Christina and Travis were becoming closer but not intimate. She still maintained an emotional distance, but both looked forward to their nightly ritual of stargazing and conversation before bedtime.
Both the sensei and Travis recognized they were on the path to establishing one of those friendships that a man finds only once or twice in a lifetime. As is often the case, it was unspoken, but the bond was pure and strong, nonetheless.
Nobody in the group could say what the future held, but the present, tenuous as it was, felt good.
The only problem they had, as they sailed toward the new inland waterway, was lack of fresh meat. Todd still caught a few fish, but they had eaten all the canned chicken and beef. They would exhaust their other supplies too quickly trying to substitute them for meat, so something had to be done.
Travis and the preacher, both having done a considerable amount of small-game hunting, came up with the idea of a hunting trip into the interior. The little flotilla was near the Mississippi–Alabama border, and Travis figured there would be deer, wild turkey, and probably boar in the surrounding woodlands. The group decided to anchor their boats in a bay near the shore, while the two men took the Amazing Avon in and looked for game. Travis and the preacher would leave at sunrise the next day and be back by sunset, with or without success.
The cold dawn crept over the misted trees and fog-shrouded water of the small bay. The hunters were ready; Christina had packed them a tote bag with a couple of cans of fruit and vegetables, as well as a half-gallon of water. Both of the men carried an M16, and Travis had his nine-millimeter pistol, stuck in his belt under his sweater.
After a goodbye that included a less-than-hasty embrace from Christina, Travis stepped down into the raft with his companion, and they paddled ashore. There, they tied up the boat and headed inland.
The first hour was spent crisscrossing through the brush trying to find a game trail. The preacher finally located one with fresh spore— deer for sure. They followed the trail for about an hour, the old shrimper periodically doing an excellent turkey call just in case there might be a bird in the area.
It was midmorning when the path finally broke into a clearing. There in the center of a small meadow stood a six-point buck. They quietly knelt out of sight and, without taking his eyes from the deer, Travis said, “Go ahead, take him.”
The preacher raised his gun and fired. The deer’s head snapped back as if it had been slugged, its legs buckled, and it dropped to the ground. When they reached the animal, Travis realized his friend had gone for a head-shot, a credit to his confidence with a rifle.
The preacher saw him examining the deer. “A heart shot with this kind of bullet would have torn up too much meat.”
“Nice shooting for a shrimper,” remarked Travis.
The preacher laughed, “Son, give me a good gun and I can neuter a bullfrog at a hundred yards. Now let’s get this fella hung and dressed.”
While they were dressing the deer they heard the turkey. “An ol’ gobbler for sure,” the preacher said with a smile. “He ain’t far from here, let me go take a look—maybe I can add a bird to the larder.”
Travis agreed and continued to dress the deer, quartering it and storing the meat in canvas gear bags from the sailboat.
For the first fifteen minutes he could hear his friend calling and the turkey responding. Eventually, both became fainter until finally, there were no more sounds from either one. He wasn’t concerned for the first half-hour, as he was kept busy getting the deer packed; but, as a half hour moved into an hour and there was still no word from the shrimper, Travis started to worry. It was afternoon—they had their meat and he wanted to get back before dark. He walked to the edge of the clearing and called. No answer. He went back, picked up his rifle, and began to follow the trail the preacher had taken.
Travis called a couple of times as he walked, but the farther he got into the bush, the less he felt comfortable about yelling and giving away his position. Giving away my position to whom? he thought, the back of his neck prickling ever so slightly.
He’d been following what he thought to be the preacher’s trail for about twenty minutes when he heard a sound up ahead. Cautiously, his gun ready, he rounded the bend in the path. There, in a small clearing, lay the inert body of his companion. Travis looked around quickly and, seeing no one, ran forward and knelt beside the older man. There was still a pulse, but he’d been badly beaten. There didn’t appear to be any major wounds, just a number of cuts and bruises. Travis was bringing the preacher around when he felt the cold muzzle of a rifle pressed against the back of his neck.
