Smonk or Widow Town Part 9

McKissick? Smonk blew a ray of smoke. Naw. That one's slick. His only failure is he bucks his own nature. He'll come at us tomorrow.

You want me- Naw. Jest go on finish ye story.

Well, me and my daddy never had no easy time with the other. He was a mean drunk that was drunk all the time and I couldn't do nothing to please him. Nothing but leave. Which I done at the age of seven or eight. Went off and grew up to be a decent young church-going Negro. Didn't mind my lot which seemed like it was gone be picking cane. Anyway I had a aunt would write me letters and give me the family news. I never answered em but they'd find me here and there. One of em turned up in Alabama where I'd married a gal and we was fixing to start us a family. That was the letter that said Daddy was finally dying of the cancer.

Telegram, warn't it?

It was. I didn't know it was such a thing. The wagon creaked as Ike shifted his weight. The bugs were at it again.

I killed three horses and rurned another one getting up to St. Louis, Ike went on. And when I did I made a beeline to see Daddy straight away. Hadn't laid eyes on him in twenty-two years. I remember he was in the back room at the doctor's house. He didn't even know me at first. Had a hole eat out of his neck. Weighted about seventy pounds. I took off my hat and said who I was and he said come closer. When I leaned in to hear, he said, I still can't believe you traded that got-dern shark tooth.

Smonk began to cough and coughed for a long time.

When he finished, the bugs had gone quiet again.

It was the river, Smonk said. That I dreamed of. It was up in the tree branches it was so high.

Go to sleep, said Ike.

In Smonk's house McKissick was kicking through doors and belly-crawling down halls. Where the h.e.l.l was E.O.? He'd fired dozens of times, at threatening lamps and figurines and at his own gaping reflection in windows and mirror-gla.s.ses. He'd found a room with twenty-five Model '94 thirty-thirty rifles racked on the walls, drawers of pistols and stacks of ammunition.

But no E.O.

He smelled something burning and, reloading, hurried through the hall peppered with his own bullets and down the curving staircase. In a low corner of the kitchen, smoke was leaking from a small door he hadn't yet seen, an aperture so squat it seemed designed for a child or dwarf. There was a string going under the door and he saw the string had been tight at one point, tripped no doubt by his own foot. He approached the door and tapped the planks with his pistol barrel, smoke seeping from the top of the door and through its knotholes and slits. He touched the hot wood with his knuckle and used his pistol barrel to unfasten the rawhide thong. When the door swung open a cloud of smoke belched out. He fanned his face and coughed, crying from heat, and bent to peer below the smoke, down the earthen steps, where in the hazy gloom lay piles of gunpowder bags and sticks of TNT in boxes and crates of nitroglycerine vials, some already on fire.

s.h.i.t, he said.

He fell backward over a chair and scrambled through the door. He crossed his forearms before his head and crashed through Smonk's picture window and shutters and rolled over the porch with wood dander and splinters of gla.s.s in his hair. Clinging to his pistol, he slid over broken panes and off the porch and landed running as the a.r.s.enal in Smonk's root cellar began its explosions, shaking the ground and the tops of trees and catapulting the porch columns over the weeds. The house disintegrating in all directions in blinding flame and gla.s.s and screaming nails and the iron dome rising in the air.

McKissick landed on his side near the cobblestone road and rolled as a sink buried itself in the gra.s.s by his head. Burning furniture splintered on the ground and a mattress bounced and the dome landed upside down on the corn crib and settled in the fire like an enormous iron helmet cast down by some fireG.o.d of old. McKissick looked behind him where a cedar had burst into flames and then the next caught and the next and next like matchheads down the line.

He rolled in the gra.s.s, barely missed by a sideboard landing in splinters and the bottles of liquor inside casting currents of blue flame in every direction. He scrabbled away batting fire from his arms and legs. He looked mutely for the horse or his partner as stars landed around him. He was deaf. The back of his neck was blistered. He smelled burning hair. When he whistled for the horse smoke came out. The mule trotted past Smonk's well, and the bailiff saw a lovely burning shingle flapping down toward the animal's back, where the fireworks he'd bought in Old Texas sat in a bundle on top of their supplies.

