Blood Rust Chains

by Marco Etheridge

  Now here is where Jeb’s part of the story comes in. Among the southern troops fighting in Missouri, there was William Quantrill and some of his boys. Bill Quantrill, he fought at Wilson’s Creek. After that, he quit the regular forces and started forming up his own band, them that would become known as Quantrill’s Raiders. It was them that carried out that horrible attack on Lawrence, Kansas in ’63. Murdered 180 folks they did, mostly men and boys. Killed them all. That was the sort of fighting that went on in Missouri and Kansas back in those times. Dark times indeed.

  Jebidiah Stoneking was a God-fearing man, as I said, but he did not count on only the Lord’s hand to protect his land. The Bible was a strong shield and a powerful guide, but he knew that it would not stop bullets. No one in the family knows where Jeb got his Sharps rifle, but it is a fact that he had one, a Model 1858 breechloader. I always wondered if Jeb had the gift of sight and knew he was going to need that carbine. Fact is, that rifle is still at the farm, part of the family history, the history that we never talked about. Folks might not realize what a wonder a breech loading rifle was back then. In those years, even most of the regular troops were using Enfield or Springfield muzzle loaders. The only soldiers that had the breech loaders were the sharpshooters. I suspect that Jeb somehow acquired that rifle from one of them, but I don’t know that for sure. I do know that it would have cost a heap of money and where Jeb got that money, no one knows.

  By 1862 the Union forces had driven most of the Confederates out of the state of Missouri, but the guerrilla fighting was still hot. William Quantrill and his band were at the heart of it. I don’t know how it happened, since I was just two years old at the time, but somehow or another, five of them raiders decided to come across our farm. It was June of ’62 and the crops were well along. Jeb mostly grew corn, along with sorghum and alfalfa for feed, and he had a small field of tobacco. The corn would have been about waist high or more I reckon, but like I said, I was only two and it was probably head tall on me. I do not, in truth, remember anything about the actual day, being as I was just a tyke. I learned it all from the little Jeb ever said about it and what my brothers told me.

  Jeb and the older boys were out tending to the fields, just like any other day. They were way down in the bottom land, down where the corn edged off and the tobacco patch started. Along about late morning, before they would have come back to the house for food, Jeb sees five men on horseback coming out of the trees and onto the farm. These men were all heavily armed and heading in the direction of the house. Jeb sent them two brothers of mine running back for the house while he dashed off into the cornfield, heading straight towards those men on foot and lugging his Sharps carbine. My mother heard that first shot before them boys ever got near the house. The last shots were just dying away by the time those boys came running up to warn her, but by then she had already grabbed me and run for the root cellar. That’s how fast it all happened.

  Now those men, they were riding in a line. That’s how my oldest brother remembers it. Jeb has hid himself in the corn field, just at the edge of it, but far enough back so he can’t be seen. He’s hunkered down as those men ride forward. What happened next is hard to believe, but it is the God’s truth. Jeb raises up out of that corn on a crouch and shoots the last man right off of his horse from a hundred yards away. Later on in life I saw what a big bore carbine does to a man and it is not a pretty sight. That .54 caliber ball was a terrible thing. Jeb drops back out of sight in the corn and levers that breech open, dropping in another cartridge. When he levers that carbine closed, it cuts the end off the paper cartridge and rolls another primer into place, just like that. Jeb pops back up out of that corn. Those men are wheeling about on their horses now, trying to see who’s shooting at them and where to return fire. Jeb shoots that lead rider square in the chest, toppling him off his horse. Back down into the corn he goes to reload. Them other three riders, they have seen the smoke coming out of the corn, so they have an idea where Jeb is hiding, but there is a good stretch of open ground to cover to reach him. They must have been brave men, but they were foolish, because they rode right at him. Jeb shot that third rider before they could get them horses properly turned and charging. I don’t know what those last two men must have been thinking, but I suppose the blood lust was on them. Had it been me, I warrant I would have rode the other way. In my soldiering days, I have learned that there is a time to ride forward and a time to ride away. Them two should have rode away but they did not, and that was the end of them.

