Bull Mountain

by Brian Panowich

  “Then drop that gun on the ground.”

  “I can’t do that, sir.” Darby’s knees were shaking so bad he could barely stand. “Mr. Burroughs, I can’t let you kill him. It wouldn’t be right.”

  Hal didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have to.

  “He said drop the gun,” a voice behind the deputy said, and when Scabby Mike pressed the barrel of a pistol into the back of Darby’s head, the deputy’s gun fell to the dirt.

  “I think he’s gonna cry, Mike,” Hal said.

  “Yup, I think he might.”

  “Please don’t kill me,” Darby said. “I didn’t even want to come up here. I begged him to turn around. I told him this was crazy.”

  Hal took his arm off Clayton’s windpipe and the sheriff rolled over, clutching his throat, gulping at the fresh air. Hal was barely breathing heavy. “Okay, kid. Come get your boss here, and take him back down to Waymore. He, or you, ever comes here again, I promise you it’s gonna end different.”

  “Yessir,” Darby said, and rushed over to help Clayton to his feet. “We’re gone.”

  Hal picked up Darby’s revolver and stuck it in his waistband. He looked at Darby for an argument. “You got a problem with that, Deputy?”

  “No, sir. It’s yours.”

  Scabby Mike walked over to Hal, with Clayton’s gun belt over his shoulder. He must have taken it out of the truck when Darby decided to play hero. Hal took the gun, dumped the contents of the cylinder on the ground, and tossed the whole rig next to Clayton. Mike also tried to hand Hal the badge Clayton had left on the hood, but Hal didn’t want that, either.

  “Nah,” Hal said, “he can keep it. I think it might have peppered his grits a little.”

  Mike walked back and tucked the tin star into Darby’s shirt pocket.

  “You be sure he gets it, when he feels better,” Mike said.

  “Yessir, I will.”

  5.

  Clayton’s lip was cut down the middle and a dark yellow swell was forming under his left eye, but nothing was broken, and with a little help, he could walk. Darby practically threw him into the truck and slid behind the wheel. Three seconds later the young deputy had their asses in the wind. He watched through the dust cloud in the rearview as the crowd of hillbilly gunmen laughed and waved.

  “Well, boss, that didn’t go too well.”

  “No, Darby, I would say it did not.” Clayton pulled a bandana out of the glove box and dabbed at his lip. It hurt to talk. His whole body throbbed. He’d toted an ass-whuppin’ before, but his ego had never taken one this bad. Every man on this mountain who believed the sheriff was a joke just had his sentiments reinforced. Maybe even including Clayton’s own deputy.

  “Darby . . .”

  “You ain’t got to say it, boss. It’s in the rearview and we’re both breathing. That’s good enough for me. I can’t believe you went at him like that, sir. I know he’s your brother and all, but he could’ve killed you.”

  Clayton pulled the door-mounted mirror inward toward him and examined the bruised flesh puffing up under his eye. “Damn,” he said. “Take a left at this fork up here.”

  Darby squeezed his eyebrows together and gave Clayton a concerned look. “Is that the way we came in? Because that don’t look like the way we came in.”

  “We got another stop to make.”

  “Are you being serious right now? We need to get our butts off this mountain. That’s what the man said. That’s what I told the man I’d do. We’re getting off this mountain, Sheriff.”

  “We’re taking a left up here. The man can kiss my ass.”

  “I ain’t got a gun, boss. You know he kept my gun, right?”

  “You don’t need it.”

  “Well, I strongly object.”

  “Noted. Now go left.”

  Darby felt his guts tighten back up as he turned the wheel in the opposite direction of the way his brain was screaming at him to go, and pointed the truck toward the Western Ridge.

  “Why didn’t he keep yours?” Darby asked.

  “My what?”

  “Your gun. He kept mine, but he gave yours back. Why?”

  Clayton picked the silver Colt up from the seat between them and ran a finger over his father’s initials engraved on the handle. “I don’t know, Darby.”

  CHAPTER

  14

  GARETH BURROUGHS

  1973

  1.

