Read the Moonshine War (1969) Online
Authors: Elmore Leonard
They had come out to watch.
They had lost their stills because he had not given up his whiskey. Now they had come to see it taken from him.
Son turned from the window. He sat on the floor with his back to the wall, in this room where he was born and where he had slept almost every night for the past four years. He felt tired and his head ached. He hadn't slept more than an hour. He hadn't eaten since yesterday supper, though he wasn't hungry. He sat in the bedroom with his back against the wall and began wondering what in hell he was doing here, getting shot at, putting on a show for his neighbors.
That's the fact of it, Son thought. Whether they are up there watching or not anywhere in sight, what you're doing is putting on a show. Showing off. It's your whiskey and nobody can take it. So they tell how you never gave up and somebody says well, where is he now? And they say, he's buried, where do you think? Buried? You mean they killed him? Of course they killed him. Then he was awful dumb not to give up, wasn't he?
Well, he was brave.
Well, some call it brave, some call it stupid.
The only thing Son was sure of, he was tired. Sitting in the upstairs room looking at the bed--he'd like to get in it and pull the covers up over his head and stay there. But he had to decide something, what was brave an
d w
hat was stupid. How he wanted people to talk about him. Or whether he cared or not.
Bud Blackwell and his dad and Virgil Worthman and a few other men were in one group. They squatted and sat in the grass at the slope of the ridge, where the hill fell away in a sweep of weeds and brush toward the pasture. They squinted in the noon glare and gazed around at the other groups, and occasionally one of them would get fidgety and rise up to stretch and spit tobacco. It seemed like it would be something to watch but, Jesus, there wasn't much happening.
The other groups felt about the same. One boy said if they didn't start something soon he was going home and pick bugs off his tobacco. Some others were getting hungry. They should have packed lunches, they said. A couple of the men had moonshine jars they were passing around, but nobody, it looked like, had thought to bring water. Somebody said, well, there's Son's pump right down there, and the ones near him got a kick out of the remark. Bob Cronin, from Marlett Feed & Seed, said he had a tarp in the truck; maybe they could rig up a tent as a couple of old ladies--fanning themselves with pieces of cardboard--looke
d t
hey were about to pass out. Finally they sent a boy over to the Worthman place to bring some water back.
A man would look out over the pasture toward the Martin place and give his opinio
n o
f the situation. Son was treed and there wasn't anything he could do about it.
Virgil Worthman said, he couldn't get out by the road down the holler, they'd laid trees across it to box him in.
Bud Blackwell said, down the holler? Shit fire, look at his truck. He couldn't drive it over to the privy.
What the federals ought to do was get up on the slope back of the house, light a hay bale, and drop it on the roof. Burn out.
Drop it on corrugated tin, yes, sir, that was a swell idea cause everybody knew how tin burned.
It didn't look like any tin roof.
If it didn't then somebody needed glasses. No, the only way was to rush him or starve him out.
How long did anybody figure that would take? Son didn't look like he ate much anyway.
They'd have to rush him and that would be the show to see.
Somebody asked who had seen the Bengal Lancers picture and they got to discussing tortures, like sticking bamboo slivers under a boy's fingernails to get him to tell where something was. Maybe they'd do it to Son if they'd seen the picture.
The closemouthed son of a bitch, you could hardly get to tell whether he thought it was going to rain or snow.
Somebody said, hey, look, and they all looked toward the house. No, over there coming out of the trees--tiny little ant figure
s r
unning across the pasture, circling wide to get on a line behind the barn, four of them running in a single file, hurrying hunch-shouldered, the first one gradually gaining distance on the others. Everybody was watching the four men now. They heard the thin report of a rifle from the direction of the Martin house. They heard a muffled echoing report up in the sandstone rocks and they saw the first man go down and lay there, my God, dropped in his tracks from a good three hundred yards. They watched the other three men stop, looking toward the house, run back as fast as they could to the cover of the trees. They were hidden from sight before anybody on the ridge moved or looked around. One man whistled softly and shook his head. He had a funny, startled look on his face. Others stared out at the tiny dark shape lying in the pasture but nobody spoke for a while.
They would look over at the trees, but they didn't expect to see anybody come out of there again in the daylight.
Lowell Holbrook had got a ride out in Bob Cronin's stake truck. Lowell was the first one to notice Frank Long. He hadn't seen him come; it must have been while they were watching the four men; but there he was. His car was parked just in from where the road came out of the trees into the open and he was standing by the door looking out over the hood, studying the Martin place and letting his gaze drift over to the wooded slope, getting the lay of the land. Lowell wasn't sure wha
t t
o do, whether he should go over and say anything to him or not. Finally he didn't have to do anything.
Bud Blackwell saw Long. As soon as he did, he walked over with Virgil Worthman and a group came trailing behind.
Long threw them off balance. He nodded and said, "I've been looking all over for you. I was out to your place and Worthman's before I learned everybody was out here watching." Long looked out at the pasture, then let his gaze move over the cars and groups of people in the clearing.
"Yes, I see a crowd of people watching, but I don't see nobody helping."
Bud shifted his weight, staring narrow-eyed at Frank Long. He wasn't sure what to say now, though he had part of it in mind and said, "It would look to me like you're in the wrong part of the woods. How come you're not leading your men?"
"I'll give you a simple answer. Because they're not my men any more. They quit me to do it themselves and told me to go home or get put under." Long paused. He had them, they were staring hard at him and he felt only a little tenseness inside. "You wonder what I'm talking about, all right, I'll tell you. Those people over in the trees aren't federal agents at all. See, I wanted to do this job by myself; so I hired some boys, like deputies you might say."
