Casy demanded, “What in hell can he do with a million acres? What’s he want a million acres for?”
The man took his whitening, puckering hands out of the water and spread them, and he tightened his lower lip and bent his head down to one shoulder. “I dunno,” he said. “Guess he’s crazy. Mus’ be crazy. Seen a pitcher of him. He looks crazy. Crazy an’ mean.”
“Say he’s scairt to die?” Casy asked.
“That’s what I heard.”
“Scairt God’ll get him?”
“I dunno. Jus’ scairt.”
“What’s he care?” Pa said. “Don’t seem like he’s havin’ no fun.”
“Grampa wasn’t scairt,” Tom said. “When Grampa was havin’ the most fun, he comes clostest to gettin’ kil’t. Time Grampa an’ another fella whanged into a bunch a Navajo in the night. They was havin’ the time a their life, an’ same time you wouldn’ give a gopher for their chance.”
Casy said, “Seems like that’s the way. Fella havin’ fun, he don’t give a damn; but a fella mean an’ lonely an’ old an’ disappointedhe’s scared of dyin’!”
Pa asked, “What’s he disappointed about if he got a million acres?”