  Jeb shot that fourth man off his horse while that animal was near at a full gallop. The ball knocked him clean off of the horse, but it did not kill him. The last rider was on Jeb while he was still reloading. That horse almost ran over the top of Jeb while that rider was firing away with a Colt pistol, but he missed his shots. As that man’s horse plunged into the corn field, Jeb stood up, swung around, and shot him square in the back.

  My oldest brother told me that he counted the shots. One, two, three, four, five. Those shots rang out like someone was tolling a bell he said, tolling it slow. There was a stillness after that. Then there was one more shot. That was when my daddy walked out of that corn and up on that screaming man writhing on the ground. Half his shoulder was shot away and he was scrabbling around on his back clawing at the dirt. My daddy, Jebidiah Stoneking, he asked the Lord’s forgiveness, then he put one more ball in that man’s chest.

  My brothers told me that the rest was just work. We were all hiding in the root cellar when Jebidiah came up to the house. He got us out of there, hugged my mother tight, and told them boys to go hitch up the wagon. My daddy and my brothers spent the rest of that afternoon carting those men’s bodies down across the creek and into the woods. The three of them worked at it until dark, burying those men in unmarked graves and scattering branches and such over the fresh dirt to hide what they’d done. When they come back up to the house, tired and dirty, my mother had supper ready and we all sat down to it. My brother told me that Jebidiah said grace just like always, adding a special thanks for the Lord’s hand in keeping his family safe.

  No one outside the family ever heard the whole story, not until now. There were rumors of course. Nothing happens in a small farming community without rumors getting out. Still, everyone roundabouts the farm knew enough to keep quiet and the rumors just stayed rumors. Jebidiah had kept more than the farm and family safe, he had stopped them men from hurting anyone else. The folks around Chestnut Grove were thankful for that. The war ended and those five men stayed in their unmarked graves, just like lots of other poor men who died in that terrible war. Looking back on it, I hope them men found their peace with the Lord.

  (ed. Note: This entry is recorded as it was related. The facts of this account have not been verified as there are no other existing accounts.)

  Chapter 7

  Quinn

  “Well what did you expect Susan? It’s only been three days. A complete article just doesn’t spring out of my head fully formed you know.”

  Quinn watched the smoke from his cigar rolling off the rooftop to where it melded into the perfect late afternoon light. Jesus, I should be a photographer. What an amazing day. He felt giddy as only rain-sodden northwest natives can feel on a rare sunny autumn afternoon. Susan’s voice spilled out of the tiny speaker, pulling Quinn back.

  “What? No, Sis, I don’t know when the piece is going to be done. Not exactly. Yeah. You’re not making this any easier by the way. I’ve read through that thing you sent me, the interview from that historical society. What an amazing story. I mean, even if it’s not true, or the son is exaggerating, it’s still great. If it’s all true, well, that makes it one of the craziest things I’ve ever heard. And it’s gold. People love that Americana stuff.”

  He took a long draw on the cigar, letting the rich smoke flow out through his nose. The luxury of his sole remaining vice was something Quinn guarded jealously.

  Listening to Susan’s voice, he could imagine her sitting at the kitchen t
able peering at her laptop, surrounded by a pile of notes. She had hooked him, that’s for sure. He was surprised at how this assignment had captured his interest.

  “Susan, I can’t see your screen, remember? You’re going to have to explain to me how this Jebidiah character fits into our family tree.” He grew more somber as he listened.

  “Damn, that is some wild shit, Sis. So what you’re telling me is that we have killers on both sides of our immediate family. What are the odds on that? What? Yes, I understand, direct maternal and paternal lines. That’s what I’m saying. Is this some sort of family curse, something that crops up every fourth generation or something?”

  “No, I get that, Charlie was a poor kid turned murderer, and this Jeb guy was defending his farm and family. Still, he killed five men single-handedly. That does define him as a killer, don’t you think, regardless of the motivation.”

