The Wettest County in the World

by Matt Bondurant

  Oh God, Jack, what d’we do? Bertha said.

  She was bouncing from side to side like an animal ready to bolt. Jack grabbed her hand.

  We run, he said. Stay with me.

  He pushed Cricket in the back, into the woods.

  Go, dammit!

  Cricket took off and Jack and Bertha sprinted after.

  ON A ROCKY outcropping about forty yards above the still site Howard Bondurant crouched like some kind of ruined gargoyle, watching the sheriffs coming up the mountain. He had his collar turned up against the chill wind and a wool cap pulled down to his eyes. An empty quart jar balanced on a small thrust of limestone. He had watched his brother come up with the girl, seen them traipse about the camp, Bertha exploring the elements with the acute eye of a woman who wanted a piece of a world that was not her own. He felt oddly unconcerned about the approaching danger, the sheriffs who would be in the camp in a few minutes and who would destroy the stills before his eyes. Howard was thinking about how his little brother had led a pack of revenuers right to the still, practically blazing a trail.

  The sheriffs came jogging into the clearing, guns out and calling to one another. Howard watched Charley Rakes dip a hand into the still beer. He thought about Jack getting beat at the hands of this man and winced. Abshire leaning thoughtfully on his ax, lighting a cigarette. Jefferson Richards laughing and tapping the blackened still with his knuckles. The spread of the valley rippled before Howard like water, the knobs of the neighboring mountains bobbing like ships on the sea. Howard stood and lacing his fingers together stretched his arms over his head, the vertebrae cracking up his spine as he arched. He sighed and picked up the jar and dangled it over his open mouth, catching the last few strands of syrupy liquid. He weighed the heavy glass in hand for a moment, looking out over the valley, resplendent with faint tracings of golden fire, the small snake of Snow Creek, the hills of Rocky Mount. A thick bank of clouds was rolling in from the east. It would storm.

  Too bad about the tobacco, he thought. Might have changed things. Maybe none of this would have happened.

  Then Howard hurled the jar at the oval head of Charley Rakes.

  THEY MADE A LINE across the face of the mountain, following the stream. They could hear the sheriffs in the camp as they scrambled through heavy brush, the ground littered with windfall and deadwood, Bertha working her way like a seasoned mountain girl, and Jack had to marvel at her athletic grace as they galloped along, high-footing it over logs and brambles. They were a few hundred yards away, working around the bend of the mountain, and Jack was feeling they were safe; there was no pursuit and they couldn’t be caught with that head start, not by any man.

  Cricket, Jack hissed.

  Cricket slowed and crouched in the leaves, waiting for Jack and Bertha to catch up. When they reached him Bertha leaned her arms against a tree, breathing hard, and Jack put his hands on his knees and spit dryly several times.

  Was that Howard? That yell?

  Cricket nodded, blinking.

  Hold on, Bertha said, what happened back there?

  We better move on, Jack, Cricket said. They’ll be on our trail here shortly.

  Bertha pushed the sweaty strands of hair out of her face, her white blouse streaked with bark and bush grease. She wiped her palms on the legs of her overalls. Thick clouds were rolling over the mountain and under the trees the darkness settled heavy and close. Jack was about to reply when the distinct thum…thum…pock…pock pock of gunfire came echoing across the face of the mountain, coming from the camp. Two shotgun blasts, then pistol fire.

  Oh glory, Bertha said.

  Jack and Cricket looked at each other, Cricket’s face a strange working of anguish that Jack hadn’t seen before.

  Ah Jack, I’m sorry, he said. I’m so sorry.

  They were shooting Howard, Jack thought. The bastards were shooting his brother. Or he was shooting them.

  The shotgun, Jack said. Where is it?

  In a poke by the mash barrels, Cricket said.

  Go, Cricket, take her. I’ll meet you back at the station tonight.

  What? Bertha said. Don’t leave me!

  Distant shouts from the camp, indistinguishable. Howard was alone, outnumbered.

  I gotta go back, Jack said.

  He took Cricket’s hand and put it on her arm.

  Go, dammit!

  Jack turned and sprinted back as still more gunshots floated out across the dark valley.