“Well, well, here’s the boy we been waitin’ for. This other fella just weren’t the talkative type, didn’t wanna tell us nothin’, but he made good bait. Now you drop that fancy gun, mister, and turn around real slow.”
Standing in front of Travis were two characters right out of the Beverly Hillbillies, before they moved to town: patched and ragged pants, only one of them with shoes, crumpled hats, dirty shirts, and unkempt beards. They would have appeared humorous were it not for the malevolent eyes.
Suddenly, the one in the rear started shuffling back and forth nervously, and in a moronic southern drawl, began to whine, “Can I shoot ’em, Billy? Can I shoot ’em? Come on, Billy, you always get to shoot ’em. Let me shoot these ones!”
As the dimwitted little brother danced over to Travis and started to raise his gun, the older one knocked it aside and pushed him to the ground.
“How many times I gotta tell you, you don’t do nothin’ ’less I tell you to. We ain’t gonna shoot ’em here. We gonna take ’em back to Ma. Maybe they belong to them boats in the bay. Ma wants to know.”
“It ain’t no fair, Billy, it ain’t no fair. I never get to shoot nobody,” the little one moaned, getting to his feet. “You know what’s gonna happen if we take ’em home to Ma! Come on, Billy, ’least let me shoot the beat-up one. He deserves to be shot. Called me a inbred bastard and I wanna shoot him. Come on, Billy,” he whined, “just let me shoot him a little bit.”
The older one swung around and raised his hand as if to strike his demented younger brother, who yelped and danced back. “I’m only gonna tell you once more,” he growled. “We ain’t gonna shoot ’em here. Now get your rope out and tie their hands.”
The preacher was roused with a kick to his ribs, then he and Travis were forced to kneel with their hands behind their backs. While they were being tied, the smaller brother maintained a steady stream of one-sided conversation.
“Billy, what about them shiny guns? Can I have one of them, Billy, can I have one?”
Billy had set down his older model shotgun and was attempting to figure out the action on the M16.
Travis looked up at him. “If you’ll untie me, I’ll show you how that works.”
Billy looked at him disdainfully and pointed at his brother. “He’s the idiot, mister, not me. I’ll figure it out. Until then, you just shut up and do what you’re told, or I just might let Walt have you.”
Seconds later they were dragged to their feet and pushed along the trail by Billy and his brother, who reminded Travis of a sadistic Howdy Doody. As they walked, the preacher related what had happened.
“The sons of bitches caught me by surprise. One steps out onto the trail and says, ‘Howdy, stranger,’ just as polite and friendly as can be. The other one sneaks up on me, quiet as a cat, and clubs me with the butt of his gun. When I came to, they wanted to know who I was, how I got there, whether or not I’m with the boats in the bay, and the moron keeps wantin’ to know what kind of goodies I have for him— whatever that means. When they didn’t get the answers they wanted, the pair decided to bounce me around a bit. Somewhere along the line, they hit me too hard. Thereabouts, I guess, you came into the picture.” The preacher paused to catch his breath. “Wasn’t long ago a buddy of mine was telling me about some of the backwoods families in the wilderness area along this here southern Mississippi–Alabama border. There’s a
handful of people who live back in the swamps and lowlands that ain’t had much truck with the outside world. Some of them have been known to be less than hospitable to strangers; that is to say, people sometimes disappear in this area—hikers who get a little off the beaten path, hunters who just never come home— situations like that. Even the law don’t get back here much. First off, these people, with the exception of our little buddy here, ain’t that stupid. They ain’t gonna leave anything for the sheriff to find. Secondly, sometimes even the lawmen disappear. I hate to say it, son, but I’ll bet you fifty bucks to a hatful of shrimp that’s exactly what we’ve stumbled into here.”
“You don’t paint a real encouraging picture,” Travis said. “Reminds me of a movie I once saw. I can almost hear the banjo music in the background.”
The preacher smiled. “Yeah, I remember. But this ain’t Hollywood, son, and if we don’t pay attention, these sons of bitches are gonna kill us. Let’s just keep our wits about us; maybe we can catch them with their guard down.”
