Black Water (33 page)

Whatever the Hell was goin’ on, he was in the thick of it—layin’ on his belly with his hands clasped over the back of his head. He’d jerked his arms up as he was goin’ down and forgot all about the wrist chain, and its rollin’ up his face damn near took his nose off. He looked to the dark woods, where the blast had come from, wonderin’ what was gonna happen next. Then, he heard footsteps off to his left, somethin’ crunchin’ through the woods, raised his head just enough to peek back over his left shoulder, and watched the foggy image of a man slowly coalesce in the scant campfire light. He was big, tall, probly mid-thirtyish, and smackin’ on a mouthful o’ gum like he was paid by the chaw. He filled out a pair o’ coveralls cinched tightly over a denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up, carryin’ a heavy .50 caliber Sharps rifle easily in his big right hand. Sharps were easy to recognize—more of a shoulder-mounted cannon than a rifle. Hub used to have one of his own.

The big man was followed by another fella. Balding, potbellied, and short. He had a nasty scar over his right eye that cocked the brow cattywampus. His arms were slung out to the side like he was flyin’ or glidin’, like an eagle. Or more appropriately, a buzzard. He stirred up the dust, scuddin’ his boots across the ground as if makin’ like a locomotive. But he wasn’t goin’
chugga chugga chugga
or
choo choo choo
as much as
shwssshhh shwssshhh shwssshhh
. He entered the camp and
shwssshhh shwssshhh
-ed past Hub, givin’ him little more than a sidewaysie glance. He dipped his left arm while raisin’ his right and circled the fire. Unlike his murderous partner, he wore pants with suspenders, and under them was a bright red, long-sleeved shirt emblazoned with a home-sewn “S” insignia. Also sewn into the back at the shirt’s neck was a dishtowel, hangin’ down his back, flappin’ in his wake. The fat son of a bitch thought he was Superman, skippin’ around the campfire like a two-hundred-twenty-pound fairy. The fact o’ the matter was, he’d probly just murdered Ball or one o’ the Seminoles.

The Big One laid the Sharps up agin the log, stepped up on the same, overlookin’ what was left o’ Two Dogs’ carcass sportin’ a very neat little hole situated perfectly ‘tween his eyes. What used to be the back of his head and brains was splayed out over a wide arc in the dirt. The Big One clapped his hands together, threw up his arms in victory, and declared, “Dead Center! God Damn, we snuck up on Seminole trackers! Godddddd Damn!” He spat out the wad o’ gum and pulled a pack o’ Black Jack from a front pocket, unwrapped two fresh sticks, popped ’em in his mouth, chomped on ’em like there wasn’t no tomorrow, and stuck the pack back in his pocket.

The other one, Superman, finally
shwssshhh
-ed up on the other side o’ the log with his legs spread, crossed his arms under his flabby tits, looked down at One Ear’s body, and hissed. What little that remained of the left side of One Ear’s head was badly mangled. He would henceforth be known as No Ear.

The big fella tight-roped across the log to the caped Kryptonian’s end, perused the cranial damage, punched his cohort on the arm, and cackled, “You missed! Got ‘im in the eye. He he he.”

Finally, out o’ the dark rolled the answer to Hub’s question to what’d happened. There’d originally been three sittin’ on the log. He’d only heard one combined blast, and unless one o’ the two loonies lookin’ over the log at their handiwork had sighted-up and fired from both hands, there had to be a third shooter.

And there it was.

Raeleen—in a dress that coulda form-fit a whiskey barrel, the hem fringed with dried mud—trucked into the firelight like a pissed off Marjorie Main lookin’ for a carousing Wallace Beery. She had a pistol in a holster belted around her waist and luggin’ a rifle in each hand.

Hub rolled into a sittin’ position and declared, “Raeleen! Boy-howdy, am I glad t’see you!”

She strode past him with a hateful glare. “You just keep yr’mouth shut ‘n don’t move!” She stumped through the camp, straight to the spot on the log where Dexter Ball’s butt had recently resided, and looked over the edge. One Ear and Two Dogs’ spirits were already in the Happy Hunting Grounds sipping coffee. Their arms and legs flung out. Between ‘em lay Dexter Ball, and as Raeleen had hoped, still alive and scared shitless. Both his hands were gripped tightly around his blood-gushin’ throat.

Raeleen set the rifles against the log by the Sharps, nodded over her shoulder toward Hub, and told The Big One, “Keep yr’eye on him.” Then she put one foot on the log, braced her elbow on her knee, and leaned into Ball. “I’m gonna letchu bleed t’death f’th’nasty things you said ‘bout me.”

He wasn’t listenin’. He had more pressing things on his mind.

