Smonk or Widow Town Part 4

Captain Walton, please. Okay. I used to be a schoolmaster. He looked at his troop of eager readers. None of you all knew that, did you? Schoolmaster from Philadelphia. (Suddenly he ached for his chalkboard, but alas it was packed aback the mule.) What I mean, he went on, is that I'm adroit at explaining things. Especially with a blackboard. But let's try it this way, Red Man. Is it okay for us to get off this unholy raft and get the horses some exercise before they go crazy, and get the men some exercise before they go crazy? We'll gallop to the next dock and find out if she got off or stayed on. I mean he.

I see. The tall Indian leaned his bow aside and adjusted his quiver of arrows. He frowned and pursed his lips and squinted his eyes and gritted his gleaming teeth, as if for him thought manifested itself as a severe headache.

Walton's thoughts ran back to Evavangeline. To that day in Shreveport when she worked the door in the tavern across from the cheap hotel where he was living. (When they "bunked" in town on rare occasions, the other deputies usually shared a room, Ambrose out back in a barn or shed as most of these establishments harbored ill feelings for Negroes. But Walton always preserved his privacy for devotionals and prayer. It wasn't cla.s.sist, he insisted to his mother in his long, florid letters, but was instead the necessary separation of leader from led.) On the day in question, he was ambling out of the barber's from having a shave and boot shine and saw her standing in the door under the saloon's awning. One in the afternoon. She was dressed like a schoolgirl. Pigtails. Her cheeks smattered with fake freckles. She fetchingly held a sign that said "f.u.c.k $1" and was ill.u.s.trated by a crude drawing of a man and woman copulating "doggie-style"; Walton a.s.sumed the latter was for Shreveport's copious illiterate. The leader of the Christian Deputies stood in the middle of the street watching the girl. Then she noticed him. He couldn't look away. A clatter of horse and buggy blocked them and then they saw one another again, his clothes flecked with mud and horses.h.i.t, a lump in his pants. She fingered the lapel of her shirt and flashed him a quick-tiny breast, startling and white in the sun and then gone, but not before he'd seen the bloodred nipple as big as a thirty-eight caliber cartridge.

Mother! Lord Jesus!

He'd covered his eyes with both hands and whirled, weeping. She went back inside.

The next day he'd spent in his room. He prayed and slammed his fingers in the drawer of the desk on which he ought to have been writing dialogue for the play he'd been outlining in his logbook. He would try that. He dipped his quill in the inkwell and swirled it around. He brought it up dripping and blotted it. It was hard to write with his fingers throbbing. He made a mental note to slam his other hand next time. Painfully, he began to make a letter. Capital "B." He followed it with a lowercase "r" and was well on his way to spelling "Breast" when he slammed down the pen. His fingernails were turning black, and he had a sudden restored memory of being dressed like a girl, his nails painted red. He covered his face with his hands and his eyes gazed out through the bars of his fingers.

O Lord Jesus Christ comfort me in my prison of pain!

He shut his eyes and prayed that he would be miraculously transported to another location, as when G.o.d had miraculously transported Lot and his family from the doomed sodomites in the cities of the plain. But opening his eyes he could still see the harlot out the window across the street wiggling her hips like an effigy of sin itself. Right there. In the doorway. Dressed as a squaw this time. A drunk sidled up to her and stared openly. He appraised a hand along her hip. She turned around at his behest and raised her leather skirt. O her bottom! Walton jerked his head hither and yon, dis...o...b..bulating the things on his desk, but the man's own wide b.u.t.tocks blocked the view of hers.

The Christian Deputy leader fell back onto his bed, sobbing and pinching himself.

In a flash he was at the window again.

Beneath the awning the drunk man was whispering in the girl's ear, braced on her shoulder to stay afoot. She nodded and they went inside. Walton watched, his breath fogging the gla.s.s, his heart an overheated toad frying in the cauldron of his ribs. Upstairs, across the street, the harlot appeared in a window to pull down the shades. Before she did, though, he saw her lick out her tongue at him.

Serpent!

He tried to fill a cup with urine so he might drink it, but his turgid member refused to cooperate, the down-bending so pleasurable in itself that it nearly betrayed him.

He had rushed downstairs right then, pants abulge, ascot atangle, and burst into the deputies' room, where the men were supposed to be engaged in an exercise about the sucking out of snake venom. There were several empty liquor bottles scattered about the floor that, without being asked, Loon testified had been left there by the room's previous tenants. He hiccupped.

Men, Walton cried. Sin! He pointed upstairs.