“I hope they untie our hands first,” replied Travis dryly.
They walked for about an hour on a rough and winding path. The land became higher and drier with more pine trees. Finally the path opened into a hummock of oaks and pines. On the far side of the hummock sat a small wooden house, smoke curling out of the chimney. There was a well-maintained chicken coop, a handful of pigs in a small pen, and a narrow barn-like structure in the back of the compound.
They were being forced across the clearing toward the barn, when a woman emerged from the house. She could have been any country boy’s mother. Her graying hair was pulled back in a bun. She had a cherubic face flushed from working near the stove, and a chubby but solid body with strong-looking shoulders and arms. The only things out of place in that picture were the two wolf-like dogs that came out of the house behind the woman and moved up, one on each side of her.
Dressed in a gingham dress with a cooking apron, she smiled when she saw her boys, and waddled over. “Well, well. Looks like we have guests,” she said amiably as she studied Travis and the preacher. “You boys wouldn’t be from those boats over yonder in the bay, would you?” Neither the preacher nor Travis said anything. “My, looks like the cat’s got you fellas’ tongues, huh?” she added, the grin fading a little.
She turned quickly to Billy, who flinched involuntarily as she swung her heavy body towards him. “Take ’em to the shed and wait for me. I gotta get a pie out of the oven.”
“Yes, Ma,” Billy said dutifully. Little Walt hung in the background and said nothing, following Billy as he walked with the prisoners. As they walked toward the shed Travis noticed the stump of an old oak about two feet high and two feet across in the center of the clearing. From a distance it looked like someone had coated the top and most of the sides with a reddish-black paint. Buried in the center of the stump was a short-handled axe.
The barn—or shed, as they called it—had a large open area at the entrance, and a couple of stalls for domestic animals, though Travis could see no cows or horses. Various types of farm equipment lay stored against or hung on the surrounding walls.
Once inside the building, Travis and the preacher were pushed to the ground. While Travis sat there on the hay-covered floor, he observed something unique about the two brothers—both were missing fingers. Billy was missing an index finger, and little Walt was lacking an index on one hand and a little finger on the other. Travis wondered what they did that was so hazardous to the hands.
Walt seemed to be more animated now that Ma wasn’t around. He slid up to Travis with that goofy, malicious smile of his and put the barrel of his shotgun in front of Travis’ face. “Open your mouth, Mister. I wanna see if my gun fits in it!” When Travis didn’t respond quickly enough, he pushed the barrel against his face hard enough to split his lip. “I said get it open or I’ll shove this gun into your mouth and out the back of your head!”
Billy stood to one side, smiling, a sadistic glint in his eyes.
Travis looked up at the little moronic monster. Blood was running down his chin from the lacerated lip. “First chance I get, I’m gonna kill you, you retarded little prick.”
Walt’s eyes grew wide at the insult, then narrowed to brutal slits as he drew back his gun, preparing to thrust it at Travis. Just then there was a hoarse shout from the door. “Walter!”
Little Walt wilted like a daisy in a microwave as his mother stood silhouetted in the doorway. “I wasn’t doin’ nothin’, Ma. I just . . . he called me—”
“I don’t care what he called you,” she spat at him, the “sweet old lady” façade melting off her features, leaving a cold, rock-hard face that could make a steelworker flinch. “I told you to put them in the shed. I didn’t tell you to touch them, did I?”
“No, Ma—ma’am,” Walt stuttered. “It’s just—”
“Shut up,” she growled. “You have offended me, Walt. Don’t offend me again today. You know the law.” The implied threat was ugly, sinister, and Walt wilted even more, his head down, eyes cast to the floor.
The heavy woman was no longer concerned with her image. She lumbered over to Travis like a refrigerator with legs, her cobalt eyes hard and merciless. Looking down at him, she pointed to the preacher. “Who’s your friend here?”
“Don’t know,” Travis replied, looking her in the eye. “Never saw him before today.”