  “Right, I hear you. Listen, I’m sure I’m going to have more questions about all of this. These two stories have changed the whole tenor of the piece, you know? I’m going to have to call my editor and discuss this with her. She may be happy about it, or she may tell me to stick to the program. Yeah, I don’t know. Either way, I have a lot more work to do on this than I thought. I’ve got all of the background information that I need for the basic human interest angle, but this other stuff, I have no idea where it might lead. These two stories might bump this thing up to a serious feature article. Then again, it might just get me in hot water.”

  “Okay, I’ll keep you posted for sure. And hey, Susan? Thanks a lot for this. I needed something to jolt me out of this rut that I’ve been in. I love you too, ciao.”

  Quinn slipped the phone into his pocket and turned his attention to serious smoking. The cigar smoke drifted away from his camp chair and swirled across the parapet of the flat roof. To the west, the old brick buildings of the northwest district ran off towards the hills bordering the city. If he craned to the east, he could see the encroaching towers of the Pearl District, gleaming new condos that were moving inexorably closer with each passing year. The last of the afternoon sun shone on the glass facades of the Pearl, setting him to grumbling. Stupid condos. This damn city is getting more like Seattle every day.

  Brooding on the siege of his neighborhood, Quinn felt his anger returning. He half-hoped that the lovely aroma of his cigar was torturing that son of a bitch James Watson. Jim. Quinn chuckled to himself. That had gotten to the prick. What a worthless asshole. Next time he’d call the old fart Jimmy. Yeah, the guy would probably seize up on the spot and good riddance.

  A true Hall-Monitor if ever there was one. Quinn divided the people of the world into two tidy categories. There were the regular folks, people who tried to get along and enjoy life as best they could. Then there were the Hall-Monitors. Hall-Monitors couldn’t enjoy themselves unless they were preventing someone else from having fun. It started out in school, the kids who enjoyed checking people in the hallways to make sure they were where they were supposed to be. Little tools of The Man, that’s what they were. From there the bastards graduated to a life of worrying about other people’s morals, hating folks that were having fun, and generally making everyone else’s lives miserable if they got half a chance. Worthless wastes of protoplasm, a goddamn blight on the rest of us.

  Great, just great Bucko. You’re going to let that ass-hat ruin your afternoon and spoil the taste of a fine Nicaraguan stick, is that it? What had Scotty B said about righteous anger? The easiest form of anger and the most dangerous, a luxury that an addict simply could not afford. Leave that shit for the normies, Q. Scotty didn’t usually say much. Mostly he just listened. Sponsors tended to be like that. At the end of a long rambling bitch session with his sponsor, Quinn would realize that he had been doing all of the talking, and yet somehow the problem had been resolved. Scotty B would smile or nod, occasionally adding a comment or two. When he did say something, the words usually hit Quinn right in the middle of his forehead. Damned old timers.

  Twelve years clean, he thought. Not a newcomer but not really an old timer either. Yeah, but those twelve years, they’ve changed everything, haven’t they? Quinn knew he was one of the lucky ones, one of those people who remembered to keep coming back. He had seen those unlucky bastards, the ones the old timers called the scouts. Some of those old boys said some tough things. Honest things, true, but tough. The first time Quinn heard someone talking about the scouts, it had come out of the mouth of some crusty thirty-year guy. Yes Sir, I don’t have to go back out there to find out what it’s like. I see those people that go back out. They go back out there because they just have to have another taste, have to take another beating from that bottle. They’re like Indian scouts. They head out into that wilderness of drinking and doping. After a few weeks, a few months, I see them come crawling back into a meeting, ass all shot full of arrows, telling us all how bad it was. I’m thankful for those men, thankful for the reminder of what it’s like out there. At the time, Quinn thought it was a harsh thing to say in a meeting, but now he knew it was true. He himself had seen folks come and go, men and women with good solid sobriety, or so he thought. The luckiest of the unlucky made it back to give the program another go. The really unlucky ones, well, they just disappeared.