No, he said.

Someone tugged his shirt. He looked but no one was there. Something clipped his ear and he understood the idiot blacksmith was shooting at him and he rolled behind the sink. When he peered over the iron, Gates was nowhere in sight.

McKissick's hearing was returning in one ear, the right. Maybe the left. He was black as a minstrel, tatters of smoking cloth dripping from his arms. Something hard in his gullet. His hair burnt off. Blisters already forming on his neck and the bald back of his head.

Where the h.e.l.l was E.O.? He found his pistol smoking on the ground and fetched it and hit himself in the head with the heel of his hand to clear his thinking as he hurried toward the barn, his boots dissolving into tarry footprints as he ran. Metal eyelet marks burned into his skin.

The hayloft was on fire as he stood in the bay door looking. Animals screaming in their stalls. Burning chickens batting past. It might have occurred to him to set the larger animals loose but at that moment somebody jumped him from behind and hit him in the head. He rolled and put up his hands and caught the Winchester's forearm in one fist and barrel in the other as the blacksmith used his weight to force it toward his throat.

Wait, fool, he grunted. It's me. Ye partner.

Oh. Gates hesitated, then climbed off. Sorry, he said. I thought ye was a n.i.g.g.e.r.

h.e.l.l naw. I'm jest all burnt up.

I wondered why ye head was smoking.

McKissick squinted down at his side where fresh blood ran from his wound. Look here what ye done. I'm glad I only left ye a few cartridges. And gladder yet yer a terrible shot.

Sorry for the mistake. Gates extended his hand and helped McKissick to his feet and suddenly McKissick was pounding his own chest.

Dern, he said. He made gagging noises.

What is it? Ye heart muscle?

Naw. It's Smonk's got-dern eye. I reckon I swallered it.

The hay was burning high, fire licking along their legs, and they walked to the edge to watch from a safe distance the barn consumed. The not entirely unpleasant odor of burning cow.

Did ye kill him? Gates asked.

Not that I know of.

Did ye see him?

Yeah. We played a hand of rook and drunk a root beer sody.

Oh. Gates put his hands in his pockets and took them out again. Where to next, then?

McKissick turned. Try to find the horse first. That mule too. See what we can save. Then back to town. Meet him there.

They began to walk away from the fire, the bailiff stepping gingerly in his bare feet. What 'll ye take for ye shoes? he asked.

You can war em all the way home if ye agree to stop and visit that wh.o.r.e up the way. Git a taste.

Fine. We ought to go back by there anyways.

They shook on it, and Gates sat in the dirt and removed his shoes, well-worn suedes with yarn for lacing. He handed them up and watched McKissick pull them on using the side flaps.

Another, smaller explosion boomed behind them, the fire raging through the trees and the fields of sugarcane popping as they incinerated. Gates hung his rifle in the crook of his arm and they walked. He decided that if he killed McKissick now he'd have to sop around in his innards to find the eye, which didn't seem too pleasant, judging from the smell leaking out. Maybe let him move his bowels before murdering him. He cleared his throat.

Can I git a ration of bullets?

h.e.l.l naw.

A mile away they found the singed, shaken horse in a copse of ashen trees and McKissick spoke gentle words into its ear and within minutes he'd mounted up and helped his partner on and they rode west, behind them the crackle of fire and pop of wood. If the wind shifted it might overtake them but it looked as if a fire had burned through here already. Land so desolate, the old song went, that people used to have babies just for the food. McKissick's skin was scorched and blistered and tatters of clothing still clung to raw patches on his arms and legs. Except for the blacksmith's shoes and a crude loin cloth fashioned from a bandanna, he was naked. Gates was barefoot with his pants rolled halfway up his calves.

Presently they came upon the pack mule which had leapt in a dry pond bed and rolled in the dust to douse its fiery burden. While the fireworks had exploded and the other goods were smashed or scattered hither and yon, the animal itself was usable and the blacksmith accepted the reins and hoisted himself on without a saddle. The mule seemed eager to get the h.e.l.l away which improved their pace. Stuck to the mule's mottled hair Gates found a small package wrapped in brown paper which he tossed to McKissick.

