Guns of the Waste Land: Departure: Volumes 1-2

by Leverett Butts

  “It’s inappropriate,” he declared quietly, having spent his energy in his brief explosion, “that I can no longer make water without weeping like a newborn wanting suck. No, Merle, we’re using that Psalm.”

  “Then you will have to read it,” Rev. Tallison said rising, “The Lord is mad enough at me as it is without adding poor taste to the mix.”

  “I would’ve insisted on it, Merle,” Ardiss said quietly as the Rev. Tallison pulled his door closed and returned to his rectory.

  And here we are, Rev. Tallison thought, subtly shaking his head. He appears to be carrying it off fairly well.

  Indeed, Ardiss’ voice seemed to grow stronger with each verse, but no less gravelly. “Set thou a wicked man over him: and let Satan stand at his right hand. When he shall be judged, let him be condemned: and let his prayer become sin. Let there be none to extend mercy unto him because he remembered not to show mercy, but persecuted the poor and needy man, that he might even slay the broken in heart.”

  Here, at a motion from Ardiss, Caleb, who had been steadfastly holding his brother’s arm lest he lose his balance, released Ardiss and moved back a step, ready to step back should Ardiss’ strength give out.

  “But do thou for me, O GOD the Lord, for thy name's sake: because thy mercy is good, deliver thou me. For I am poor and needy, and my heart is wounded within me. My knees are weak through fasting, and my flesh faileth of fatness” Ardiss’ voice cracked here, and his legs wavered ever so slightly. Caleb moved toward him, but Ardiss shook his head, and Caleb stepped back.

  “Help me, O LORD my God,” Here Ardiss looked to the heavens and screamed, resembling a shorter, stockier, and louder version of Rev. Tallison before the funeral. “Save me according to thy mercy. Let them curse: when they arise, let them be ashamed, but let thy servant rejoice!”

  Ardiss slumped but did not stumble. Caleb stepped forward again, and this time, Ardiss allowed him to take him by the shoulders and lead him to his place in the congregation. As the two of them passed, Rev. Tallison could see tears making their way down the sheriff’s face, but Ardiss’ mouth was set and his jaw firm. “Irish fuckin’ bastard,” he mumbled as he handed the reverend back his bible and took his place.

  III.

  “Into thy hands, O merciful Savior, we commend thy servant Garrett,” As he spoke, Rev Tallison slowly made the sign of the cross over the casket. “Acknowledge we humbly beseech thee, a sheep of thine own fold, a lamb of thine own flock. Receive him into the arms of thy mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light.”

  “Amen,” the congregation replied as one and slowly began to file past the grave, led by Ardiss and Caleb.

  “In sure and certain hope of the eternal life,” Rev. Tallison spoke as each member of the congregation dropped a handful of dirt on the casket, “we commend our brother Garrett, and we commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord bless him and keep him. The Lord lift up His countenance upon him and give him peace. Amen.”

  At this, the last of the congregation, Gilley the feeble-minded stable boy dressed in his best suit with his tie tied too long, dropped his dirt on the casket and stood smiling beatifically at the reverend. The rest of the congregation stood silently, waiting for Rev. Tallison’s benediction before dispersing back to town and the rest of their day’s responsibilities.

  Rev. Tallison stared silently down at the dirt covered casket. Even with the whole town here, there was barely enough dirt to cover more than three quarters of the casket. He reached down for his own handful of dust. After he dropped his own dirt upon the casket, he turned his face to the congregation, smiled at Gilley, and raised his right hand to bless the crowd.

  “Go in peace,” he commanded, “to love and serve the Lord.”

  “Thanks be to God.” With that, the congregation dispersed. Rev. Tallison watched as Caleb walked Ardiss back to the sheriff’s residence, Ardiss clearly still cursing his best friend and his wife as Caleb nodded solemnly with each word and patted his brother’s shoulder.

  After everyone had left, Rev. Tallison, alone in the graveyard again, looked down once more on the casket.