Thus rallied (Ambrose rounded up from witnessing to a group of degenerates playing "c.r.a.ps" in the alley), the entire troop lurched across the street in full uniform, several adjusting the things in their pockets, their leader seen by some to be pinching his male member through his tight pants. They entered the saloon, Red Man lowering his bow, an arrow notched, to fit inside. They bounded up the stairs, behind Walton. Red-faced, he had kicked down the door and burst in the room and away she'd flown out the window like a shade flapping up.

Meanwhile, on the boat, Red Man had recovered from his bout of thinking. No sir, he said. Regarding your question of abandoning ship for hot, dusty horse travel overland.

Why?

Because to track a man is to know him. To track a man is to honor him.

Pardon?

Knowing and honoring a man are aspects of tracking him. In my tribe before the Wars and dark years of reservation life, before I fled east to escape the Apache and Comanche and the p.a.w.nee and the Rangers and revenuers and cavalry men and bounty hunters, I, like you, also was a teacher. Of young braves. Sometimes the other warriors called me coward for choosing to be with the little ones instead of out earning feathers and ribbons and pieces of clothing taken from ma.s.sacred white men and women and children and kept and pa.s.sed father to son in a family for as many generations as the piece of clothing lasted-sometimes just a sc.r.a.p, the cuff from a shirt, or only a b.u.t.ton- What in the world are you talking about? Walton asked.

To track a man is to know him. To know him is to honor him. And to truly honor him (which is part of tracking him) you have to go exactly where he went, suffer his very path, riding when he rode, walking when he walked, as close as you can get, stepping when possible in his very footsteps. You finger every broken branch, touch each smudge of dirt with your eager tongue, you work at becoming him- Wrong, said Walton. Why would I want to become a sodomite? Captain! he called.

A dour, scruffy man shuffled forward. Aye?

Steer us over to the bank, sir, hard aft. The leader clapped his hands. "p.r.o.nto!"

At this speed? We'll run aground.

Speed, sir? My gracious! You call this speed? Walton threw open his arms. Evolution is moving faster than we are!

Meanwhile, the deputies learning to write had been smudging "Walton" in asbestos on the side of the boat. While they worked, chewing their lips like giant, frightening children, Ambrose plucked a pencil from his Afro and saw how many littler words he could make from "Walton." He listed "wal," "ona," "alton" and "walto" (except for "w" and "l," he drew the line at single-letter words). He added "lto" to his list then looked up and noticed that Loon seemed to have a condition where he spelled all his words backward; so when he copied the Christian Deputy leader's name in his large, uneven characters, it caught Ambrose's attention.

Mister Walton, he said to his commander. You ever noticed what ye name is wrote backerds?

Great Scott. It's "not law."

The men, keen of ear, began to watch him murderously. They clattered to their feet in an asbestos cloud. Since the reading lesson, a plot of mutiny had circulated among their number. They'd decided that to earn any respect as a gang they had to kill somebody, Walton the logical choice. Ambrose next.

Not law, they chanted, coming forward drawing out their swords. Not law, not law, not law.

Deputy Ambrose! Walton whispered. Do something. That's an order.

Not law, not law, not law...

Red Man! the Negro called.

Everyone stopped saying "Not law" and looked at the tall Indian.

Ambrose jabbed his finger up in Red Man's face. Didn't you say ye Injun family and other ones like it 'd keep as keepsakes the clothes of-yer own words here-of "ma.s.sacred white mens and womens and childrens"?

Yes, Red Man said. Why? Then his face sagged. Oh s.h.i.t, he said.

Mister Walton done tole you bout cussing, Ambrose said, and without a moment's hesitation the stocky second-in-command drew his long-barreled revolver and shot the Indian in the forehead. Red Man stood for a moment, cross-eyed, then fell straight back, his bow toppling after. A plug of his head splashed in the water barrel.

Oh, Walton said. I may faint.

Yet the deflecting tactic worked, and as the blood pooled about the dead Indian's neck the remaining deputies forgot about Walton's backward-spelled name and the plot to murder him and, to a man, except Red Man, went back to their reading lesson, though visibly distracted.

That n.i.g.g.e.r better not kill me, a deputy said.

Nice work, Walton whispered to his second, once it was clear the danger had pa.s.sed.

Ambrose eyed the men as they bent over their work. Can I shoot me a white 'n next?

Certainly not, said the leader. But you can "cover" yon captain so that he complies with my order.

Right, boss. Ambrose crossed to the steering platform and jammed his revolver in the man's ribs. n.i.g.g.e.r with a gun, he whispered. Only thing missing is a reason.

