Southern Ouroboros

by Matt Kilby

  “Why do you do that?” she asked that night. “You make me feel like a stranger.”

  “I don’t mean nothing like that,” he shook his head. “It’s just my way of saying thank you for the attention you give me.”

  She blushed, so he figured no better time to ask for her honor.

  “Are you going to keep tipping your hat after we’re married?” she asked next, and he took that as her yes.

  Now, she watched him line up the plow, pulling his hat to keep the sun out of his eyes before he snapped the reins. With a grunt, the mule took a first begrudged step into another plowing season—maybe its last. If the crop didn’t grow, John would give the land back and either swallow more pride asking for permanent work or move. Maybe they’d go west, where he heard the government handed out land to whoever asked. It’d be a hard trip with a baby but easier than starving in Pine Haven, but rather than worrying about any of that, he kept his eyes on the field and prayed this would be his year.

  Despite the cold air, by lunch time, he sweat so much he felt like he worked through a downpour. The damp made him shiver and tighten his arms until he couldn’t take anymore. When Mary brought out biscuits and molasses with fresh milk, he ate inside the barn and considered setting it on fire to pull the chill from his bones. He got back behind the mule before half an hour was gone, promising double the hay if it held out until evening.

  In five years, this was the ninth time he plowed. He could shut his eyes and anticipate every dip and ridge. Still, around the three-quarter mark, as the sun inched toward the horizon, the plow tilted at an awkward angle with a screech so terrifying Mary ran from the house. By her face, she expected the worst—some accident that would leave her a widow and raising their child herself. Instead, they looked at each other, unsure of what happened as John’s attention dropped to the ground. Even when he saw the huge rock half-buried, he stared dumbfounded and tried to understand how something like that appeared out of nowhere. Stepping from the plow, he snatched his hat off to wipe his brow, wanting to cuss but aware Mary was close enough to hear. On his knees, he peered down the row of blades and didn’t waste breath praying for an easy fix. The damage had been too loud. Sure enough, two blades twisted so far they almost tore free. If they had, it might be easier to repair, but only one man could say for sure.

  “Damn,” he swore as he got to his feet.

  “John,” Mary scolded but so soft he knew she agreed.

  “I’ve got to get Delmar,” he told her as he estimated the time to ride to town and back and wait for the blacksmith to work. With luck, he might finish the field before the sun quit. Then again, he didn’t have much since he shook Hovington’s hand.

  “Okay,” she said. “Stop by the grocer and get sugar if you can. I’ll make a pie.”

  He smiled, sure her thoughts were on cheering him up. Few things in the world wiped a bad day from his mind like one of her pies, and he had a feeling by the end of this one, he would need that or whiskey to wash its taste out of his mouth. He walked to kiss her cheek before heading in the other direction to unstrap the mule.

  “I’ll be back soon,” he said as he guided it to the barn for the saddle.

  “Take your time,” she said, “and be careful.”

  She was gone when he came back through and rode the two miles to the center of Pine Haven. Delmar Patterson’s workshop sat in a row of five buildings north of the courthouse—the grocer on one side and saloon on the other. John tethered the mule out front and went in to see Delmar first, hoping to send him to the broken plow while he bought Mary’s sugar, but the way Delmar huffed didn’t encourage him.

  “I hope you’re only stopping for a chat,” he shoved a hot iron into a bucket of water.

  “I bent two blades this afternoon,” John told him. “A rock the size of a damned watermelon in the row.”

  “You can borrow a hammer,” Delmar cocked his head toward the shelf with his tools. “Just bring it back when you’re done.”

  “I don’t need tools,” John said. “I need a blacksmith. A good one too, if you know any.”

  Delmar didn’t laugh.

  “I could use three myself. Apparently everyone picked today to plow but couldn’t be bothered to walk their fields first. If you all put your heads together, you can go into the quarry business instead of wasting time farming.”

  John pulled a breath through his nose and then Delmar did look at him.

  “I’m sorry. It’s been a day. I can try to get to your place tomorrow.”

  “I need it today,” John said.

  “Or what? The tobacco fairy will come undo the work you put in? You don’t need it today any more than the rest of the town. You’re just impatient and always have been.”

  John only let Delmar talk to him that way, but they knew each other for their entire lives. They might have been born the same day if Delmar was less patient, the two giving the doctor a busy weekend running from one side of town to the other. Their mommas were second cousins, which made them related in some way they never settled on, but even more, they were best friends. They crawled together until they could walk. They grew up catching crayfish in the creeks and keeping Ms. Tuttle at the schoolhouse on her toes. Then, when Starks County was pressured to leave the Union with the state, though they voted 7-1 to stay in, they went to war together. Delmar learned his trade from his old man so was of more use than John, who was another warm body to be shot at and shoot back. Sometimes being good for nothing was okay, because John went home first while Delmar went to other camps to repair rifles and cannons, though by then it wouldn’t help much. Still, John watched the road every day, waiting to see if Delmar came home on his feet or in a box. He considered reminding him but instead stared and repeated himself.

  “I need it today.”

