by Chris Offutt
At the top of the ridge he rested, then removed the top layer of clothing. His body immediately cooled. He buttoned the shirt to make a pouch for the extra pants and gloves, tied the sleeves together, and slung the makeshift ruck over his shoulder. With his weapons back in place, he began walking the ridge toward the gully where he intended to leave the nest. Wind in the high boughs brushed leaves like the sound of distant water. As the canopy shifted, light flowed across the forest floor. He’d forgotten the pleasures of being in the woods. Now that his main purpose was accomplished, he could enjoy the walk, the sense of freedom. A dove called, then a crow. He figured the crow was warning deer that a human was near, and assumed it was himself until Jimmy stepped around a tree with a pistol.
Tucker immediately began assessing the situation, his mind skipping from actions to outcomes. He kept returning to the single unassailable fact—he’d let his guard down.
Jimmy adjusted the Borsalino hat as if reminding Tucker of it, and spoke.
“You ain’t hunting dryland fish with a bucksaw.”
“No, I ain’t.”
“What’s in the bag?”
“Bees.”
“I knowed some boys to flavor liquor with honey.”
Sunlight sifted through the tangled tree limbs overhead. A cicada began its complex clicking song, the sound coming from the west. Tucker shifted his weight. He’d made the error of overburdening his gun hand with the hornet nest. He could shoot left-handed but the pistol was on his right hip, and he was too far away to use the knife. He could force Jimmy into making a mistake or wait for him to do it on his own. Neither was a good option.
“Reckon you got the drop on me, Jimmy. I didn’t hear you.”
“Heel taps don’t make noise in the woods.”
Irritated hornets rattled the nest, making the gunnysack shake. Jimmy gestured with his pistol, a thirty-eight revolver.
“Set that bucksaw down,” he said.
Tucker dropped it. Jimmy nodded.
“You got a pistol on you?”
“Yep.”
“Take it out slow and turn loose of it. Don’t get no big ideas.”
Tucker lifted the pistol from his back pocket and let it fall to the ground.
“You’re the boss, Jimmy.”
“Yes, I am. I’m the boss. Sure different than driving you all over the countryside, you telling me what to do.”
“I hear Beanpole’s getting out of snake dogs.”
“I’m glad,” Jimmy said, “Them dogs barked for a living. That racket got on my last nerve.”
Tucker shook the sack. The hornets responded with fury, producing a hum of a higher frequency than before.
“I could cut you into the honey business,” Tucker said. “You ort to see this honeycomb. I’ll get fifty dollars for it.”
“Ain’t no honeycomb worth that much.”
Tucker switched the branch to his other hand, and turned sideways to hide the knife on his belt. He slowly drew it from its scabbard, out of Jimmy’s sight.
“Don’t set them loose,” Jimmy said.
“I smoked them down. They can’t hardly fly.”
“What kind are they?”
Tucker lifted the knife concealed by his body. In a swift motion he slit the gunnysack, threw it, and hurled himself sideways to the ground. The sack hit Jimmy in the chest. Angry hornets rushed from the bag, seeking an enemy, a black haze swirling around Jimmy’s head. Jimmy moved backward, firing three wild shots, then turned and ran into the woods. Tucker retrieved his pistol, and followed.
Jimmy was easier to track than a rabbit in snow. The heels of his cowboy boots left deep imprints in the soft earth, the toes dragging dirt forward in triangles that aimed the direction he ran. Tucker passed bent tree limbs with leaves quivering from Jimmy’s passage. A patch of trillium was crushed and scattered. Tucker stopped, cupping an ear forward with his free hand, hearing the intermittent rasp of labored breath. He walked with his pistol in front of him, approaching the sound. A Judas tree had a broken branch. Past it was a rain gully where Jimmy lay, breathing hard and groaning. He’d run into the tree, fallen, and lost his gun. Hornet stings webbed his face with welts. One eye was swollen shut. He held his right arm as if protecting it.
Tucker found Jimmy’s gun and slipped it into his belt.