  Gareth cracked the seal on a jar of North Georgia’s finest and sat down on the steps. He’d been back from Florida for only two days with the solution to one problem before everything else fell apart. With Annette gone, the nursemaidin’ of these youngsters fell on him alone. He’d known he’d be coming home to a house without her, but the knowing didn’t make it sting any less when he crossed through the door. He could hear the baby crying in the house, so he picked up the jar and walked toward the tree line. It didn’t matter how far he walked, that sound would follow him to the end of the earth and he knew it. He drained a quarter of the jar and stared up at the stars. The night was clear, but nothing else seemed to be. He knew he’d have to go in and tell those boys their mama wasn’t comin’ back. They’d be all right. He’d be all right. He had to be. There was too much to lose if he wasn’t. He watched his oldest son, Halford, step out on the porch and look around for his father. “Deddy?”

  “Over here,” Gareth said.

  Halford looked out into the darkness toward Gareth. “I can’t get Clayton to stop crying.”

  “I’ll be in in a minute. You and your brother get cleaned up for supper.”

  “Is Mama coming home tonight? She can get Clayton to stop.”

  Gareth lit a cigarette and noticed the glow of headlights coming up the drive. Halford saw it, too. “Is that her, Deddy? Is that Mama?”

  “Git in the house and do what I told you, boy.”

  Halford opened the screen door and reluctantly faded back into the house.

  2.

  Jimbo pulled the truck up next to Gareth’s and got out. “Gareth, we got a problem.”

  “With the guns?” Gareth said, and took a drag on his smoke.

  “No, man, Val took care of that. Everyone is on point with the guns.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  Jimbo took out his own cigarettes and lit one up. He was rubbing his knuckles. It was a nervous tic. It meant he had bad news and wasn’t looking forward to telling it to the man whose wife had just run out on him and left him with two little boys and a new baby. They smoked in silence for nearly a full minute, and Gareth thought Jimbo might rub the skin on his knuckles clean off. He dropped his cigarette and put it out with his boot. “Just spit it out, Jimbo.”

  “Cooper done run off again.”

  “So? He’ll show back up. He always does.”

  “I don’t know, man. It’s different this time. He’s getting worse and worse. Ernest was keeping watch on him while we was gone and he said the old man was spouting off all kinds of crazy shit.”

  “That ain’t nothing new.”

  “No, but since we been back he’s been acting worse than normal. Ernest said yesterday he locked his self in his room for damn near twenty-four hours, banging shit around, not letting anybody in. This morning he come out all bruised up on his arms and face like he whupped his own ass.”

  “Why didn’t anybody call me?”

  Jimbo looked back at the house. The baby was still crying. “Hell, man, we know what you’re dealing with here, we didn’t want to put anything else on your plate.”

  Gareth took a swig from the jar and passed it to Jimbo. He took it and drank deep. “Goddamn, that’s good.”

  “How long’s he been gone?”

  “I don’t know, boss. Ernest called me an hour ago saying he left the house talking about going to make things right with Rye. Ernes
t said he took a rifle with him.”

  “You didn’t think to ask him how long ago he left?”

  “Sorry, boss, I just rushed out here.”

  Gareth sighed and capped the jar of shine. He handed it to Jimbo. “I know where he is.”

  “Well, tell me where and I’ll go get him.”

  “No. He’s my problem. I’ll go get him. You mind staying here and looking after the boys ’til I get back? I shouldn’t be that long.”

  “You got it, man.”

  “I haven’t told them about their mama yet. They think she’s off visiting a friend in Waymore.”

  “I won’t say a word.”

  “All right, then.” Gareth opened the door to his truck.

  “Gareth?”

  “Yep?”

  “There’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “When Ernest called me he said Cooper wasn’t wearing no clothes. He said he left out of there with nothing on but some tighty-whiteys and a pair of boots.”

  “Jesus,” Gareth said. “Ernest should’ve called me this morning.”

  “I reckon so, boss.”

  “You tell him we’ll talk about it when I get back.”

