wouldn'ta cost me a cent
because I was in the pitcher. An' all them nice clothes like they
wear. Because this guy says I was a natural. She looked up at
Lennie, " and she made a small grand gesture with her arm and
hand to show that she could act. The fingers trailed after her
leading wrist, and her little finger stuck out grandly from the
rest.
Lennie sighed deeply. From outside came the clang of a horseshoe
on metal, and then a chorus of cheers. "Somebody made a ringer,"
said Curley's wife.
Now the light was lifting as the sun went down, and the sun
streaks climbed up the wall and fell over the feeding racks and
over the heads of the horses.
Lennie said, "Maybe if I took this pup out and throwed him away
George wouldn't never know. An' then I could tend the rabbits
without no trouble."
Curley's wife said angrily, "Don't you think of nothing but
rabbits?"
"We gonna have a little place," Lennie explained patiently. "We
gonna have a house an' a garden and a place for alfalfa, an'
that alfalfa is for the rabbits, an' I take a sack and get it
all fulla alfalfa and then I take it to the rabbits."
She asked, "What makes you so nuts about rabbits?"
Lennie had to think carefully before he could come to a
conclusion. He moved cautiously close to her, until he was right
against her. "I like to pet nice things. Once at a fair I seen
some of them long-hair rabbits. An' they was nice, you bet.
Sometimes I've even pet mice, but not when I couldn't get
nothing better."
Curley's wife moved away from him a little. "I think you're
nuts," she said.
"No I ain't," Lennie explained earnestly. "George says I ain't.
I like to pet nice things with my fingers, sof' things."
She was a little bit reassured. "Well, who don't?" she said.
"Ever'body likes that. I like to feel silk an' velvet. Do you
like to feel velvet? "
Lennie chuckled with pleasure. "You bet, by God," he cried
happily. "An' I had some, too. A lady give me some, an' that
lady was- my own Aunt Clara. She give it right to me- 'bout this
big a piece. I wisht I had that velvet right now." A frown came
over his face. "I lost it," he said. "I ain't seen it for a long
time."
Curley's wife laughed at him. "You're nuts," she said. "But
you're a kinda nice fella. Jus' like a big baby. But a person
can see kinda what you mean. When I'm doin' my hair sometimes I
jus' set an' stroke it 'cause it's so soft." To show how she did
it, she ran her fingers over the top of her head. "Some people
got kinda coarse hair," she said complacently. "Take Curley. His
hair is jus' like wire. But mine is soft and fine. 'Course I
brush it a lot. That makes it fine. Here- feel right here." She
took Lennie's hand and put it on her head. Feel right aroun'
there an' see how soft it is.
Lennie's big fingers fell to stroking her hair.
"Don't you muss it up," she said.
Lennie said, "Oh! That's nice," and he stroked harder. "Oh,
that's nice."
"Look out, now, you'll muss it." And then she cried angrily,
"You stop it now, you'll mess it all up." She jerked her head
sideways, and Lennie's fingers closed on her hair and hung on.
"Let go," she cried. "You let go!"
Lennie was in a panic. His face was contorted. She screamed
then, and Lennie's other hand closed over her mouth and nose.
"Please don't," he begged. "Oh! Please don't do that. George'll
be mad."
She struggled violently under his hands. Her feet battered on
the hay and she writhed to be free; and from under Lennie's hand
came a muffled screaming. Lennie began to cry with fright. "Oh!
Please don't do none of that," he begged. "George gonna say I
done a bad thing. He ain't gonna let me tend no rabbits." He
moved his hand a little and her hoarse cry came out. Then Lennie
grew angry. "Now don't," he said. "I don't want you to yell. You
gonna get me in trouble jus' like George says you will. Now
don't you do that." And she continued to struggle, and her eyes
were wild with terror. He shook her then, and he was angry with
her. "Don't you go yellin'," he said, and he shook her; and her
body flopped like a fish. And then she was still, for Lennie had
broken her neck.
He looked down at her, and carefully he removed his hand from
over her mouth, and she lay still. "I don't want to hurt you,"
he said, but George'll be mad if you yell. When she didn't
answer nor move he bent closely over her. He lifted her arm and
let it drop. For a moment he seemed bewildered. And then he
whispered in fright, "I done a bad thing. I done another bad
thing."
He pawed up the hay until it partly covered her. From
outside the barn came a cry of men and the double clang of shoes
on metal. For the first time Lennie became conscious of the
outside. He crouched down in the hay and listened. "I done a
real bad thing," he said. "I shouldn't of did that. George'll be
mad. An'... he said... an' hide in the brush till he come. He's
gonna be mad. In the brush till he come. Tha's what he said."
Lennie went back and looked at the dead girl. The puppy lay
close to her. Lennie picked it up. "I'll throw him away," he
said. "It's bad enough like it is." He put the pup under his
coat, and he crept to the barn wall and peered out between the
cracks, toward the horseshoe game. And then he crept around the
end of the last manger and disappeared.