  Go in peace, boy, he thought reaching down another handful of dust. When you arrive at the Gates, tell Him I’d listen if He’d speak again to me. As he dropped his dirt upon the casket, a crow cawed in the distance three times then fell silent.

  Gilley returned carrying a shovel. He had changed into a pair of denim pants and taken off his jacket. He still wore, however, his shirt and tie (though he had tucked the end of the tie into his pants. “You want I should finish burying Garrett now, Reverend?” he asked.

  “Yes, Gilley,” the reverend said looking towards the western edge of the graveyard where the crow had flown off earlier and in the direction of the recent call. “I think that would be best.”

  “Okey doke,” the boy said and set to with the shovel.

  Someone was stumbling into the graveyard: a boy not much younger than Garrett, towheaded and rail thin. He was leading a sway-backed mule that was almost as thin as Gilley’s shovel. Rev. Tallison ran over to the boy, leaping over the grave markers as they got in his way, quite a feat for a man who’d not see seventy again, but he did it with the same energy he’d had as a lad of seven.

  He managed to reach the boy as his mule fell over on its side, dragging the boy with it. Rev. Tallison caught him before he cracked his skull on one of the few stone markers in the grave, Luther Drake’s.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you, sir,” the boy said, as he stared beyond Rev. Tallison’s head. “My name’s Percival Murratt, and I want you to make me a knight.”

  Book Two

  Guns of The Waste Land: Diversion

  And I don't want no pardon

  For what I was and am;

  And I won't be reconstructed,

  And I do not give a damn.

  - “The Unreconstructed Rebel”

  (Major Innes Randolph, CSA)

  As I came through Dublin City,

  At the hour of half-past eight,

  Who should I spy but a Spanish Lady,

  Brushing her hair in broad daylight.

  First, she toss’d it, then she brushed it,

  On her lap was a silver comb.

  In all my life I ne’er did see

  So fair a maid since I did roam.

  - “The Spanish Lady”

  (traditional Irish ballad)

  The word “Chivalry” is derived from the French “cheval,” a horse. The word “knight,” which originally meant boy or servant, was particularly applied to a young man after he was admitted to the privilege of bearing arms. […] The knight then was a mounted warrior, a man of rank.

  - Thomas Bullfinch

  The Age of Chivalry

  Chapter One – Gary Wayne & Boris

  I.

  It was fairly clear from the get-go that they had only just missed their quarry, possibly by as little as minutes. Besides the fresh tracks in the loose dirt leading to the cave opening and in the slightly damp earth just inside, Gary Wayne had determined that the small fire pit further in had been doused only a short while before anywhere from a couple of hours to a few minutes depending on how long and hot the fire had burned.

  “Funny we didn’t see any smoke,” Boris observed when Gary Wayne relayed this information. “We seen that Murratt boy’s fire from way off this morning.”

  “Lank is no backwoods half-wit,” Gary Wayne muttered almost to himself. “He would have built the fire low and cut down on the smoke. What little smoke was made would have hit the cave roof and thinned out.”

  “Look at this, boyo,” Lank hunkers down and motions to the remains of a campfire. Gary Wayne walks over to see. “D’ye ken how to judge the age of a campfire?”

  “Well,” Gary Wayne says, hunkering down next to his mentor. “I would reckon if the coals are red, it is fairly new; if they are cold, it is fairly old.”r />
  “Well said,” Lank says, with a smile. “What can ye tell o’this one?”

  Gary takes a stick and pokes around the gray embers. One or two spark red briefly but release no smoke. “It would appear that it was built last night.”

  “Anything else, lad?”

  Gary Wayne pokes some more, but other than more brief red sparks, he sees nothing unusual in the banked coals and charred wood. “I reckon there is more to it, but I am blamed if I can figure it, Lank.”

  “What if I told you that this was a fire built for one man who was not a local, and it was put out no more than five hours ago? Would ye ken the how of it then?”

  “Well, I don’t suppose a little fire ring like this would warm much more than one man unless they were very friendly,” Gary Wayne follows Lank’s eyes to the charred firewood. Lank nods as Gary Wayne tentatively reaches out and grabs a piece and smiles as Gary Wayne winces, whistles, but does not drop the wood. “It’s too hot to have been doused last night,” Gary says, setting the wood back into the pit, “but it is not so hot I can’t hold it, so it was doused this morning.”