  “Hell, John,” Delmar slumped his shoulders and dropped the tongs onto his table. “You know I’ll do the work, and you know I’ll do it free. But I have a wife too and kids already born who need food and a roof above them. I have to do the work that pays to afford the work that doesn’t.”

  John didn’t say anything but didn’t need to. Delmar usually got there on his own.

  “If you bring it here, I’ll work it in,” Delmar said in a breath as he closed his eyes. “That’s the best I can do.”

  John smiled and walked out, realizing it was a long way from victory. He still had to take the plow to town and frowned at the hassle. His mouth fell deeper when the grocer was out of sugar, but after his day, whiskey would sit better anyway. So he rode home and hitched his cart to the mule. It was too small to fit the plow but would keep the blades off the ground. The problem was balancing it across the top, but Mary came out on his third try and walked to where he kept his curses quiet.

  “Why don’t you ever ask for help?” she asked as she grabbed the other side.

  “I don’t want you or our baby getting hurt on something I can manage myself.”

  “But you can’t,” Mary said, looking at him. “I can help. All the other pregnant women work until they can’t, and their babies come fine. You just can’t admit you need people sometimes.”

  “I can’t,” he looked at her.

  “You never could,” she shook her head with a smile she’d wear a lot raising the child of a stubborn man.

  “I just want something to go right,” he glanced at the ground between them. “When it does, I want to know I was responsible.”

  She walked to him and took off his hat, pulling his head to kiss his brow.

  “I’ll give you that when our baby’s here. First, we need to put this plow into that cart.”

  He nodded and gave her a simple kiss, taking his hat back as he went to his end of the plow. With a little more time, they got it across the cart. He had to walk with it to make sure it didn’t teeter, but the mule learned well, even from the end of a stick.

  “Cooper didn’t have any sugar,” he told her before he started for the road.

  “That’s okay. I’ll make
do.”

  He wished he could bottle her optimism and take some when the world seemed dark. A sip or two might have saved him walking to town with one hand bracing the plow. He could take the rest of the afternoon off and have an easier tomorrow once the plow was ready. The mule would be grateful for an early dinner and well-earned nap. Instead, he smacked its backside when it veered to the side of the road.

  “Not much longer,” he promised as they passed the courthouse and around the buildings to bring the cart behind Delmar’s shop.

  Delmar stuck his head out the back door as he unhitched the mule.

  “Leave him if you want,” he told him. “He looks run to death, and I’ve got oats in the stall.”

  “How long is this going to take?”

  “I can’t say,” Delmar shook his head. “Could be an hour. Could be more.”

  “I told you I need it today,” he raised his voice. “It’ll be near dark in another hour.”

  “That’s the best I can do,” Delmar shrugged and waited for his answer.

  John shook his head, like it would make the whole situation come out better. He trusted Delmar. The man was as honest as they came and would rather die than do a good friend wrong, but he made commitments. He was in as tight a spot with about as much as stake, so John’s choice was to either stand in line or haul the plow back home and wait until morning.

  “Well, what the hell am I supposed to do while I wait?” he asked.

  “I did work on Jacob Riley’s still last week, and he paid me in credit next door. I told Mable I’d cut back on drinking, so it’s yours. Should be enough to smooth that edge off your face.”

  With that, John thought his fortune might be turning. After all, he planned to drink anyway and Riley’s stock was better than the rotgut at home.

  “Fine,” he huffed and went for the oats. Delmar was gone when he came back, so he didn’t have a chance to thank him. He patted the mule and walked to the saloon.

  Riley leaned against the wall behind the counter with one foot propped behind him and a small cigar between his teeth. He stared at the empty tables, ignoring the four men at the counter. Three huddled on the far end: one barely old enough to drink, another with the constant grin of an idiot, and the third annoyed with the others, his glances sharp like a viper’s. The fourth stood near the middle of the room, an older gentleman with his eyes on the bar. Given the rough look of the others, John thought that a smart call so took his place on the near end and did the same, nodding at Riley as he approached.

  “John,” the bartender nodded back. “I haven’t seen you here in some time. That last bottle is bound to be swill by now.”

  “It’s good to its purpose,” John smiled.

  “So what can I do for you today?”

  “A glass of whatever’s good,” he told him.

  “My, my,” Riley arched his eyebrows, “don’t tell me you’ve gotten rich on us. You find a gold nugget under your maple?”

  “Nothing like that,” John said. “I’m using Delmar’s credit.”

  “I hoped his newfound sobriety meant a bit of free work,” Riley grinned as he slipped back to his bottles to pour the drink, “but I should have known that weasel would trade it. What did you give him?”

  “A little patience,” he said when he had his whiskey and sipped.

  “From you, that’s a bargain,” Riley knocked a fist on the counter. “Let me know when you need another.”

  “Will do,” John settled in to drink, each swallow warming higher until his face glowed. He should have stopped there but remembered enough of the morning to order another. As Riley poured, John realized the three across the room stared at him.

  “Do you know them?” John nodded in their direction when Riley came back, his tongue heavy with the words. The one who looked like a snake tilted his head and narrowed his eyes with more interest now he knew John talked about them.