Bud Blackwell and the others were listening, not moving their eyes from him.
"You can understand I got a job to do, to the whiskey stills. Now then, I figured if I didn't call in any more federal people I'd get all the credit myself. That was bad thinking. But the worst part, I picked the wrong deputies and they want to shoot everybody they see. Well, I got to do a job, as I said. But not if it means shooting at honest men trying to make a living. You follow me?"
If they followed, no one was admitting it. They were letting Frank Long talk.
"I'm here to tell you," Long said, "I made a mistake of judgment. Those people after Son are cutthroat killers, every one of them, and you're standing here watching while they try to murder one of your own boys."
He wanted a short silence, to give his last words time to sink in. But Mr. Worthman spoke up. He said, "You're telling us this. A week ago you tell us you'll bust every still in the county if Son doesn't hand over his whiskey."
"Because," Frank Long said simply, "I thought it would be the way to avoid bloodshed."
"Our old uncle shed blood that very night," Mr. Worthman said.
Long nodded solemnly. "I know, and that's when I began to learn these people are killers and I'd made a mistake. A man can make a mistake."
"He surely can," Bud Blackwell said, "and you made your big one coming here thinking we'd help Son Martin. You want us to run th
e b
ad boys off so you can get down to bustin' stills again."
"No, sir--"
"So you can go after Son's whiskey yourself."
"No, I'm telling you the truth. If you don'
t h
elp Son right now, they'll kill him." "And you won't ever find his whiskey." "I'm thinking of him."
"Well, bein' you're so thoughtful," Bud Blackwell said, "ought'n you be down there with him?"
It took a couple of seconds for Virgil Worthman to catch on; then he couldn't help smiling. "Sure, he's a friend of Son's--how come he ain't helping him?"
"That's what I mean," Bud said. "He comes up here, says he sees a crowd of people watching, nobody helping. Well, I know one son of a bitch is going to help."
Lowell Holbrook watched them take hold of Long, a bunch of them crowding around so that Long was hidden for a minute. Then they had both of Long's arms twisted behind and were running toward the slope of the ridge. He was holding back, but not fighting; he was trying to say something. "Let me take my car down!" he said. God, thinking of his car.
They pushed him down the slope and he ran stumbling and then rolled aways, losing his hat and getting his suit covered with dust and briars.
He stood on the slope looking up, brushing at one sleeve. "Let me get my suitcase," he called out. "All right?"
Virgil Worthman had gotten his shotgun fro
m t
he car and was aiming it at Long. "You'll get some thing else," he said, " 'less you start a-running." Long turned after a moment and started down the hill, brushing at his clothes.
Lowell watched him, thinking about the suitcase and the BAR rifle inside.
Chapter
Fourteen.
Aaron's shoulder was against the grain sacks, his Winchester pointing out the kitchen window. He looked over as Son came down the steps carrying the Springfield.
"You see who's coming?"
"Frank Long."
"How come you didn't shoot him? I 'spected to see him go down about at the stock pen." "He's coming to join our side."
"Tha's nice," Aaron said.
Son opened the door as Long reached the porch. Through the field glasses he had picked out Long on the ridge and had watched them gang him and throw him down the hill. He said, "Watch the steps."
Long strolled in looking around the room, at the shattered windows and bullet scars in the walls and cupboards. He was in no hurry. Finally, when he looked at Son, he grinned and said, "How you doing, buddy?"
Son almost smiled. "Not working out like you thought, is it?"
"Buddy, I couldn't stand to look at that man any more. I come to help you run him off your land."
"Those people up there"--Son nodded toward the ridge--"they wouldn't help you, uh?"
"They got funny ideas, those people." "Dr. Taulbee, he threw you out, too, I guess."
"We parted company when I learned he was nothing more than a bootlegger."
"You mean when he told you he'd have you shot if you didn't start running."
"Something like that," Long admitted. "But as you can see I didn't run, did I? No, sir, I've stayed to help you beat him."
Son watched him. "You've stayed for more than that."
"Well, you might say I've stayed to protect my interest."
"Your interest in what?"
"That's right. I haven't told you we're going to be partners." Long kept looking at Son with his easy, almost smiling expression. "We might as well be. Since I know where the whiskey's hid."
As Aaron said, "Now look-it what's coming--" Son turned to the door and as he saw it--the car bouncing and swerving coming fast down the slope from the ridge--he heard Frank Long say something and then almost shout it, "That's my car!"
It looked like the same one, coming dead on toward the house, cutting through the pastur
e w
eeds with a wispy trail of dust rising behind. They could hear the rattle of it and the sound of the engine, then the high whine of rifle reports as the car reached the yard, swerved toward the barn, and came around in a wide circle to pull in with the driver's side next to the porch. Lowell Holbrook looked up through the side window, his hands gripping the wheel like he was afraid to let go. Son got him out of there and Frank Long got the suitcase from the back seat. Once they were in the house the rifle fire stopped.
Lowell still looked scared, even as Frank Long patted him on the shoulder and said, "Boy, I think you got a tip coming."
"I don't know," Lowell said. "I don't believe it, but I guess I'm here."
Long had the suitcase on the floor now, like a boy pulling open a birthday present. "You sure are here," he said. "You and Big Sweetheart."
Son took a seat, resting his arm on the table, watching Lowell and Frank as he lit a cigarette. The boy had a good reason for coming or else he wouldn't be here. So there was no sense in asking dumb questions when it appeared the answer was in the suitcase. When he finally saw what it was--as Frank took out the parts of the BAR and began fitting them together--Son waited.