“Lucky you ain’t allergic,” Tucker said. “You’d be dead already.”
“Yeah, I’m lucky as a dog with two dicks.”
“I can dig them stingers out.”
“No,” Jimmy said. “Arm’s worse.”
“Broke?”
“I don’t know. But it hurts worse than my face.”
“Any get you in the mouth?”
Jimmy shook his head. Tucker turned away, sniffed the air, and walked toward the coolest area of the woods. He studied the weeds until finding wild parsley. Shredding several leaves from the stems, he wet them with water, and lay the pulp on the flat side of his canteen. He mashed the leaves with his blade. He walked back to Jimmy, who hadn’t moved.
“Lay still,” Tucker said. “This might hurt at first.”
Very gently he daubed the parsley poultice on Jimmy’s face. Jimmy squirmed, moaning low in his throat. Tucker held the back of his head to halt his struggle. After a few minutes Jimmy relaxed as the pain began to subside, soothed by the herb.
“Let me see your arm,” Tucker said.
Jimmy tried to move but stopped, emitting a loud groan. Tucker squatted beside him, released the buttons of Jimmy’s cuff, and slit the sleeve along his forearm. A lump the size of a walnut rose beneath the skin.
“Arm ain’t bent,” Tucker said. “That’s good, means only one of the bones is broke.”
“Only one?”
“There’s two in there, Jimmy. Did you not know that?”
Jimmy shook his head. He was breathing through his mouth, trying to keep his good eye focused.
“I’ll make a splint from hickory sticks,” Tucker said.
“Where’d you learn all this at?”
“Army.”
“You a medic?”
“No,” Tucker said. “We all got a little training in it.”
“To help each other?”
“To help the enemy.”
“That don’t make sense.”
“If you got captured,” Tucker said, “you were supposed to tell the enemy you were the medic. They might not kill you.”
“Why not?”
“They needed docs, too,” Tucker said. “Where’s your car at?”
“Bottom of the fire road.”
“Smart boy. Way I would have come in.”
Tucker went back for his bucksaw, veering around the swarm of hornets that covered the nest and gunnysack. He sawed two chunks of hickory, green but still stiff enough to hold. He cut the rest of Jimmy’s sleeve off, ripped several strips of cloth, and tied the hickory loosely on either side of his forearm. He poured water from his canteen on the strips.
“This’ll be rough,” he said.
He placed a knee on Jimmy’s chest to stop any resistance, then cinched the wet cloth into tight knots. Jimmy moaned, twisting his head, beating Tucker with his good arm. Tucker ignored the flailing. After tying the splint he held the canteen to Jimmy’s mouth. Water dribbled down his chin, sluicing a path through the parsley that speckled his face. A hornet drifted lazily by as if checking up on its work. Tucker swatted it from the air and stomped it.
“I got to take your shirt off and make a sling.”
Jimmy nodded. Tucker helped him sit, unbuttoned the chambray shirt, and removed it. He fastened a sling with the body of the shirt holding the splinted arm. He lit a cigarette and handed it to Jimmy.
“All right, now,” Tucker said. “Rest you a minute. And we’ll get off this hillside.”
“What’re you doing this for?” Jimmy said.
“Helping you after you drawed down on me?”
Jimmy nodded.
“Way I figure it,” Tucker said, “you were foll
owing Beanpole’s orders. That about right?”
Jimmy nodded again.
“How much?” Tucker said.
“Huh?”
“How much was he paying you?”
“Five hundred. Plus he’d move me up. Boss over the stillers.”
“You can’t boss them people.”
“Beanpole told me that.”
“Five hundred,” Tucker said. “Them damn Dayton Satans had a bigger bounty on me.”
“Maybe I’ll collect off them, too.”
“That’s a good sign. Making a joke.”
Jimmy grinned, his good eye disappearing in the swollen folds of skin. Tucker almost felt sorry for the boy, shirtless, broken arm, face swelled up—and still trying to impress him. It was time to use that against him along with the resentment he’d noticed outside the prison.
“Beanpole say why he wanted me out of the way?”