She clenched her teeth and stepped over the log, straddled his gut, planting her feet ‘longside his hips, reached down, grabbed him by his blood-soaked collar, jerked him up, her nose to his, and screamed at him. “LOOK AT ME, YOU SON OF A BITCH! I wantchu t’know who killed ya! Baboon’s Butt? I’ll show you a baboon’s butt!” She shoved him off and his back thudded to the ground. “Bastard!”

He still had a death grip on his gushing throat. She pressed her dirty right boot to his sternum for leverage, reached down and pried his hands from his neck. “No use draggin’ it out, you dumb shit, just let it bleed!” Blood spurted in florid jets from the wound. His hands shot to his neck the instant she let go. She jerked his shirttail from his pants and used it to wipe her blood-spattered hands. Then stood up and looked over her shoulder at Hub. “I don’t reckon he’ll get that big permotion now.” Then she turned back to Ball. “I sure wish you’da broughtchur Brownie.”

He still wasn’t listenin’.

She flipped her hands to the other bodies and told the boys, “Search ’em.” She stepped over the log and started in Hub’s direction, then stopped and snapped her fingers. She turned back, and while The Big One and Superman went through the Indians’ pockets, she stuck her own hand into Ball’s front pants pocket and pulled out the rubber-banded money wad. She tossed it in the air, caught it, kissed it, stuffed it in her own pocket, and told Hub, “He can’t buy ice water where he’s goin’.” She stepped over the log and stood by the fire.

Hub still felt like he was part of a Barnum and Bailey sideshow and said, “I wasn’t expectin’ ya, but I’m awful glad t’see ya.” He started to stand up.

“Did I tell you t’get up?” she asked, jabbin’ a loaded, pointin’ finger at his face. “No, I didn’t. And if you ever b’lieved anything in yer life, b’lieve this. You don’t even know how glad you
ain’t
t’see me. Not a little bit. But whatchu are…is a lyin’, good-fer-nothin’ sack o’ shit! Yer wond’rin’ why I ain’t killed you, too.”

“Okay then,” he said, almost upp’ty, “why ain’tcha?”

He’d tried bein’ friendly with the bitch, and all he got for it was a smart-mouthin’. She used to be his God Damn wife walkin’ behind him and keepin’ her God Damned mouth shut, and he wasn’t about to let her talk to him like that! The possibility that maybe she wasn’t the same docile little doe she’d been thirty years ago hadn’t entered his brain yet.

“You’d do better right now,” she warned, “while m’blood’s up, t’keep yer yap shut ‘n change yer smartass attitude.”

Dang! She was doin’ it again. The woman who’d ratted him out to the badly leakin’ son of a bitch on the other side o’ the log. “What happened t’Jesus’n th’new husband?”

She just chuckled.

“You got awful hard in yer old age.”

“I had a long time t’get that way,” she replied, and then, “‘n’ for half-a-hunerd-thousand dollars, I’cn get a lot harder.”

The boys’d retrieved Ball’s and the Indians’ guns (Ball’d been so engrossed with his condition, the thought o’ pullin’ the .45 at his hip’d never entered his mind), went through their pockets, and stood together on the log to watch the blood bubble and gurgle out o’ Ball’s throat, his mouth, dribble down the side of his face, and halo at the back of his head faster’n the ground could soak it up.

The Big One’s nostrils flared. “Smell ‘at?”

The caped one’s nostrils flared—pulled it down the back of his throat and nodded.

“Iron. Blood’s mostly iron, ya know. You like it?”

Superman scrunched his shoulders as if to say he could take it or leave it. The smell of iron rich blood was obviously a poor second to flyin’.

“You think she missed?” The Big One whispered out the corner of his mouth.

“I dunno,” Superman whispered back and snuck a look over his shoulder at their rotund leader. “He made ‘er awful mad with’at ugly baboon comment. She mighta wanted it like this. She’s a pretty good shot.”

“Is he dead yet?” Raeleen asked, shuttin’ ’em up.

Ball’s hands had lost their grip and crumpled off to the side, but some little blood still pulsed from the gaping hole in his throat.

“Notchet,” The Big One said. “Want me t’stick ‘im?”

“No, let ‘im go.” Then she chuckled. “He might be prayin ‘r somethin.”

Superman looked at the body and chuckled hisself. “He better hurry it up then.”

“Mama?” The Big One said, “I got mine right smack ‘twixt th’eyes.”

Superman glared at him, knowing the comment was aimed at him and his screwin’ up the shot to One Ear.

“I saw it. Don’t gloat,” Raeleen reprimanded. “Remember what I toldja ‘bout gloaters comin’ t’nasty ends.”

“Yeah. Nasty ends,” Superman said.