Willie, he said.

As all the balloon needed now was the boy's sweet breath to fill it, it could have been the bailiff's heart.

8.

THE REDEEMER.

BEFORE DAWN, ON THE LORD'S DAY, MRS. TATE CRIMPED DEAD Elmer's pants cuffs the way she preferred them worn and smoothed the pants at the k.n.o.bs of his knees and folded his hands which slid back as before. She returned with twine and tied the b.u.t.tonholes together.

She shooed a fly. She puffed the shoulders of his Sunday coat and wondered should she have dressed him in his postmaster outfit instead. She returned from upstairs with his lucky handkerchief (which he'd forgotten the day of the trial) and tucked it into his pocket, the irony not lost on her. With her flyswatter she pursued and killed flies for the better part of half an hour, all the while talking to him, accusing him of never being a believer. It was the most important thing in my life, she said. My faith. And how could the man who used my own bed not cherish that.

I cherished it, he would have lied.

You cherished cherishing those girls, she told him.

He said nothing. He had a towel over his face. She plucked a string of her own hair from his sleeve.

In times, she said, when G.o.d's burden weighs us down, in His mercy He gives us leave. Such was the leave He allowed Lot's daughters who plied their father with drink and went in and laid with him to preserve their line. And Lot without guilt. Fat, blind, drunk, happy. His shamed daughters going into his cave. The eldest first. Mrs. Tate popped a fly out of the air. Men are so simple, she said. Get them drunk, satisfy them, and they sleep. It's the women who lie awake.

From outside she heard a gunshot. She went to the window and lowered her veil and peered into the night. The guard came trotting up and shrugged. Her gun had gone off again. Mrs. Tate let the drapes fall and raised her veil. She returned to her husband's side and took his hand and told him she was sorry about last Friday. How she'd been cold to him when it was his turn to go see that young Hester Hobbs. You appeared properly burdened by it, she said. Didn't even seem excited to go which is all I or any of us could ask for. Her so young, so pretty, and our need so necessary. And you not even eager to get out of the house. Pretending so well. And I was cold to you. Because I knew you wanted to go. You asked me to bring you a cup of water and I got the water and set it down so hard it spilled. Go, I said. Just go.

She looked at his shoulders and swatted a fly dead. And off you went. Walking slowly at first. I watched you out the window as your steps got faster and faster and you were almost running you wanted to get away from here so bad. Away from me.

She adjusted the cloth over his face and fluffed his handkerchief. Men are so simple, she said.

On the Lord's Day, the Christian Deputies rested. Walton ordered his men to do very little about their camp other than pray and meditate or use their magnifying gla.s.ses to practice reading their tiny Bibles. He saluted the troops in their studious poses and retired to his tent and fastened the ties and attached his mosquito netting and removed his boots and polished them to spec and then reclined on his collapsible cot to pray. He fell instantly asleep and like a succubus from a fever dream the wh.o.r.e-child Evavangeline a.s.sembled herself from the air and sans pants climbed upon his chest like a degenerate muse and attached her steaming v.u.l.v.a to his neck. The dream was so real he had an emission and woke with a yelp, fumbling for a handheld piergla.s.s so he might check his neck for "hickey" marks.

Mister Walton?

Deputy Ambrose. From outside.

Walton cleaned himself and donned his pants and hurried out, becoming entangled in the mosquito netting in the process and holding his boots. I thought I gave orders, he said.

Ambrose nodded toward the south. When Walton didn't seem to understand he pointed.

Stepping into his boots, left, then right, Walton followed his lieutenant's ebony finger over a series of fields and beheld a vista of distant, blue trees.

Lovely, Walton said. Indeed. What poultice to my chapped soul is Thy handiwork, Lord.

Not the scenery. Ambrose handed the leader a telescope. Look thew this.

He saw two deputies in full uniform and with all their equipment, creeping through the sugarcane toward the trees, leading their horses.

Deserters, he said.

Ambrose straightened his posture. You want me to git em?

Please.