“No.”
“He owes me money,” Tucker said. “Ten thousand for going to prison. Him not wanting to pay me is why you’re sitting there banged up and stung.”
Jimmy didn’t answer.
“Think he’ll give you five hundred now?” Tucker said.
“No.”
“He can’t use banks,” Tucker said. “He keeps his money somewhere close. Where do you think it’s at?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must have some idea on it.”
“No, I don’t.”
“All right,” Tucker said. “Think a minute. He’s got to be able to get at it without no fuss. That means it ain’t buried out back. He’d not hide it in an outbuilding either. What’s that leave?”
“In the house somewhere.”
“Is there a basement?”
“No. Concrete block foundation.”
“Attic?”
“Don’t have one.”
“So it’s inside,” Tucker said. “He got a deep freeze for game?”
Jimmy shook his head.
“It’s in the wall or floorboards, one.”
Jimmy nodded.
“Where’s his wife at?” Tucker said.
“Visiting grandbabies. He said to come by when I was done. Gave me three days to … You know.”
“Yeah, I know. Finish the job. Let’s you and me go get our money.”
“I ain’t stealing off my uncle.”
“Me neither. But he ort to pay your doctor bills at least.”
They sat for a minute. Tucker knew Jimmy didn’t have a lot of choice—unarmed and hurt. He liked this side of Jimmy, not talking so much. The woods were dimming as the sun slid behind the western tree line. He wanted off the hill before dark.
Tucker helped Jimmy to his feet and headed out of the ridge. He found Jimmy’s hat, dusted it off, and set it on his head. They moved slowly, Jimmy favoring one leg, his balance off-kilter with his arm in a sling. Tucker carried both guns. He walked behind Jimmy, steadying him on a steep bank, holding his good arm when they had to step over a gully. Pain made him docile. Travel was easier at the old fire road, a rutted lane down the hill that the state cleared every couple of years. By the time they reached Jimmy’s car, full dark had enveloped them.
Tucker settled Jimmy in the passenger seat and drove. Jimmy leaned against the door, grunting at every bump in the road. Tucker didn’t begrudge the boy for trying to shoot him down. What bothered him was Beanpole’s sending Jimmy. Such a poor decision meant Beanpole was losing his edge. He should have offered to pay half what he owed. Tucker would have taken it and called them square.
He stopped at the foot of Beanpole’s hill and put the Borsalino on his head. The hat was small and he tilted it low on his forehead. He pulled Jimmy until his body lay across the bench seat.
“Stay low,” he said.
He rolled his window down and drove slowly up the hill. At the top, he honked his horn once, then eased along the driveway. Two windows held dim illumination from within. He parked in the grass at an angle to the house and flicked the headlights off and on twice. Jimmy groaned, trying to push himself up. Tucker struck him twice in the head with the pistol and Jimmy lay still. Blood trickled from a cut in his temple.
Tucker heard the front door of the house open, the squeal of the screen door. Beanpole’s shadowy bulk blocked the light. Tucker tipped his head to let the hat’s brim conceal his face. He held Jimmy’s pistol below the open window.
“Jimmy,” Beanpole said. “What’d I tell you about parking in the grass. My wife’ll tear you up one side and down the other.”
Tucker watched him silently. On the porch Beanpole blended into the darkness.
“Jimmy?” Beanpole said again.
Tucker emitted a low moan.
“He wing you?” Beanpole said. “Where’s he at?”
Beanpole moved to the edge of the porch and down the plank steps. Light glinted off a revolver in his hand.
“Jimmy?” he said, lifting the gun. “Who is that?”
Tucker raised his arm and fired through the open window, aiming low. Beanpole gasped and staggered. He grabbed for the step railing but missed and fell. Tucker opened the car door and approached him. Blood spread on Beanpole’s pants, already being absorbed by the dirt. It was a leg wound, not too bad.
Tucker picked up Beanpole’s pistol, a Colt forty-five, and aimed both guns at him.
“Anybody home?” Tucker said.
“No,” Beanpole said. “Just me.”