There, called Walton, pointing to a small peninsula overhung with trees, jutting out into the river at a bend. Bank us there!

Kiss now, boys! the captain shouted. Here comes the end!

They exploded onto land. Ambrose flew overboard. Timbers splintered like gunshots. Bleating livestock flew past. The heavily packed mule crashed braying into the river, pulling a pair of horses with it. The men on the ship were too busy to watch, scrambling out of the way of sliding ponies and airborne barrels.

Walton used the forward momentum to his advantage, however, and, arms akimbo, pirouetted from the deck and grabbed a lowhanging limb. Those ballet lessons had done a bit of good, after all.

From the tree, he called out instructions. Deputies staggered about rubbing their heads, removing splinters. Two were swimming for the other side of the river. Deserters. If he could've spared the manpower, Walton would have sent after them. Meanwhile, a soggy Ambrose dragged ash.o.r.e picking leeches off his arms and neck. The horses and pack mule at the bottom of the river were dead.

Look here, Ambrose said. Red Man lay in a heap where he'd been catapulted from the ship.

Walton watched his lieutenant kick him over. Underneath were small foot tracks.

Yep. It's him, said Ambrose. The pre-vert we're after. I'd know that sign anywheres. Reckon he come out the river barefoot, then took off.

They looked at Red Man's body, birdcalls piercing the human silence like bright arrows.

That, deputies, Walton said at length, is dedication. To discover "sign" even after death. Perhaps you oughtn't been so "trigger-happy," Deputy Ambrose.

But Mister Walton- No excuses, please. Your pay is hereby docked.

Ambrose grumbled under his breath as Walton a.s.sembled the men for an inspirational talk on Red Man's service to his country. By now all the horses were ready save the ones dead in the river-for which the Christian Deputies observed a moment of silence-and leaving two eager volunteers to bury their fallen comrade, Walton and his men mounted up and were off.

Within an hour they'd spotted dozens of buzzards circling in the sky. At the edge of a parched cornfield they gazed upon four dead men, a gory scene which Walton characterized in his logbook as a "carnage of Old Testament vicissitudes (sp?)."

The crows had given way to buzzards, slick reeking ungainly flesheaters, summoned by death like family members called home. The large sneering birds were everywhere, tubercular frowns pasted in the sky, leaning malignant growths of tumor in the limbs of trees.

The deputies dismounted in unison as they'd been instructed and drew their revolvers and aimed them all about, some men kneeling, one on his belly, as the drill called for. Walton came forward proudly, stepping over the p.r.o.ne man. Excuse me. He crossed the ground and knelt beside the jaw-shot veteran. The leader removed his glove then slid his goggles onto his forehead and pinched his nose shut at the horror, studying the body. Where was its member? Ill at the sight, he looked about and inspected the other three men, dispatched by precise shots. Their members, while all taken out of their pants, remained intact. Walton gagged. The buzzards had been having a "fiesta." The dead men's eyes had been picked out and were grotesque purple festers now.

The leader belched and turned away. What do you make of this, Deputy Ambrose? Anybody see the missing, er, part?

Naw, said the Negro, but I'm gone fuss less bout these here goggle-ma-jigs.

Walton belched again and replaced his own eyewear. Fan out, he said, his voice nasal.

The deputies unclenched their stances and pretended to look. Two began to vomit from the odor. Walton himself had begun gagging again. Another fellow was whistling, hands pocketed, walking backward toward the river.

Shew, said Ambrose. Stink don't it. He peered inside the blind. No p.e.c.k.e.r to report, Mister Walton, but they was here all right. Our pre-vert amongst em, look. Here's his tracks. They was waiting on something, looks like. Or somebody. You can see where they guns was laid. Here and here and here and here and here. And here and here. Here. Stink so bad from they farts you can smell the rabbit they'd eat for supper.

Walton clapped his hands. Guns, Deputy Ambrose. That's it! Guerilla warriors is what we have. Which explains the uniforms of these dead. Perhaps left over from the War, lo all these years later. "Sore" losers, these guerillas. Mis-perceived as heroes. Men unwilling to march out of the past. Praise G.o.d, we might just get a shot at testing our mettle in actual battle.

Battle? cried Loon.

Let me tell you what else I suspect, Deputy Ambrose. I suspect that somebody in their own party shot them. A traitor!

You mean didn't the pre-vert we after kill em, don't ye?

Listen. The reason I suspect a traitor, is that whoever killed these fellows could have never attacked head on. This place is a bunker.

A what?