“Didja get their guns?” she asked. They pointed to the confiscated weaponry resting at the far end o’ the log. “What ‘bout th’money Ball give ’em?”

“Got it,” The Big One said, pattin’ his pocket.

She picked up her rifle and walked around the fire towards Hub. “Didja split it up? Give yer brother half?” She wasn’t really asking. She knew he hadn’t.

Superman helt out his hand ‘n wriggled his fingers. The Big One dug his hand in his pocket, pulled out the money, counted out half, handed it over, and whispered, “Ain’t fair. You missed.” He stuffed his half back in his pocket and approached Hub and Raeleen. “That’s him, huh?” he asked, insolently.

Hub started to get up.

“’At’s him,” Raeleen said and pushed the end of her rifle on his shoulder. “Did I tell you t’get up?”

“I wanna see that arm I heard s’much about,” The Big One said.

Hub glared at him.

Raeleen nudged Hub’s shoulder with the end o’ the barrel. “Show ‘im.”

“No! I ain’tchur fuckin’ monkey.”

The boys snickered when Raeleen jabbed him in the forehead with the end of the rifle barrel, imprinting a little donut.

Reluctantly, Hub pulled up his sleeve, revealing the scarred, discolored, and ill-shaped forearm.

“Hoopee-do,” The Big One guffawed. “That ol’ woman really fucked you up!”

The well-fed fella in the Superman getup’s curiosity got the best of him, and he sauntered over with his arms crossed over his soggy chest, Superman-style, spread his fat legs in a John Wayne pose, and squinty-eyed Hub. “He don’t look ‘at tough t’me.”

Calmly, maliciously, The Big One chucked in his two cents. “Bet I’cd take ‘im.”

Hub looked him in the eye while pullin’ his sleeve back down and buttoning the cuff. “Yeah, you might could. But I garandamntee ya you’d be bad damaged when you’s done.”

The Big One smiled at the taunt. “You wanna dance with me?”

Hub helt up his manacled hands. “Take these off ‘n I’ll teach ya some new steps.”

“You ain’t gonna do it now,” Raeleen said, before it got any more heated, and nodded to the log. “Strip them three o’ things we’cn use.”

Superman started for the log, but The Big One continued to look at Hub with rattlesnake eyes. He was in the mood.

Raeleen smacked him on the butt. “Now! Go on.”

He tapped Hub’s leg with the toe of his boot and walked off. His version o’ the last word.

“I take it th’big one’s Harvey,” Hub said after he left.

Raeleen looked at the boys’ backs. “Yeah, Superman’s a little on th’chunky side, but he gets ‘is licks in.”

“Didn’t he usta be Henry?”

“It’s a long story, but for now you’d do good t’remember when he’s got th’cape out, he’s Superman, ‘n when it’s tucked down ‘is shirtneck ‘n he’s wearin ‘is overshirt ‘n glasses, he’s Clark Kent. If ya forget…he’ll be more’n happy t’remind ya.”

Before he’d had his brains turned to mush, Two Dogs had tossed his well-worn denim jacket over the end o’ the log. The Big One, who had become Harvey, was goin’ through the pockets when he pulled out a flask and waggled it in the air. “Lookie lookie lookie! Panther Piss!”

Raeleen, settin’ Indian-style in the dirt beside the fire, wiggled her fingers at him. “Bring it ‘n ‘at bag over here.” Harvey brought the satchel and bottle to her. “Superman,” she called out, motioning him over. They sat on either side of her in a semi-circle with their backs to Hub. Raeleen opened the satchel, got her face too close, and pickled up. “PeeeeeU! Boy-howdy!” She looked back at Hub. “You shit in here?” Hub passed on an explanation. She helt the satchel at arm’s length and fanned the mouth a few times in the attempt to air it out. After a few puffs, she took another whiff. “’At’s a little better. I hope they ain’t nothin’ in here gonna bite me.” She stuck her hand in the bag and pulled out George and Matthew’s revolvers. “Goodies!” She handed one to Harvey. “One fer you.”

“Thank you,” Harvey responded, almost delicately.

“Yer welcome,” she said sweetly and handed the other to Superman. “I know you don’t need it, but he got one, you get one.”

“Thank you.”

“Yer welcome. Keep it as a souvenir o’ th’day ya got rich. Merry Christmas.”

“Ho ho ho,” Superman said and they all chuckled.

Except Hub.

The boys checked the loads like pros. Harvey stuck his in his belt, while Superman put his in his lap. They were a happy, loving family.

A
deadly
, happy, loving family.

“Now,” Raeleen said, shuffling her big butt in preparation. It looked so cute, the family sittin’ around the campfire, the children expectant, their faces all aglow from the fire light, the mother gonna share somethin’ new and exciting, and the father all trussed up like a Christmas Goose.