The Pastures of Heaven by John Steinbeck

a natural aversion for scandal. “Dance at the schoolhouse,” he admitted at last.
    â€œYes, I knew about that.”
    T. B. squirmed. Apparently there was a struggle going on in his mind. Should he tell Shark what he knew, for Shark’s own good, or should he keep all knowledge to himself. Shark watched the struggle with interest. He had seen others like it many times before.
    â€œWell, what is it?” he prodded.
    â€œHear there might be a wedding pretty soon.”
    â€œYeah? Who?”
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    â€œWell, pretty close to home, I guess.”
    â€œWho?” Shark asked again.
    T. B. struggled vainly and lost. “You,” he admitted.
    Shark chuckled. “Me?”
    â€œAlice.”
    Shark stiffened and stared at the old man. Then he stepped forward and stood over him threateningly. “What do you mean? Tell me what you mean—you!”
    T. B. knew he had overstepped. He cowered away from Shark. “Now don’t, Mr. Wicks! Don’t you do nothing!”
    â€œTell me what you mean! Tell me everything.” Shark grasped T. B. by the shoulder and shook him fiercely.
    â€œWell, it was only at the dance—just at the dance.”
    â€œAlice was at the dance?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œWhat was she doing there?”
    â€œI don’t know. I mean, nothing.”
    Shark pulled him out of his chair and stood him roughly on his fumbling feet. “Tell me!” he demanded.
    The old man whimpered. “She just walked out in the yard with Jimmie Munroe.”
    Shark had both of the shoulders now. He shook the terrified storekeeper like a sack. “Tell me! What did they do?”
    â€œI don’t know, Mr. Wicks.”
    â€œTell me.”
    â€œWell, Miss Burke—Miss Burke said—they were kissing.”
    Shark dropped the sack and sat down. He was appalled with a sense of loss. While he glared at T. B. Allen, his brain fought with the problem of his daughter’s impurity. It did not occur to him that the passage had stopped with a kiss. Shark moved his head and his eyes roved helplessly around the store. T. B. saw his eyes pass over the glass-fronted gun case.
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    â€œDon’t you do nothing, Shark,” he cried. “Them guns ain’t yours.”
    Shark hadn’t seen the guns at all, but now that his attention was directed toward them, he leaped up, threw open the sliding glass door and took out a heavy rifle. He tore off the price tag and tossed a box of cartridges into his pocket. Then, without a glance at the storekeeper, he strode out into the dark. And old T. B. was at the telephone before Shark’s quick footsteps had died away into the night.
    As Shark walked quickly along toward the Munroe place, his thoughts raced hopelessly. He was sure of one thing, though, now that he had walked a little; he didn’t want to kill Jimmie Munroe. He hadn’t even been thinking about shooting him until the storekeeper suggested the idea. Then he had acted upon it without thinking. What could he do now? He tried to picture what he would do when he came to the Munroe house. Perhaps he would have to shoot Jimmie Munroe. Maybe things would fall out in a way that would force him to commit murder to maintain his dignity in the Pastures of Heaven.
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    Shark heard a car coming and stepped into the brush while it roared by, with a wide open throttle. He would be getting there pretty soon, and he didn’t hate Jimmie Munroe. He didn’t hate anything except the hollow feeling that had entered him when he heard of Alice’s loss of virtue. Now he could only think of his daughter as one who was dead.
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    Ahead of him, he could see the lights of the Munroe house now. And Shark knew that he couldn’t shoot Jimmie. Even if he were laughed at he couldn’t shoot the boy. There was no murder in him. He decided that he would look in at the gate and then go along home. Maybe people would laugh at him, but he simply