  Quinn remembered how it was, how that shit sunk its talons into him like some foul carrion bird. But that wasn’t totally true either, was it? The truth is you jumped on the party train young and kept riding it, never really expecting to get off alive. Pretty soon there was no getting off of that express, was there? The thing was just moving too fast. It was riding you instead of the other way round. Mad at the world and mad at the Old Man, you ended up being just like that sorry bastard. The booze and then the dope became a full-time job. Yeah, trying to live like my heroes, that was the big lie. Quinn was going to be the next great American writer, living hard and dying young. Sorry for the lack of a glorious and tragic death, Bucko, but here you are, still sucking wind.

  After two years clean, Quinn burned everything he had written during the dark times. Besides being self-indulgent garbage, it was just too painful to read. He remembered the story of Hadley losing the suitcase that held all of Hemingway’s manuscripts. Whoever swiped the case from that train in Switzerland ended up doing Hemingway a great favor. Yeah, but Hemingway produced his best work after that. You’re thirty-seven years old my friend, and all you’ve got is a half-finished novel gathering electronic dust on your hard drive. Quinn’s cigar began to take on a sour taste.

  Brother, when you decide to have a pity party, it sure doesn’t take you long to get started, does it? Quinn shook his head and let go a mirthless chuckle. Yeah, I hear you Scotty B, I hear you. Pesky old man. All right, what am I grateful for? For starters, I’m grateful to be sitting up here on a fine Portland afternoon, watching the sun go down and enjoying a damn fine cigar. I’m grateful to be clean and sober while I’m doing it. I’m grateful that I have an amazing and beautiful woman in my life. That would never happen if I was still using. Okay, double grateful for Sonya. I’m grateful that I get paid to do what I love, instead of slogging away at some crappy job I hate. Or stealing for a living. That sucked for sure, and I wasn’t very good at it. And I’m grateful that I have half a novel on my hard drive instead of no novel at all. Okay, that last one might be a stretch.

  Quinn dropped the butt of the cigar into the can sitting at the foot of his camp chair. Oh, yeah, and I’m grateful that Lewis doesn’t mind me smoking cigars up here on the roof, unlike my intolerant asshole of a neighbor. Articles do not write themselves, so I guess we better have another crack at this. And even though procrastination is one of your finer talents, tomorrow you call this in to La Editora. Time to have a meeting and sing Kumbaya. He left the camp chair where it was and walked across the roof to the access door.

  Chapter 8

  Pizza

  “Hey, at least we got a table without waiting. The pie won’t be more than an hour wait.” While he held her chair, Quinn watched
Sonya fold herself into it, the very image of grace. Theirs was the last gleaming white table in the trendy pizzeria which wasn’t already chock full of diners, pies, or both.

  “Q, you know this is no place to be in a hurry. Do you have someplace else you have to be? Besides, you love their wild mushroom pizza and it’s always worth the wait.”

  Quinn settled himself at the table and looked into Sonya’s eyes. Their fire gleamed out of the shadows of her dark hair.

  “There is no place else on earth that I need or want to be other than right here with you, waiting on a lovely pizza pie.” Quinn tried to hide the grin that was forcing its way to the corner of his mouth.

  “Good answer, Q. You keep practicing that and someday it won’t sound rehearsed.” She held up a lovely hand to ward off Quinn’s protests. “It’s a sweet thing to say, Q. Thank you. Now that we have an hour to kill before we eat, you were going to tell me about how you are improving relations with your neighbor, remember?” Sonya arched a dark eyebrow in Quinn’s direction.

  “Yes, our fine Mr. Watson. He ambushed me in the parking lot just as I was getting back from Susan’s place. It was a few days ago now.”

  “Let me guess, he was expressing his concerns about his precious automobile.” Sonya turned, raising two polite fingers at a passing waitperson. In response she received a smile and the ubiquitous be-right-back gesture common to busy hipster eateries. “Okay, so maybe your hour estimate wasn’t exaggerated. Anyway, on with the tale of woe.”

  “Yeah, well, he started out with the same old refrain, that I was parking too close to the oh-so-special Saab. Like there is any other way to park in those undersized spaces. He’s lucky we even have off-street parking. Can you imagine the angst he would have over parking on the street? I swear, I don’t know why he doesn’t garage that thing. It’s not like he ever drives it.”