The Long Remembered Thunder. Keith Laumer

by now. I’m waiting for the day they’ll make jail age.”

      “Why Bram?” Tremaine persisted. “As far as I know, he never had any dealings to speak of with anybody here in town.”

      “Oh hoh, you’re a little young, Jimmy,” Jess chuckled. “You never knew about Mr. Bram—the young Mr. Bram—and Linda Carroll.”

      Tremaine shook his head.

      “Old Miss Carroll. School teacher here for years; guess she was retired by the time you were playing hookey. But her dad had money, and in her day she was a beauty. Too good for the fellers in these parts. I remember her ridin by in a high-wheeled shay, when I was just a nipper. Sitting up proud and tall, with that red hair piled up high. I used to think she was some kind of princess....”

      “What about her and Bram? A romance?”

      *

      Jess rocked his chair back on two legs, looked at the ceiling, frowning. “This would ha’ been about nineteen-oh-one. I was no more’n eight years old. Miss Linda was maybe in her twenties—and that made her an old maid, in those times. The word got out she was setting her cap for Bram. He was a good-looking young feller then, over six foot, of course, broad backed, curly yellow hair—and a stranger to boot. Like I said, Linda Carroll wanted nothin to do with the local bucks. There was a big shindy planned. Now, you know Bram was funny about any kind of socializing; never would go any place at night. But this was a Sunday afternoon and someways or other they got Bram down there; and Miss Linda made her play, right there in front of the town, practically. Just before sundown they went off together in that fancy shay. And the next day, she was home again—alone. That finished off her reputation, as far as the biddies in Elsby was concerned. It was ten years ‘fore she even landed the teaching job. By that time, she was already old. And nobody was ever fool enough to mention the name Bram in front of her.”

      Tremaine got to his feet. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your ears and eyes open for anything that might build into a lead on this, Jess. Meantime, I’m just a tourist, seeing the sights.”

      “What about that gear of yours? Didn’t you say you had some kind of detector you were going to set up?”

      “I’ve got an oversized suitcase,” Tremaine said. “I’ll be setting it up in my room over at the hotel.”

      “When’s this bootleg station supposed to broadcast again?”

      “After dark. I’m working on a few ideas. It might be an infinitely repeating logarithmic sequence, based on—”

      “Hold it, Jimmy. You’re over my head.” Jess got to his feet. “Let me know if you want anything. And by the way—” he winked broadly—”I always did know who busted Soup Gaskin’s nose and took out his front teeth.”

      II

      Back in the street, Tremaine headed south toward the Elsby Town Hall, a squat structure of brownish-red brick, crouched under yellow autumn trees at the end of Sheridan Street. Tremaine went up the steps and past heavy double doors. Ten yards along the dim corridor, a hand-lettered cardboard sign over a black-varnished door said “MUNICIPAL OFFICE OF RECORD.” Tremaine opened the door and went in.

      A thin man with garters above the elbow looked over his shoulder at Tremaine.

      “We’re closed,” he said.

      “I won’t be a minute,” Tremaine said. “Just want to check on when the Bram property changed hands last.”

      The man turned to Tremaine, pushing a drawer shut with his hip. “Bram? He dead?”

      “Nothing like that. I just want to know when he bought the place.”

      The man came over to the counter, eyeing Tremaine. “He ain’t going to sell, mister, if that’s what you want to know.”

      “I want to know when he bought.”

      The man hesitated, closed his jaw hard. “Come back tomorrow,” he said.

      Tremaine put a hand on the counter, looked thoughtful. “I was hoping to save a trip.” He lifted his hand and scratched the side of his jaw. A folded bill opened on the counter. The thin man’s eyes darted toward it. His hand eased out, covered the bill. He grinned quickly.

      “See what I can do,” he said.

      It was ten minutes before he beckoned Tremaine over to the table where a two-foot-square book lay open. An untrimmed fingernail indicated a line written in faded ink:

      “May 19. Acreage sold, One Dollar and other G&V consid. NW Quarter Section 24, Township Elsby. Bram. (see Vol. 9 & cet.)”

      “Translated, what does that mean?” said Tremaine.

      “That’s the ledger for 1901; means Bram bought a quarter section on the nineteenth of May. You want me to look up the deed?”

      “No, thanks,” Tremaine said. “That’s all I needed.” He turned back to the door.

      “What’s up, mister?” the clerk called after him. “Bram in some kind of trouble?”

      “No. No trouble.”

      The man was looking at the book with pursed lips. “Nineteen-oh-one,” he said. “I never thought of it before, but you know, old Bram must be dern near to ninety years old. Spry for that age.”

      “I guess you’re right.”

      The clerk looked sideways at Tremaine. “Lots of funny stories about old Bram. Useta say his place was haunted. You know; funny noises and lights. And they used to say there was money buried out at his place.”

      “I’ve heard those stories. Just superstition, wouldn’t you say?”

      “Maybe so.” The clerk leaned on the counter, assumed a knowing look. “There’s one story that’s not superstition....”

      Tremaine waited.

      “You—uh—paying anything for information?”

      “Now why would I do that?” Tremaine reached for the door knob.

      The clerk shrugged. “Thought I’d ask. Anyway—I can swear to this. Nobody in this town’s ever seen Bram between sundown and sunup.”

      *

      Untrimmed sumacs threw late-afternoon shadows on the discolored stucco facade of the Elsby Public Library. Inside, Tremaine followed a paper-dry woman of indeterminate age to a rack of yellowed newsprint.

      “You’ll find back to nineteen-forty here,” the librarian said. “The older are there in the shelves.”

      “I want nineteen-oh-one, if they go back that far.”

      The woman darted a suspicious look at Tremaine. “You have to handle these old papers carefully.”

      “I’ll be extremely careful.” The woman sniffed, opened a drawer, leafed through it, muttering.

      “What date was it you wanted?”

      “Nineteen-oh-one; the week of May nineteenth.”

      The librarian pulled out a folded paper, placed it on the table, adjusted her glasses, squinted at the front page. “That’s it,” she said. “These papers keep pretty well, provided they’re stored in the dark. But they’re still flimsy, mind you.”

      “I’ll remember.” The woman stood by as Tremaine looked over the front page. The lead article concerned the opening of the Pan-American Exposition at Buffalo. Vice-President Roosevelt had made a speech. Tremaine leafed over, reading slowly.

      On page four, under a column headed County Notes he saw the name Bram:

      Mr. Bram has purchased a quarter section of fine grazing land, north of town, together with a sturdy house, from J. P. Spivey of Elsby. Mr. Bram will occupy the home and will continue to graze a few head of stock. Mr. Bram,