  “Very good,” Lank claps his protégé on the shoulder, “and how is he not local?”

  Gary Wayne shrugs as he wipes his hands on his jeans. “I swear, Lank, I have no idea.”

  “Smell your hands,” Gary Wayne does so. “Smell like turpentine, right?” Gary Wayne nods. “That’s pine wood, there, boyo. And y’know as well as I that there’s nary a pine around here for five hundred miles east of here or two hundred miles south. No, sir. Our boy here came from east of here and packed his fire wood with him.”

  “Could he not have come from the south?”

  Lank shakes his head. “Nay. If he’d a gone south, you and me, we would nae be examining his campfire east of town. Mark my words, boyo, Nat Greene came from east of here, no closer than Plano.”

  Gary Wayne rose up from the fire ring and faced his partner. “We need to see how far their tracks go. If we ride hard, we might be able to catch them up before dark, finish our business and have Guernica well on her way back to Bretton before we have to make camp tonight.”

  Boris said nothing but looked doubtful.

  Two hours later, after the trail had petered out in the hard packed desert clay, Boris felt relief. Thank god I kept my mouth shut. At least now I can’t tell him I told him so.

  Actually, the trail had played out thirty minutes ago or so, but Gary Wayne insisted he could make out faint signs indicating the general direction Lancaster and Guernica had ridden. Boris was barely a third the tracker Gary Wayne was, so he didn’t dare question his friend’s skills, but now even Gary Wayne had to admit defeat.

  “I got nothing,” Gary Wayne said, reaching into his pants and scratching absently. “Trail’s colder’n a whore’s heart in January.”

  He’s seeing the wrong whores, Boris thought but kept it to himself. “What’s our next play, then?” he asked instead.

  “I hate like hell to double back,” Gary Wayne adjusted his crotch and turned to remount Gringo, “but I reckon we got no other choice but to see what the kid’s ma knows.”

  “Laney, Gary Wayne. The kid’s ma, as you well know, is Laney. We need to see what Laney knows.”

  “Right.” Gary Wayne threw his leg over Gringo’s saddle, settled into the mount tugged the reins, motioning the horse to turn around. “Let us go see Laney, then.”

  For all the good it’ll do, Boris thought, turning Valliant to follow his partner. “Laney always did keep a close mouth where Lank was concerned.” He said to Gary Wayne’s back. “I don’t see where this’ll be any different.”

  Gary Wayne didn’t turn his head to speak, so Boris had to strain to hear his response. “Maybe his running off with Guernica will loosen her tongue. I always did think he and Laney were awful close, and as we know from the Bible and the bard, hell ain’t got nothing on a sorely scorned woman.”

  II.

  They found the Murratt farm just as the sun’s lower edge touched the western horizon, but they knew before they ever reached the gate that their errand was wasted. They could see from a quarter mile away that most of the barn was missing, burned to cinders. Only the corner posts and part of the southern wall stood stark against the setting sun. As they drew nearer, they could see that some of the roof remained intact but had fallen into the barn as the lower structure burned away.

  The main house seemed fairly intact except for broken windows. Shot out or shot in, neither could tell from their distance, but not a window appeared to be left in the structure. As they drew closer, though, Gary Wayne could make out that some of the early evening shadows on the walls were actually the charred logs of the wall.

  “Looks like they tried to burn the house down, too.” Gary Wayne said pulling Gringo to stop at the northern fence, still inexplicably intact despite the wreckage of the rest of the farm and dismounting. He wasn’t sure, but he may have seen a shadow flicker in the window next to the porch. “We better foot it the rest of the way. If they’re still there and have not seen us yet, we may be able to get the drop on them.”

  “If they haven’t seen us yet,” Boris said looking at the flat land stretching for miles in either direction, “they’re blind.” But he also dismounted and tied Valliant to the fence rail next to Gringo.