“Where’s the money at?”
“In the house. Help me up and we’ll get it.”
“Tell me where you got it hid.”
“Nope.”
“I won’t take more than what you’re owing me.”
“Damn it all to hell,” Beanpole said. “Why’d you have to shoot me?”
“Where’s the money at, Beanpole?”
“Ten thousand and not a nickel more.”
“You got my word on that.”
“Staircase. Under the second step. Jiggle it from the right, then pull hard. It’ll come right up.”
“All right,” Tucker said. “Don’t go nowhere.”
“Fuck you.”
In the house Tucker turned on the light and knelt before the steps. The tread shifted beneath his grip, then pulled away. Inside the alcove were stacks of bills, dozens of them wrapped in rubber bands. He counted out ten thousand dollars in fifties, twenties, and tens, and put it in his pocket. He went outside.
Beanpole lay on his back, breathing hard, holding his thigh. Tucker removed the bundle of money from his pocket.
“You want to count it?” he said.
“No, I trust you,” Beanpole said.
Tucker put the cash away and withdrew Jimmy’s gun.
“Now what,” Beanpole said.
“You shouldn’t have put that boy on me,” Tucker said.
He shot Beanpole four times in the chest with Jimmy’s gun. In the house he gathered the rest of the money and carried it outside. Jimmy lay across the bench seat, still breathing. Tucker dragged him behind the steering wheel. He removed the sling and cut the splint away, then placed the cash on the seat beside him. He tossed the Borsalino on the floorboards and opened the driver-side door. He walked back to the porch steps. Using Beanpole’s forty-five, he shot Jimmy twice, and dropped the gun beside Beanpole.
He wrapped Jimmy’s hand around his thirty-eight and set it in his lap. The guns were two different calibers, which would help the law put things together. Tucker didn’t figure they’d worry too much about a gunfight in a bootlegger family. The blood-splashed money tied it all up. The sheriff would figure if another man was involved, he’d have taken the cash. Nothing tracked back to Tucker.
He walked to the edge of the yard and climbed the hill at an angle. The sky was clear. Moonlight illuminated the top of the hill and he followed the ridge as if it were a road, circling three hollers, two creeks, and a dry rain branch. He dropped down the hill for a shortcut past a blackberry thicket and into an open field. A great horned owl proclaimed its hun
ting territory, and the night sounds momentarily stilled. A slight motion in the field ahead of him caused him to freeze, then squat and peer through the tops of the weeds. He saw a white figure and wondered if it was a ghost. He’d never seen one before. Depending on who it was, he might not mind too much. Still, it was disconcerting.
The ghost came straight toward him, unerring in its aim. He stood to confront it, unafraid but aware of a sudden sweat on his skin in the cool night air. It wasn’t a ghost but a woman in a white nightgown. Long gray hair hung like a shawl past her shoulders. He waited for her to stop, to acknowledge his presence, but she maintained her slow walk, and in the dim light he recognized Zeph’s mother. Tucker underwent relief. Beulah had been blind for years and couldn’t identify him to the sheriff.
Beulah moved close to him, lifted her arm slowly, and touched the side of his face. Her palm was soft. She stroked his brow, the curve of his eye sockets, his nose.
“You’re a Tucker,” she said. “Third boy of Sarah. I fetched you into the world.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“And your first child, too,” she said.
“Billy.”
“His head was swelled up. I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid it would kill the mother and I took care of her instead of the boy.”
“He lived,” Tucker said.
“I heard. But he wasn’t right. I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” he said.
“I went blind after that. God’s punishment. I never grannied another baby.”
She lowered her hand, then her head as if looking at the earth with her filmy eyes. He wondered if she smelled the cordite from the gunfire on his clothes. If so, she could put him in jail.
“What are you doing out here?” he said.
“I get restless of the night.”
Her house was half a mile away, across the field and down a slope at the end of a lower ridge. It had been his favorite spot as a child. In summer Tucker visited her house for a drink of water. He couldn’t leave her alone and he couldn’t kill her.