  CHARLEY RAKES was shouldering his ax, preparing to unload on the still when a jar whistled over his shoulder and exploded on the still cap.

  What tha?

  Charley Rakes dropped the ax and grabbed the shotgun out of Jeff Richards’s hands.

  What the hell happened, Charley?

  Rakes raised his gun up the hill, and the other men saw the silhouette of Howard on a rocky outcrop above them, standing spread legged with his arms hanging loosely at his sides, a blot against the violet sky.

  Who the hell is that?

  Howard watched the men assemble, pointing their guns at him, their barrels like small black insects in their hands. When Rakes fired, Howard saw the charge of sparks and light and felt the shot whistle by, rippling his pant legs, the shot chattering on the rocks. Rakes fired his second barrel, again low, and Richards let go with his pistol, his bullets whining by Howard’s head, one slug somersaulting by his ear, the sound like a tumbling bee. The valley echoed with the reports as Howard stood there, watching the men trying to kill him. They seemed like tiny feral creatures scrabbling in the dirt.

  You, come down from there!

  I swear I’ll shoot you if you don’t get down here!

  Howard turned and walked off into the brush. To the men below it was as if someone had shut off a light; the darkness of the wood sprang at them.

  Where’d he go?

  Shut up and listen!

  It’s that big son of a bitch Howard.

  You sure?

  Then Howard was descending, the men could hear his footfalls, the crunching of undergrowth and they huddled together, their guns outstretched in a defensive perimeter.

  Get a light goin’!

  Howard’s mind was quite clear as he approached the men. His eyes were nearly closed, mere slits, and he walked down the hill leaning far back on his heels. He felt relaxed and quick. The darkness did not seem to affect him; he stepped nimbly around log and stump, the glowing image of the four men like a beacon in the rapidly darkening wood. He would wade into them and explode in their midst, cut them all down.

  JACK REACHED the shotgun as Abshire got a stick of pitch pine blazing. Jack crouched behind the mash barrels, a mere fifty feet from the four men who looked wildly up the hill, pointing their guns into the black. He could hear Howard coming down the hill toward them, crashing through brush like a wounded deer. Thunder shook the trees. Abshire got the torch going and held it aloft, illuminating the group, and Jack ducked back down behind the mash barrels, clutching the shotgun. He didn’t know if it was loaded or not. There were no shells in the bag, and he was afraid to break it open to check. I’ll just have to hope it is, he thought.

  When you see ’im, pop him one, Jeff Richards said.

  It seemed to Jack like Howard was going to walk right out into the clearing, walk right out into their guns. What the hell is he doing? Jack scrunched up behind the barrels and shut his eyes.

  Hey! Jack yelled.

  Dammit, there’s another!

  Who’s there?

  Watch him coming down the hill here!

  You better run, Jack said. You better get out now.

  He was answered with a few pistol rounds in his general direction. One round punctured the mash box he was hiding behind, the mash glugging out the opening, pooling at Jack’s feet. The torchlight flickered over him. He couldn’t tell if they were coming toward him or not. He poked the shotgun out with one hand and aimed it in their general direction, but high, and pulled the trigger. Both barrels let go, jerking the heavy gun out of
Jack’s hand. The torchlight immediately winked out and a man screamed.

  Sweet Jesus! someone yelled.

  Shit! Get that light, Henry!

  Jack heard Richards scream.

  He’s here!

  A pistol shot, a heavy grunt and thud, shoes shuffling in the leaves.

  Jack peeked around the box and in the low light from the torch that lay on the ground he saw his brother springing from the woods like a coiled demon. The men quailed and shrank back, one man already on the ground holding his head. Using the force of his leap into their midst Howard drove a fist into the body of a man trying to twist away, striking him square on the shoulder, and Jack could see the arm fold up, the unnatural angles of bone coming through his shirt. Charley Rakes was on his hands and knees, searching for his gun, Jefferson Richards flashing out of the light, running fast down the hill. Abshire staggered to his feet, the side of his face a slick of blood. He grabbed the man on the ground, moaning and clutching his shoulder, trying to help him up. Howard stood there calmly in the flickering light, watching the three men struggle on the ground. Rakes looked up at him, pawing at the leaves, looking for a gun.