  Drawing their guns, both men hunkered down and moved as quietly as possible to the eastern side of the house. When he reached the house, Boris inspected the charred logs of the wall and the dirt at the base. “Looks like the bad guys put the fire out.” He spoke with a lowered voice and pointed his pistol at the dirt, which seemed to have dried in rivulets running from the house.

  “Maybe they figured to sleep in the house for the night before moving on.” Gary Wayne ran his hand across the charred logs. “Walls are cold, and there’s not much ash coming off.” He held the palm of hand up to Boris; it was fairly clean. “This was set days ago, maybe as much as a week or two.”

  “That’d put it at about the time the kid left,” Boris said under his breath as he slowly rose to peek into the rear window. “Lord help us, maybe the day he left. This room’s clear, give me a boost.”

  Gary moved next to Boris and made a saddle with his hands. “You don’t reckon, Lank did this, do you?”

  “Lord God no, Gary Wayne, why in tarnation would he do such a thing?” Boris put his foot into Gary Wayne’s hands and braced his arms on the windowsill.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Boris,” Gary Wayne winced as he lifted Boris’ foot up, “same reason he killed my baby brother? Who knows why he does what he does?”

  Lank never meant to kill Garrett, Boris thinks as he pulls himself through the window, quietly lowers himself to the floor, and pulls his shirt over his nose and mouth to keep out the faint smell of rotted meat on the air. Kid was just in the wrong place at the wrong time trying to be a hero.

  “Goddamn it,” Caleb cries, running from the sheriff’s office and rubbing the back of his head, “Somebody stop them; they’re getting away; God damn it all to fucking hell.”

  All down the street, people emerge from the buildings or lean out their windows to see the commotion, but no one moves to intercede. Ardiss Drake stands alone outside The Caring Lion and watches silently as his most trusted friend and deputy, Lancaster O’Loch, gallops pell-mell down the thoroughfare, heedless of the outraged shouts behind, with Ardiss’ wife straddled behind him.

  Gary Wayne, Boris, and Ewan run out of the stables and stare open jawed at their comrade fleeing town. Braddock, the negro stable master, walks slowly after them wiping his hands on his leather smock.

  “What the hell kind of deputies are you people?” Caleb roars at them. “The yellow bastard hit me from behind and broke that beaner whore out of her cell! Get your asses after him.”

  “If he broke a prisoner out of jail in broad daylight against his comrades,” Braddock says thoughtfully, “Yellow is something he surely ain’t.”

  “Who the fuck asked you?” Caleb glar
es at Braddock, but the stable master just smiles. “Get your black ass back in there and finish brushing the horses. This don’t concern you.”

  Braddock shrugs chuckles and turns back to the stables.

  Further down the road there’s a shout, barely audible in the general din. Garrett Orkney, who at fourteen is Gary Wayne’s youngest brother, runs out of the schoolhouse waving his arms. “Lank!” he yells, “Stop, Lank! This ain’t no way to do! Hold up!”

  Vivian, the school teacher, runs after him, but her long skirt is no match for Garrett’s long legs. He runs into the street in Lancaster’s path too quickly for Ninian to catch him or for Lancaster to see him and slow his horse.

  As far as Boris can tell, Lancaster never saw Garrett until his horse had already trampled him under. And what was left after could hardly be identifiable from horseback, speeding away.

  Hell, Boris sighed and turned back to the window to pull Gary Wayne through, Lank may still not know he killed Garrett. It’d damn sure break his heart if he did.

  Gary Wayne scrambled through the window with relative ease, but not nearly as silently as either hoped. Just as he pulled his torso through, he lost his balance, the rest of his not inconsiderable body hitting the floor with a muffled thud. Both deputies sat as still as possible, holding their breath and listening for any disturbance in the rest of the house.

  They were in what appeared to be a bedroom; after a count of a hundred and no evidence of movement in the rest of the house, Gary Wayne crawled around the single wood-framed rope bed to investigate the room, finding only a few possessions: a sling shot, a sharpening stone, and a tarnished Barlow knife.