  “Brothers passing through. They drove cattle from Georgia and are heading home. They’ve kept to themselves since they came in. Why?”

  “I’m just trying to figure out why they keep looking at me.”

  “Because you keep looking at them,” Riley leaned closer. “Pace yourself on this next glass. If you’re still working on the bottle you bought three months ago, this might be strong.”

  “You saying I can’t handle my liquor?” John furrowed his brow.

  “I’m saying I don’t want to explain to Mary why I let you get drunk enough to start trouble with men you don’t know.”

  “It was a question.”

  “Make sure you keep it at that,” Riley left again.

  “For what it’s worth,” the old man spoke low, “they’re talking about you too.”

  “You don’t say,” John said with a hard and satisfied smile. “What have they been saying?”

  “I haven’t caught all of it,” the man came closer, “but the words I could were ‘rich’ and ‘easy’. I think they’re planning to rob you.”

  “Rob what?” John dribbled his next sip down the front of his shirt. “They can follow me home and fill their pockets with cold dirt and dead seed, if they want.”

  “You sure that’s all you have to lose?” the old man lifted an eyebrow. John pulled back when he realized his meaning.

  “Did they threaten my wife?” he stumbled.

  “John,” Riley said and shook his head.

  “They’re talking about my wife,” he pointed, unsteady fingers drawing circles in the air.

  “I didn’t say a God-damned word about anybody’s wife,” the meanest-looking brother called out. “You can take my word on that.”

  “If I don’t?” John sneered.

  “John,” Riley repeated.

  The man reached under the bar and came up with a long-barreled revolver he set in front of him. He didn’t keep his hand on it, letting that fall back into his lap as he measured John’s reaction. Though he was past feeling his face, John thought he controlled it well. He didn’t give the bastard a thing.

  “Sir,” Riley held his hand out to placate the man. “There’s no need to bring artillery into this. I can vouch for this man. He’s had a hard winter and too much to drink. He won’t be any problem.”

  “No?” the man with the gun asked.

  “He’s harmless,” Riley said to John. “Ain’t you?”

  John didn’t answer.

  “What if I ask him into the street to see how harmless he is? You saying he won’t draw on me?”

  “I’ll draw my knuckles across your nose,” John slurred, knowing he needed to stop. He had things to do, and no one would plow his field for him when he was dead. Oscar Hovington’s men would after they took the land, but then what would Mary do? All over sore talk and too much liquor.

  “That a fact?” the man rested his hand on his revolver.

  “No,” John said, and Riley sighed his relief. “I guess not. I’m just a dumb, drunk farmer whose plow broke this afternoon, so I guess I was looking for a fight, but not with you. I don’t feel steady on my feet right now so doubt I’d do better with even odds and the promise that gun will stay in its holster. I’m gonna go before I get in any worse trouble, but before I do, let me tell you there’s no point in robbing me. I’m drinking on borrowed credit, so you won’t get more than an overworked mule and a plow that will likely break again tomorrow.”

  Of the three, the only one who laughed was the stupid-looking one. The boy stared at his feet the moment John stood and now seemed ready to throw up. The one holding the gun lit a cigar and stared. He smoked in stoic silence as if waiting for John to say something else. When it was clear he was done, the man returned the gun to its holster. He clenched his teeth around the cigar and nodded, as if the slate was clean and all forgiven. John nodded back and took up his hat, glancing at Riley before he turned to leave.

  “You did forget one thing,” the man called after him. John knew he should keep walking. There was too much gloat in the voice for anything worth a damn to come out.
Still, he stopped.

  “Maybe that wife of yours has something worth us stopping by,” the man said, his words hanging in the air. For a moment, they were the only sound, but soon after, the idiot cackled. The boy’s eyes widened, but John was ready to kill them all when he stomped toward them. Lucky for him, Riley had experience dealing with rowdy drunks and leapt over the counter to stop him. With one hand on John’s wrist and the other on his shoulder, the barkeep pulled him the other way.

  “Don’t make me get the sheriff, John. Don’t make me do that to you.”

  “You heard what he said.”

  “I heard words, and those lose meaning with bourbon behind them. I’ve done this long enough to know most men regret their evening threats in the full light of day.”

  “I’ll make him regret his now,” John tensed and tried to pull away, but then the old man grabbed his other arm. He didn’t think someone that frail would be much help holding him, but as his withered hands touched John’s other shoulder, the struggle drained out. A whisper followed, but not from the man’s mouth. It came from inside his own head.

  Not yet.

  John blew a breath like a bull snorting in its pen and looked into the old man’s face. He gave a short nod before letting him go, and John turned, jerking his other arm from Riley.

  “See you later, hoss,” came from the end of the bar as he walked out, but he didn’t go back. There were other ways to deal with men like that. If they showed up at his house, he’d be ready with the Hawken rifle he carried to war. It didn’t kill a single Yankee but would do well enough for a group of shitheads from Georgia. He murdered all three in his mind as he walked to Delmar’s shop and found the door locked. He banged with his fist and waited. After a second time, he guessed Delmar must be out back with his plow so went to meet him.