  I’m gonna kill you goddammit!

  Jack stood and leveled the shotgun at Rakes. He knew that he wanted the man to grovel for his life. He would put the barrel in his face and make him beg for it. The darkness seemed to separate him from the men and the gun in his hands. He charged toward Rakes, aiming the shotgun from the hip.

  Hey Rakes, Jack yelled. Remember me?

  Rakes cranked his head around, his face shifting, his eyes widening. Before Jack took three steps he had cocked both hammers and pulled the trigger. It surprised him; it was like the fingers acted on their own. Howard was looking at him too, his face blank as water. The hammers fell on the empty chambers with a solid thunk. Then Howard stepped on the torch, plunging them all into darkness.

  Let’s go, Charley! Abshire yelled. Richards is gone!

  Jack froze, blinking in the dark. There was the sound of more struggle, the pitiful groans from the man with the broken shoulder. A faint glimmer of movement, arms around bodies, thumping footfalls. Another gunshot, the flash illuminating only the spidery limbs of trees and the outstretched arm that held the pistol. The crack and whine of a ricochet close to Jack’s ear, the bullet cracking through the woods. Jack dropped into a crouch, arms protecting his head. He didn’t want Rakes anymore; it was over when the hammers fell on empty chambers. He wanted to run. The patter of rain in the trees, then a sudden downpour, roaring. Then Howard’s voice in the dark, close to him and clear and calm:

  Go, Jack. Now.

  Jack sprinted down the hill to the west, working toward the faint slice of horizon through the trees.

  JACK MADE his father’s house by daybreak. He was mud-spattered and bone-tired, running in a black haze most of the night across the mountain and then along Snow Creek. The thunderstorm was brief and the ground already dry. As he came up the drive his father was heading out to the store and he passed Jack without a word or glance. Jack staggered into his room and collapsed on the bed and slept until noon, finally awakened by the shifting sunlight and the sound of voices outside. In the kitchen he ate a few biscuits washed down with several glasses of cold water. As he gulped the water the enormity of last night came crashing down; the deputies would be back in daylight and the stills would be destroyed. They would come back with more men and guns and dynamite the site. Thousands of dollars of supplies and materials, a whole season of work and the potential income, all lost. They couldn’t have followed him, he was careful, and there was no solid trail. He winced and set the glass down hard on the counter, cracking the base and slicing his palm. Dammit dammit dammit. He shouldn’t have brought Bertha; it was so damn obvious. Howard knew. Forrest would blame him.

  He watched the trickle of blood running down the side of his hand. The voices outside the house continued, two people talking on the front porch. One of them was his sister, Emmy, the other a man he didn’t recognize. The way she was talking was strange, soft and lilting, like she was talking to a child.

  Marshall Wingfield was leaning on the porch post, legs crossed, dressed in a pale suit with a kerchief around his neck. He held a straw boater in his hand.

  Hey there, Jack, Wingfield said.

  Wingfield’s cheeks were ruddy and he beamed at Jack, straightening up and offering up his hand. Emmy sat demurely, looking at her folded forearms in her lap. She had a small cluster of wildflowers on her dress, tied with a bit of ribbon. Emmy’s glassy hair fell on both sides of her face and she did not lift her head.

  Wingfield snatched Jack’s hand, wringing it hard, grinning.

  How are you, old sport? Wingfield said.

  Emmy would not raise her head. Wingfield’s car, a new Dodge coupe, sat shining on the lawn. The leaves of the stunted dogwood tree in the yard went belly-up, waving their undersides, and the clouds gathered. Gonna rain again, Jack thought. I’ll be damned.

  Think you done cut yourself, Wingfield said.

  Wingfield held up his hand, smeared with blood. Jack looked down at the rivulets of blood going down his forearm, spattering on his pants. Wingfield was holding his hand up and away from his clothes, doing his best to maintain a pleasant smile. His suit seemed to pulse with a soft, glowing light.

  That’s a nice suit, Jack said. Real nice.

  Jack struck hard with his bloody right hand, a straight punch that seemed to come from inside his chest and caught Wingfield flush on one rosy cheek with a loud smack.

  Jack!