The sun streaks were high on the wall by now, and the light was
growing soft in the barn. Curley's wife lay on her back, and she
was half covered with hay.
It was very quiet in the barn, and the quiet of the afternoon
was on the ranch. Even the clang of the pitched shoes, even the
voices of the men in the game, seemed to grow more quiet. The
air in the barn was dusky in advance of the outside day. A
pigeon flew in through the open hay door and circled and flew
out again. Around the last stall came a shepherd bitch, lean and
long, with heavy, hanging dugs. Halfway to the packing box where
the puppies were she caught the dead scent of Curley's wife, and
the hair arose along her spine. She whimpered and cringed to the
packing box, and jumped in among the puppies.
Curley's wife lay with a half-covering of yellow hay. And the
meanness and the plannings and the discontent and the ache for
attention were all gone from her face. She was very pretty and
simple, and her face was sweet and young. Now her rouged cheeks
and her reddened lips made her seem alive and sleeping very
lightly. The curls, tiny little sausages, were spread on the hay
behind her head, and her lips were parted.
As happens sometimes, a moment settled and hovered and remained
for much more than a moment. And sound stopped and movement
stopped for much, much more than a moment.
Then gradually time awakened again and moved sluggishly on. The
horses stamped on the other side of the feeding racks and the
halter chains clinked. Outside, the men's voices became louder
and clearer.
From around the end of the last stall old Candy's voice came.
Lennie, he called. "Oh, Lennie! You in here? I been figuring
some more. Tell you what we can do, Lennie." Old Candy appeared
around the end of the last stall. "Oh, Lennie!" he called again;
and then he stopped, and his body stiffened. He rubbed his
smooth wrist on his white stubble whiskers. "I di'n't know you
was here," he said to Curley's wife.
When she didn't answer, he stepped nearer. "You oughten to sleep
out here," he said disapprovingly; and then he was beside her
and- "Oh, Jesus Christ!" He looked about helplessly, and he
rubbed his beard. And then he jumped up and went quickly out of
the barn.
But the barn was alive now. The horses stamped and snorted, and
they chewed the straw of their bedding and they clashed the
chains of their halters. In a moment Candy came back, and George
was with him.
George said, "What was it you wanted to see me about?"
Candy pointed at Curley's wife. George stared. "What's the
matter with her?" he asked. He stepped closer, and then he
echoed Candy's words. "Oh, Jesus Christ!" He was down on his
knees beside her. He put his hand over her heart. And finally,
when he stood up, slowly and stiffly, his face was as hard and
tight as wood, and his eyes were hard.
Candy said, "What done it?"
George looked coldly at him. "Ain't you got any idear?" he
asked. And Candy was silent. "I should of knew," George said
hopelessly. "I guess maybe way back in my head I did."
Candy asked, "What we gonna do now, George? What we gonna do
now?"
George was a long time in answering. "Guess... we gotta tell
the... guys. I guess we gotta get 'im an' lock 'im up. We can't
let 'im get away. Why, the poor bastard'd starve." And he tried
to reassure himself. "Maybe they'll lock 'im up an' be nice to
'im."
But Candy said excitedly, "We oughta let 'im get away. You don't
know that Curley. Curley gon'ta wanta get 'im lynched. Curley'll
get 'im killed."
George watched Candy's lips. "Yeah," he said at last, "that's
right, Curley will. An' the other guys will." And he looked back
at Curley's wife.
Now Candy spoke his greatest fear. "You an' me can get that
little place, can't we, George? You an' me can go there an' live
nice, can't we, George? Can't we?"
Before George answered, Candy dropped his head and looked down
at the hay. He knew.
George said softly, "-I think I knowed from the very first. I
think I know'd we'd never do her. He usta like to hear about it
so much I got to thinking maybe we would."
"Then- it's all off?" Candy asked sulkily. George didn't
answer his question. George said, "I'll work my month an' I'll
take my fifty bucks an' I'll stay all night in some lousy cat
house. Or I'll set in some poolroom till ever'body goes home.
An' then I'll come back an' work another month an' I'll have
fifty bucks more."
Candy said, "He's such a nice fella. I didn' think he'd do
nothing like this."
George still stared at Curley's wife. "Lennie never done it in
meanness," he said. "All the time he done bad things, but he
never done one of 'em mean." He straightened up and looked back
at Candy. "Now listen. We gotta tell the guys. They got to bring
him in, I guess. They ain't no way out. Maybe they won't hurt 'im.
He said " sharply, "I ain't gonna let 'em hurt Lennie. Now you
listen. The guys might think I was in on it. I'm gonna go in the
bunkhouse. Then in a minute you come out and tell the guys about
her, and I'll come along and make like I never seen her. Will
you do that? So the guys won't think I was in on it?"
Candy said, "Sure, George. Sure I'll do that."
