“Not necessary,” Gary told him. “Any decent man would have done the same.”
“Any man didn't do it,” Hoffman insisted. “You did.”
“I just happened to be there,” Gary said slowly, almost awkwardly. “The little girl came running to me…” He released the farmer's hand, sat down when the other did. There was a moment of strained silence. “If it's all the same to you, I'll move along. There's nothing more I can do to help you, I guess.”
“Leave?” Hoffman eyed him with astonishment. By God, you'll not leave! I can't let you up and walk out of here after what you've done for me, man. I owe you a debt I can't ever repay!”
“You don't owe me anything,” Gary contradicted him. His eyes drifted toward the kitchen. “I wouldn't take pay.”
The farmer was staring at him. “You're hungry!” he said with sudden surprise. “The devil, I should have thought of that.” He jumped out of his chair and took Gary's arm, pulling him toward the kitchen. “Come on out here — you can eat until it runs out of your ears!” He snatched the lid from the hot kettle and burned his fingers, swearing absently. “The Lord knows we ain't got much left in this crazy world, but we have got food. You can have all you want of it.”
* * *
Gary accompanied Hoffman late that afternoon when the farmer took his son's body to a snow-covered hill for burial. He offered to help but was politely turned down, and told the farmer he would go along anyway to keep watch — one of them should keep their eyes open that far from the house.
He said nothing more while the silent man dug the grave, knowing that his remark would take root. When the grave was completed and the body ready for burial, the remainder of the family joined the two of them on the hillside, and Hoffman opened an old family Bible. Gary stood a short distance away, his cap off, listening to the halting words and the weeping of the bereaved mother. He slowly and silently paced the hill, continually watching the fields around them and seeing to it that his watch crossed and recrossed the vision of the farmer. That too would take root.
He felt no remorse over the boy's death for the boy had meant nothing to him; his stomach was full — overly full — for the first time since he had left the fisherman's cabin on the Florida beach; and he knew a vast satisfaction and a return of his old cockiness. Completely without cynicism or qualms of conscience he was putting on an act, an act designed to win him a warm winter home. He counted on the farmer's noticing it and bringing up the matter first.