Beast of the Field Read Online Free PDF Page A

fellows by the name of Price, Hiram and Hubert Price— preeze , or something like that, in German, p-r-e-i-s, or something—they bought up the land on either side of the Big Silky—it was running then.  Brought their families here to get away from all that violence and rancorance along the border.  Only a few of the real old-timers can still remember those free-soiler days.  Bad times, all right, but you know what, they were good for the country.  No offense, Mr. Sterno, hailing yourself from Saint Louis, but I pro-guess that it was all that blood spilled all over this Kansas soil that made America what it is today.”  The mayor nodded and did something with his face to add respect and—what was it?— dignity, maybe, or maybe just assertion to the last comment.
    The Pinkerton said, “Can’t argue with that.”
    “These were hard times,” the Mayor said started up again.  “Kansas wasn’t exactly an easy locale for homesteading after the war was over, nor to mention growing a community.  Indians, drought, tornadoes, snakes, mosquitoes, black death, the ague, all those Missouri musket-humpers still bitter about losing the war, ketch’m?"
    Good one, Mayor.  Hah!
    “Yeah, I’ll tell you, for a good long hunk or two of time, ol’ Hiram and Hubert Price didn’t know if they were going to make it.  Then someone found oil up near Wichita, a little outcrop coal right here in Hope County—albeit-all south of here, down New Bremen way—and an underground lake in the limestone right underneath our feet.  Then the railroads come through.  Before you know it, the Price brothers look around them and see little sod houses popping up all over.”
    “Might as well make a town out of it,” Mr. Neuwald said.
    “That’s right, Jone, might as well.  Mr. Sterno, meet Jonas Neuwald—Elks, Eagles, Lions and Rotary.”   The Pinkerton man shook hands with the skinny, hawk-nosed, mustached man.  The mayor went on:  “And make a town out of it is precisely what they did, Mr. Sterno.  They incorporated the next year, had a promotive plat made up, sent it around the state, into Missouri and Arkansas.  Heck, back then? every six months there was another town out here closing down.  Well, I’ll tell you, all those ghosts from all those ghost towns had to go somewhere.  So pretty soon, before you know it, storefronts and hotels are going up, teams, wagons everywhere, kids running around Main Street—you got yourself a town.” 
    “Price, Kansas,” added Mr.  Neuwald.
    “That’s right, Jone,” the mayor said, looking around him, “our Price.”
    The mayor stopped walking, hiked up his pants, let the crowd of men and boys surround them.  This was the final stop on the nickel tour.  Sheriff Jake’s jail.  Over the door on one side of the one-story, brown-bricked building was a sign that said "JAIL."  On the other half of the building's front side were bay doors, one of which was open to show an old Chevrolet up on stumps, pieces of its engine out on the cement floor around it.  A few other cars and some engine parts littered the ground in front of the bay doors.
    Sheriff Jake stepped out from the garage wiping his hands.  Sheriff Jake looked like Jonas Neuwald’s bigger, stronger, meaner older brother—which was exactly what he was.
    "Mr. Sterno, meet Sheriff Jacob Neuwald, brother to Jonas.  Elks, Eagles, Rotary, and our town constable.  'Sheriff' is what we call him round here.”
    "Follow me, mister," said Sheriff Jake, and spat.  Mr. Sterno was led into the jail’s front door.
    The crowd stopped in front of the jail, not sure what to do anymore, so they started passing a plug around and cracking jokes about the Pinkerton.  Millie was surrounded by men’s pants and men’s shirts.  She could barely move, much less see.  This was her Pinkerton.  This was her investigation.  She had told Mother what to write when they were seeking help.  Tommy was her brother, goddamnit-all.  She had to