There ye go, boss. It's about time. The Negro drew his rifle from its sheath and levered a cartridge into the chamber and half-c.o.c.ked the hammer and took off his boots and left his hat spinning on his pommel and vanished into the cane. Walton located the deserters with the scope and tried to find Ambrose in among the "bamboo-like" plants. But his lieutenant's stealth did the deputy proud and Walton thought he'd give the Negro a commendation upon his return. Yes. A spot of incentive to soothe good "ole" Ambrose, grumpy as he'd been of late.

A gunshot startled Walton from his revery. He searched the field and landed his gla.s.s upon Deputy Ambrose bursting from the cane leaves. Behind his rifle, Ambrose approached one of the deserters who raised his hands in surrender and began to backpedal and beg. Excellent, Walton thought. He would order that deserter horsewhipped, by gum. That would put the fear of G.o.d into any future deserter, wouldn't it?

Now Deputy Ambrose had the barrel of his rifle in the second deserter's mouth. Quite effective. Measured savagery indeed a crucial ingredient of G.o.d's most contradictory design, Man.

Then Deputy Ambrose fired. The deserter's head burst open at its crown, the stump of its neck smoking. Ambrose shot again.

My Lord! Walton cried, nearly dropping his telescope, but its shivering globe next revealed Ambrose pursuing the second deserter, already shot once and attempting to crawl off in a piteous manner. The dark deputy approached the fellow from the rear in sideways dancy steps and put two bullets in the back of his head.

You ought to kill that crazy n.i.g.g.e.r, Loon said, peering through his own telescope. Fore he shoots the rest of us.

Negro, said Walton.

On the Lord's Day Evavangeline rode the speckle-legged pony from the orphanage north. Ranging east, for a few hours, then back due north. Her gut pulling her clear as gravity. She was aware that the boy from the orphanage had broken his promise about looking after the other younguns and was following her on foot. A couple of times she heard him and once glimpsed his face peering from around the trunk of a tree like a c.o.o.n. She would urge the pony to a run so they could ditch the boy, but each time, within an hour after slowing down, she perceived the h.o.r.n.y little d.i.c.kens still back there, tailing her.

She thought it was cute.

Presently she began to hear a dog barking far in front of her. It relieved her in a way she didn't know needed relieving-she'd been aware of something lately and that something was Where were the dogs? Normally they were everywhere, two or three following her, trying to rut on her leg. But it had been weeks since she'd seen a live dog. Back in Shreveport? Anxious now for this one, she wiggled her hips and the pony clopped to a run over the dry earth.

Closer she got she realized the dog was in an ill temper. She swung down off the pony for she'd sensed a man too somewhere about and so she left the pony feeding on crabgra.s.s and stepped inside the trees off the path she'd been following and walked hidden that way toward what sounded like a dogfight.

Suddenly it was a fellow behind her, a gun barrel between her shoulders. A quick hand s.n.a.t.c.hed her own firearms and pushed her along. She was impressed at the economy. Not many could get the drop on her.

Don't look back back back, he said.

She didn't and he prodded her along his barrel. She tried whistling, hoping the pony would hear and come help, but he kicked her in the seat of her pants. Hesh, he said. Next sound I'll bop ye in yer brain brain brainpan.

He'd faded a few steps back, too far behind to be jumped, and the cagey b.a.s.t.a.r.d had maneuvered them back to the path so there were fewer trees she could try to scale. For the time being, she gave up and tried to sense out his leaning, boy or girl, to see would that give her an angle.

They came presently to a decrepit woodshed wrapped in chains, the door banging and rattling from inside as the dog clawed and scratched and headb.u.t.ted the wood.

Tell me ye name name, said the stranger behind her.

She told him.

That's a perty name perty name perty name perty name. You a wh.o.r.e?

Naw.

Are too. I can see the way ye walk. Wiggling wiggling wiggling like a little wh.o.r.e's a.s.s, wh.o.r.e's a.s.s.

The dog was growling and scratching the door. The gun barrel touched her spine, urging her forward. This here savage one is Lazarus the Redeemer the Redeemer the Redeemer, he said.

It's a d.a.m.n mad-dog ain't it.

He's my good boy. Behind her, her captor sighed out a breath of air. But I didn't say ye could talk did I say did I say did I say did I say?