Walton half-smiled. "Bunker." I'm circulating it as a new word here in the Southland. It's a secret club I and several of my old college chums originated. As social experiments, we coin new words and use them with authority. See if they catch on.

Ambrose pushed his goggles up on his forehead. You can't be doing that.

Oh, I can't, can't I?

You gots to be a lingrist or something. A senator. The word gots to be around a long time. Work its way into convocations. Official. Folks got to agree.

So why can't you and I agree? I'm practically an aristocrat, nearly a blueblood, and in addition to that a northerner. In other words ent.i.tled. You're a darky but one who can read. You're fairly well mannered, except for your propensity for profanity. I propose that you and I name the word and use it, Deputy Ambrose! "Bunker!" Such a stout word, I predict it catches on, especially if you'll employ it among your dusky pals when you return home on leave.

Ambrose thought about it. Why not. So that crow blind yonder's a bunker, and the pre-vert we're chasing killed them fellers?

Walton blinked. Exactly.

The men had begun howling with laughter; a deputy had been caught masturbating in the blind.

Walton called a meeting and informed the men that this deputy would now have the nickname "Onan." He described the Biblical masturbator, which caused a few sn.i.g.g.e.rs among the troops.

Self-abuse, the Philadelphian admonished, is no laughing matter. Onan, your pay is hereby docked.

The men grew solemn.

Their leader clasped his hands behind his back and began to study the brown-stained gra.s.s for traces of further evidence. In the last few weeks, he had been trying to create descriptive nicknames for each deputy in hopes that it would bring them closer together and help him, Walton, tell the fellows apart. "Loon" and "Red Man" had caught on quickly and tipped him that these aliases must be psychologically and/or physically descriptive; if they were mildly insulting as well, the humorous aspect further aided the men's memories. The head deputy imagined that his subordinates bandied secret nicknames for him as well. "Sarge." "His Majesty." He wondered if they had conversations about him. They must. Aside from alcohol, tobacco, gambling, wh.o.r.es and a taste for mindless violence, what else did they have in common but Phail Walton? Often at night, as they bivouacked under the stars, he pretended to sleep, even committing counterfeit snores so that he might hear what they said about him. He'd recruited them from everywhere. b.u.ms, mostly. Drunks. Criminals. Men "on the lam." While they suffered in steadfastness, loyalty, courage and obedience, they were cheap and easy to replace.

Look here, Ambrose called. Tracks go this a way. Peers like he made off with one of these fellers' horses. Stole the guns and this one's boots. Look how little his feet is. Like girl feet.

Add thievery to the list, Walton said. Mount up!

Shouldn't we bury these fellows here? Loon asked.

Shall I describe a certain pervert? Walton said. We're in pursuit? Besides, I think our last two grave-digging volunteers have joined their fellow deserters. I'm onto that "scam" and we're fast losing men.

But it ain't Christian, Loon persisted. I was brung up to bury folks. My daddy was a gravedigger and my granddaddy before him was too and my great-granddaddy and all my uncles and so forth was. My brothers was and one tomboy sister a bull-d.y.k.e. We all gravediggers is what I'm saying. We dig good ditches and privies, too. So I'm jest making a point. You got a man with a talent, me, it's a dang shame not to let him exercise his G.o.d-give gifts. What you think there, there, you, n.i.g.g.e.r-what's ye name agin?

Ooh, Mister Walton, Ambrose sneered, I agrees with the white fellers. He glared at them, one by one. Loon with his missing ear. Onan stepping from the bunker, smoking a cigarette. An as-yetun-nicknamed deputy picking his teeth and on down the line.

Why don't we jest ignore the heat and spend a hour digging giant holes to stick these dead strangers in? the second-in-command snided. And then why don't we climb in this here smelly-a.s.s bunker and sang a few hymns, too? Recite some Bible scriptures? Sang Christmas carols?

The deputies were shamed.

Walton gave his dark-skinned lieutenant a fond, thankful look, and the two men smiled at one another with unabashed collegiality.

Mount up, Walton called, but everybody had already.

5.

THE MOB.

EVENING AT LAST IN OLD TEXAS. THE PARCHED OAKS LINING THE street. The dry throats of whippoorwills. The ladies of the town in their mourning color numbly lugging pails of water uphill from the well to fight fires arisen from cinders that combust upon landing like flies raised from h.e.l.l. One elderly woman collapses in the street and, spilling her water, begins to wail. A younger woman takes up the buckets and totters back down to the bottom where buzzards hop off and where, flat under a bristle of scrub brush across the tracks, a wild cat ragged in its coat of dust waits, dying of thirst, twitching with the ray bees.