"O.K. Give me a couple minutes then, and you come runnin' out
an' tell like you jus' found her. I'm going now." George turned
and went quickly out of the barn.
Old Candy watched him go. He looked helplessly back at Curley's
wife, and gradually his sorrow and his anger grew into words.
"You God damn tramp", he said viciously. "You done it, di'n't
you? I s'pose you're glad. Ever'body knowed you'd mess things
up. You wasn't no good. You ain't no good now, you lousy tart."
He sniveled, and his voice shook. "I could of hoed in the garden
and washed dishes for them guys." He paused, and then went on in
a singsong. And he repeated the old words: "If they was a circus
or a baseball game... we would of went to her... jus' said 'ta
hell with work,' an' went to her. Never ast nobody's say so. An'
they'd of been a pig and chickens... an' in the winter... the
little fat stove... an' the rain comin'... an' us jes' settin'
there." His eyes blinded with tears and he turned and went
weakly out of the barn, and he rubbed his bristly whiskers with
his wrist stump.
Outside the noise of the game stopped. There was a rise of
voices in question, a drum of running feet and the men burst
into the barn. Slim and Carlson and young Whit and Curley, and
Crooks keeping back out of attention range. Candy came after
them, and last of all came George. George had put on his blue
denim coat and buttoned it, and his black hat was pulled down
low over his eyes. The men raced around the last stall. Their
eyes found Curley's wife in the gloom, they stopped and stood
still and looked.
Then Slim went quietly over to her, and he felt her wrist. One
lean finger touched her cheek, and then his hand went under her
slightly twisted neck and his fingers explored her neck. When he
stood up the men crowded near and the spell was broken.
Curley came suddenly to life. "I know who done it," he cried.
"That big son-of-a-bitch done it. I know he done it. Why-
ever'body else was out there playin' horseshoes. He worked himself
into a fury. " "I'm gonna get him. I'm going for my shotgun.
I'll kill the big son-of-a-bitch myself. I'll shoot 'im in the guts.
Come on, you guys. " He ran furiously out of the barn. Carlson
said, "I'll get my Luger," and he ran out too.
Slim turned quietly to George. "I guess Lennie done it, all
right," he said. "Her neck's bust. Lennie coulda did that."
George didn't answer, but he nodded slowly. His hat was so far
down on his forehead that his eyes were covered.
Slim went on, "Maybe like that time in Weed you was tellin'
about."
Again George nodded.
Slim sighed. "Well, I guess we got to get him. Where you think
he might of went?"
It seemed to take George some time to free his words. "He- would
of went south," he said. "We come from north so he would of went
south."
"I guess we gotta get 'im," Slim repeated.
George stepped close. "Couldn' we maybe bring him in an' they'll
lock him up? He's nuts, Slim. He never done this to be mean."
Slim nodded. "We might," he said. "If we could keep Curley in,
we might. But Curley's gonna want to shoot 'im. Curley's still
mad about his hand. An' s'pose they lock him up an' strap him
down and put him in a cage. That ain't no good, George."
"I know," said George, "I know."
Carlson came running in. "The bastard's stole my Luger," he
shouted. It ain't in my bag. Curley followed him, and Curley
carried a shotgun in his good hand. Curley was cold now.
"All right, you guys," he said. "The nigger's got a shotgun. You
take it, Carlson. When you see 'um, don't give 'im no chance.
Shoot for his guts. That'll double 'im over."
Whit said excitedly, "I ain't got a gun."
Curley said, "You go in Soledad an' get a cop. Get Al Wilts,
he's deputy sheriff. Le's go now." He turned suspiciously on
George. You're comin' with us, fella.
"Yeah," said George. "I'll come. But listen, Curley. The poor
bastard's nuts. Don't shoot 'im. He di'n't know what he was
doin'."
"Don't shoot 'im?" Curley cried. "He got Carlson's Luger.
'Course we'll shoot 'im."
George said weakly, "Maybe Carlson lost his gun."
"I seen it this morning," said Carlson. "No, it's been took."
Slim stood looking down at Curley's wife. He said, "Curley-
maybe you better stay here with your wife."
Curley's face reddened. "I'm goin'," he said. "I'm gonna shoot
the guts outa that big bastard myself, even if I only got one
hand. I'm gonna get 'im."
Slim turned to Candy. "You stay here with her then, Candy. The
rest of us better get goin'."
They moved away. George stopped a moment beside Candy and they
both looked down at the dead girl until Curley called, "You
George! You stick with us so we don't think you had nothin' to
do with this." George moved slowly after them, and his feet
dragged heavily.
And when they were gone, Candy squatted down in the hay and
watched the face of Curley's wife. "Poor bastard," he said
softly.
The sound of the men grew fainter. The barn was darkening
gradually and, in their stalls, the horses shifted their feet
and rattled the halter chains. Old Candy lay down in the hay and
covered his eyes with his arm.
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