  3.

  Gareth pulled the truck up to the cabin at Johnson’s Gap and turned off the engine. The front door was open and he knew he’d find his father inside passed out drunk on the floor. Most likely having pissed himself, and he’d have to clean him up before he could put him in the truck and drive him home. This wouldn’t be the first time Gareth had found him here, but it was getting to be a hard road to hoe. Cooper built this family, but this kind of thing was no good to no one. Gareth got out of the truck and climbed the steps. He picked up the lantern from the table on the porch and lit it.

  “Come on, old man, let’s go home.” He shined the light inside, but there was no one there. The cabin was just a wide-open room, so the light from the lantern filled every corner. He put his hand near the wood burner and felt the warmth. The back door was open, too, and Gareth stepped out.

  “Deddy!” he hollered into the darkness. “Come on, Cooper, I’m here to take you home.”

  He turned to go back into the cabin when he heard the shot. It wasn’t too far away. “Deddy!” he yelled again, and bolted into the woods. He knew the path. He’d been out here before. He killed his first buck in these woods. “Deddy!” he kept yelling. Still nothing. Then he saw it. Something white on the ground about thirty feet in front of him. He ran and tripped over an exposed root. He hit the ground hard on his knees, scraping up his hands. “Goddamn it,” he said, slowly getting back to his feet. He’d dropped the lantern, so he moved cautiously by the moonlight toward the white thing in the distance until it started to take the shape of an old man—his old man. He could see Cooper’s body well enough to know it was him but stopped cold before he could see him well enough to see what he’d done to himself. The rifle was on the ground next to him. His pale naked body was luminous in the moonlight, and all the blood looked glossy black. Gareth fell back down to his knees. “Aw, Deddy, what did you do? What did you do?” Gareth knew what Cooper had done. Suddenly he was very aware of all the things his father had done in these woods. He stayed there on his knees, recalling it all. He thought about his uncle that day. He thought about the hole Cooper had made him dig. He didn’t cry. He sat down in the cool grass and reached into his pocket for his smokes. He lit up and pictured his uncle lying in the woods only a mile or so from where his father was lying now. He thought about Annette. After a while he got to his feet and looked down on his father’s naked, feeble dead body. Cooper used to say there was no dignity in birth or death. You entered the world helpless, naked and alone, and you were more than likely to go out the same way. Gareth didn’t necessarily agree with that, but there was no shortage of indignation in these woods.

  “Well, old man. I guess that’s that.”

  CHAPTER

  15

  CLAYTON BURROUGHS

  2015

  1.

  Darby pulled the Bronco up in front of a small cottage. It was a humble place, no more than two, maybe three, rooms inside, with an outhouse and a rusty but still-operational John Deere tractor in the yard. The porch was covered with potted plants, and armies of violets and red Gerber daisies lined the stone walkway. This place looked more like the bed-and-breakfast cabins tourists rented out in Helen, Georgia, or by the vineyards in Dahlonega. It was in direct contrast to the sun-bleached compound they’d just left. The colors were vibrant in the late-afternoon sunlight and for a split second Darby entertained the idea of this being the home of a mistress Clayton was keeping on the side. It sure had the look of a woman’s touch. That idea vanished as soon as the seven-foot black man holding a shotgun appeared on the porch.

  “Who’s that there?” the man said. He looked to be in his late sixties, maybe older. A ring of silver-gray hair dusted the sides of his bald head, and matching tufts of gray sprouted down his chest. His shoulders were broad, but they sagged under his age, and his belly folded over his red boxer shorts. His muscle tone wasn’t the same as it used to be, but he was still a hulk of a man.

  “Put the gun down, Val. It’s me, Clayton.” Clayton got out of the truck and put his hands in the air. Darby cut the engine.

  “Clayton Burroughs? Boy, what the hell are you doing up here?” Val took a harder look at his company. “And what happened to your face?”

  “Well, if you could loan me a stretch of porch and a piece of venison from your icebox, I’d be happy to tell you.”