The preacher was sitting on the floor beside the woman, totally unprepared for what happened next. She turned casually, reached into her apron, and pulled out an extremely sharp-looking pruning knife. Before anyone realized what was happening, she grabbed the preacher by the hair and said, “Then you won’t mind if I cut him some, will you?” Drawing the knife from the temple, next to the preacher’s right eye, she ran it down his cheek. The older man cried out and pulled away, sprawling onto the floor, blood streaming across his face.
As she reached for the preacher again, Travis yelled, “Okay, okay, don’t hurt him anymore. I know him. I know him!”
She turned back to Travis with a mirthless smile. “That’s better. Now, I’m going to ask you some questions and, as long as you’re answering, I won’t have to cut him again. Tell me, are those your boats out there in the bay?”
Travis hesitated just slightly, and once again, she reached for the preacher.
“All right, all right. They’re our boats.”
“How many people are with you on the boats?”
“Four more, that’s all.”
“I hope you’re telling me the truth,” she said, riveting Travis’ eyes with hers. “You offend me with your lies and there will be hell to pay. Do your friends have any more guns on them boats?”
“Yeah,” replied Travis truthfully.
“I’m thinkin’ I might like to make a trade with your friends on them boats—you and this here fella for whatever they have that I want. I think that’s a real good deal, don’t you, Mister? You two think on it. The boys here will snug you up while I finish my work in the kitchen. We’ll check on you a little later.”
Travis and the preacher were bound hand and foot, then dragged over and tied against the wood slats that framed the stalls.
The brothers left, and as soon as the doors closed, Travis turned to the preacher. “Listen, I’ve still got my pistol tucked into my belt under my sweater. Those idiots didn’t even search me. If one of us can get untied, we’ve still got a chance.”
For the next twenty minutes, they struggled with their bonds.
The preacher finally collapsed, exhausted and exasperated. “It ain’t no use. I’m trussed up tighter than a Sunday goose.”
Travis, pouring with sweat, spoke through clenched teeth, “I’m beating it, Preacher. My wrist ropes are giving just enough.” Then, with a short lurch of his shoulders, a hand broke free. “Got it,” he whispered as he pulled his other hand loose and struggled to his feet. Seconds later he was standing, free of the ropes. “Now you,” he said, but as he bent to the preacher they heard footst
eps outside. With no time to plan, Travis pulled his gun and scrambled over against the wall next to the doors.
A moment later the brothers sauntered through the door. Just inside the room, they stopped dead when they saw only the preacher sitting there against the stall. Travis moved in behind them, kicking the younger brother in the base of his back and sending him sprawling across the floor. At the same time he put his gun to the temple of the older brother. “If you want to keep what little brains you have inside your head, drop that gun, now!” As little brother scrambled up, grabbing his gun, Travis stepped behind Billy, his gun still at the man’s temple. “Drop it, Walt, or I’ll blow your brother’s brains out.”
Walt looked like he was just about to cooperate when Travis saw him smile. Travis was just starting to turn when something hard and heavy smashed against the base of his skull, delivering an explosion of pain, then darkness.
The sun was just beginning to set as Travis awoke. His first sensation, past the blinding pain in his skull, was the constriction of his right arm. When his head cleared and his eyes focused, he found himself in front of the house, tied to the ominous tree stump he had noticed earlier. His left arm was secured tightly to his side, and his legs were tied together. His right arm, however, had been laced to the top of the stump, held by cords that were fastened to spikes nailed into the side of the old tree. It was bound so tightly that he couldn’t move his wrist a quarter-inch in any direction, and the pressure from the ropes was numbing. Most ominous of all, though, was the axe blade buried in the wood only inches away. He looked closely at the red-black matter that covered the old oak and his stomach convulsed: The entire stump was covered with dried blood. He suddenly knew, with terrifying certainty, that it wasn’t just from unlucky chickens.
He strained at his bonds, attempting to survey the area when he heard footsteps behind him. A moment later he saw Ma waddle into sight, flanked by her pair of wolf-dogs, whose cold eyes scrutinized Travis with the deadly intention of hungry sharks. Behind her came the brothers, pushing a trussed-up preacher ahead of them.
The New Madrid Run Page 15