  Jack’s hands felt fast and as Wingfield bent at the waist, hands at his face, Jack cut loose with a series of left hooks into the side of his head until Wingfield went sprawling into the yard.

  What th’ hell’s s’matter with you? Wingfield shouted.

  Jack squared up to him. Lead with the left, he thought, use the left and set up the right cross. He put his left foot out and stepped to Wingfield who was in a low crouch, hands up in a defensive position. He reached out and tapped him on the forehead with the left, once, twice, three times, snapping Wingfield’s head back, his hands going higher until he was trying to cover up with his elbows. There was a rush of wind and the ripping sound began again, low at first and building into a high scream. Just as Jack saw the opening for the right, Wingfield folded and sat down heavily on the grass, a sleepy look on his face. The sound from the sky poured forth into his ears, the earth ripping open. I got it this time, Jack thought, stepping up to Wingfield.

  Get up, you son of a bitch!

  He wanted to finish the combination; Wingfield was ruining it. The ripping sound wavered and cut and Jack paused, confused by the sudden silence. Wingfield crawled away, gasping for air, the rump of his suit grass stained, groping for his hat. Jack turned and saw the contorted face of his sister staring at him in horror, her face agape in a twisted shape of sorrow. Emmy took a deep breath and began to scream again.

  Chapter 24

  1930

  GRANVILLE CLOSED DOWN his store early and picked up Jack at the house in Snow Creek. They drove west to Haw Patch Hill and the Jamison farm for a wood chopping. With the stills dynamited into a blackened hole of copper shards on the mountainside, Jack stayed on living with his father, helping out around the farm and generally avoiding his brothers.

  Get out of here, Forrest told him when he turned up at the Blackwater station a few days later.

  It wasn’t my fault, Jack said. No one followed us, I swear.

  Get the hell out.

  Jack hadn’t seen Howard in weeks, but Jack got word that his brother was apparently unhurt and back at Forrest’s sawmill. He hadn’t seen or heard anything about Cricket, his hut on the mountain empty, his scant possessions scattered on the dirt floor as usual. Bertha, whom Jack saw only in passing in town, said he dropped her home and that was it, but he wasn’t arrested so Jack figured his friend was okay. The tobacco crop was gone, and Jack had about forty dollars tucked into a soap can in his trunk. F
orrest would get by, though soon the sawmill would shut for the winter and the Blackwater station was losing business; Carter Lee had put the word out that no one was to do business with the Bondurants, legitimate or otherwise. Everything Howard had and then some was in the stills.

  The Jamison farm lay at the foot of Thornton Mountain in the western part of Franklin County, a rough, mostly wooded stretch with hard clay to well depth. Granville followed the dirt track that wound by the frame house and into the back fields dotted with cattle. Thin plumes of smoke rose from the fields abutting the mountain slope. The felling was finished, and the men were pulling stumps with teams of mules and rolling and carrying the heavy logs to the wagons for transport down the hillside, others burning piles of brush. Most of the able-bodied men from the southern part of the county were there.

  Jack joined Howard cutting out stumps while their father helped the older men driving the mules and workhorse teams and cutting small limbs. Forrest was absent. Howard was stripped down to his undershirt and suspenders, his body smoking in the brisk fall air. Jack looked at his brother’s face for some indication of his mood but Howard merely bent to the task. It was difficult and slippery work, the damp roots like rubber and the footing crumbled and shifted. Several times Jack bounced his ax off a bent root like black rubber and narrowly missed cutting his legs or feet. The roots had to be struck at the right angle to bite and eventually they swung into an easy rhythm of Jack setting the cut in a root and then Howard using his heavy broadax to chop it clean.

  Lucy here? asked Jack.

  Yep.

  Working on supper?

  Suppose so.

  The two brothers worked in silence for the next hour, and Jack figured Howard felt there was nothing to talk about. But where was Cricket? They had been in spots before, plenty, and Cricket’s usual response was a morose sort of defeatism and a period of hibernation. Bertha said he was in tears, apologizing profusely to her as they walked the three miles back to where he’d hidden his car. This was odd; he had seemed sober enough that night, Jack thought. He must be scared and laying low. Jack figured he would run over to his cabin again just to make sure he was okay. He would tell him that Jack and his brothers would protect him.