  Val lowered the shotgun. “Get on up here, then. I’ll go put some pants on.”

  “Thanks for that,” Clayton said.

  “And don’t be steppin’ all over my garden on your way over.” Val turned back into the house and Clayton and Darby eased up to the porch. Darby relaxed for the first time since they’d left the station that afternoon. “You reckon he’s got anything to drink in there?”

  Clayton laughed. “The best on the mountain.”

  Val came back out wearing a pair of well-worn overalls, holding a thick hunk of backstrap for Clayton’s eye and a large ceramic jug. He handed the meat to Clayton and put a big, calloused hand on his shoulder. No hugs or small-talk sentiment, just a hand on a shoulder and a respectful nod made it obvious to anyone watching that these men were family. It wasn’t necessary to catch up. They were both just thankful to be there now. The old man fished a sleeve of clear plastic cups from a basket between two pine rockers and took a seat. Clayton sat in the other one and laid the ice-cold slab of meat over his throbbing eye. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

  “Who done that to you, son?”

  “Halford.”

  “Your brother?”

  “Yeah, not my finest hour.”

  “Why you climbing in the ring with that boy? He could have killed you. What was you thinkin’?”

  “That’s what I said,” Darby chimed in from the steps and tipped his hat at Val.

  “He wasn’t gonna kill me. He’s my brother. Besides, I had Darby there to pull me out when it got bad.” He leaned his head forward and looked at Darby. “Thanks for what you did back there. I mean it. Thanks.”

  Darby tipped his hat at Clayton as well. Val set the plastic cups upside down on the cork and slid the jug across the porch, over to the deputy. “Clayton, what are you doing up here fooling with your brother? I thought you kept your sheriffin’ confined to the Valley.”

  “Normally I do.”

  “Halford come down there steppin’ on your toes?”

  “No.”

  “Then what, then? You was on your way to visit with me and thought you’d go get yourself an ass-kicking for good measure?”

  Clayton laughed, then groaned. “No.”

  “Yeah, that can’t be right. None of you boys can ever find the time to come visit
an old man.”

  “I came up here to make Hal an offer he couldn’t refuse,” Clayton said, and stared up at the wooden beams and tin awning that covered the porch. He wondered if Val had ghosts up in his rafters as well.

  “Looks like he refused.”

  “Refused hard and repeatedly,” Darby said. He took a swig from his cup and immediately fire raced down his throat and blew through his sinuses. Tears came to his eyes and he smiled wide. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

  “That’s my deddy’s apple pie.”

  Clayton looked over at the jug. “Pour me some of that.”

  Darby frowned. “Is that a good idea, sir?”

  “You gonna question everything I say today, Deputy?”

  “Sorry, sir.” Darby poured a second cup and held it out. Val put up a hand.

  “If you’s off the drink, Clayton, maybe you ought to stay that way.”

  “Last time I checked, Val, I’m pretty sure I was grown.”

  Val let his hand hover for a moment longer and thought about how many times he’d heard Gareth tell him the same thing right before going off and doing something terrible that only one of them would regret. But Clayton was right, he was grown. “Well, then, by all means, Sheriff.” Val put his hand down. “But would you mind tellin’ me why you decided to bring all this to my front porch? You could’ve doctored that eye down in Waymore.”

  Clayton took the cold venison from his face and laid it back in the waxy paper it came wrapped in. “Honestly, Val? I was hopin’ to enlist an ally with this Halford thing.”

  “That’s not gonna happen,” Val said without a second’s hesitation.

  Clayton sat upright in the rocker. “Don’t you want to hear what I’ve got in mind?”

  “Nope. Sure don’t.”

  Clayton looked stunned, like a child who was just denied getting his way.

  “Val, you don’t understand.”

  “Clayton, now, I said no. You’re welcome to take a load off. Drink a lil’ bit, and I’d be happy to patch you up, but you keep that craziness off my front porch, you hear? I just want to plant my flowers and get old peacefully. Your brother keeps his distance from me, and me from him. I ain’t lookin’ to change that.”