by Daniel Adams
“We got somebody says they saw you in Big Blue’s stall the day he was poisoned,” Rafe stated. Dewey saw Rafe’s gray eyes were devoid of emotion. Not a good sign.
“I go in all of the horses’ stalls. I check their water three times a day. Ask anyone.”
“This was while everyone was in town at the Klan rally.”
It had to be Jubal who had ratted him out. He hadn’t seen a soul around the stalls at noon.
“That was noon, right? I’m supposed to check their water at seven, noon and nine o’clock. Do it every day.”
None of the men working the still looked over. They knew better.
“I want to believe you, Boy, but I don’t know if you’re lyin’ or not. Might as well ask, did you poison Big Blue?”
“No. I liked Big Blue. He was a good horse.”
Rafe paced across the ground for at least a minute before he continued.
“You ever hear of Solomon?”
“He that guy with the red hair up in Elmberg?” Dewey asked.
“No, numb-nuts, he was a Bible guy. A king. Real big shot. People used to come to him with their problems and he'd tell them what to do. One day, these two broads brought him a baby--both of 'em said they was the baby's mother. He couldn't figure out which one of 'em was, so he told his guards to cut the baby in half--that way each broad would get half the baby. One of 'em said, fine, but the other one said no, give it to the other woman. She didn't want to see the baby killed. So Solomon told the guards to give it to the broad who said not to hurt it. He figured the real mother wouldn't want to see her baby cut up. But I ain't Solomon and we ain't got no baby. But I do have something that Solomon didn't. Deacon, get the poker.”
Going to the fire, Deacon pulled a red-hot poker out of the coals. With a quick twist, Dewey broke free from Junior Barnes and Leroy and ran like hell for the woods. He would have made it except for Deacon’s dogs. Soon as they saw him run, they chased him down and the biggest one knocked his feet out from under him. Before he could get up, Junior Barnes and Leroy were on him. And they weren’t gentle. They each gave him a couple of good licks before they hauled him back to Rafe.
“That wasn’t smart, Dewey,” Rafe said. “Guilty men run.”
“I din’t do nothin’,” Dewey begged.
“Every time I think you’re lying, you get burned. Hold him, you two.”
“You have to believe me,” Dewey sobbed.
“Did you poison Big Blue?”
What Dewey didn’t know was that it didn’t matter what he said because Rafe was going to burn him regardless. He enjoyed it. Besides, he didn’t like Dewey.
“No—Rafe—don’t!” Dewey pleaded.
“I don’t believe you.”
He pressed the poker against the outside of Dewey’s thigh. Smoke billowed into the air. Dewey screamed.
“I’m gonna ask you again, did you poison Big Blue? Soon as you tell me the truth, you can go. Did you?”
“No, I swear. Please don’t—“
“Wrong answer,” Rafe snorted.
He touched the poker to Dewey’s other leg. Again smoke billowed into the air. The smell of cooked flesh filled the air. It smelled like baked ham.
Dewey shrieked, writhed, fought to break free of Junior Barnes and Leroy but they held him tight. They were very motivated. They knew in an instant Rafe could turn the poker on one or both of them because they had let Dewey get away. Luckily for them, Rafe had been so intent on burning Dewey, he had forgotten about their lapse.
“I can do this all day,” Rafe pronounced. “Be smart. Tell me the truth. Did you poison Big Blue?”
He held the poker next to Dewey’s dick. The front of his pants began to smolder.
“No—no—wait!” he shrieked. “He made me do it. Said he’d kill me if I didn’t.”
“Who?”
“Jubal. Jubal. Jubal. It was him. I din’t want nothin’ to do with it. He had a gun.”
A lookout yelled.
“Somebody comin’!”
Everything stopped. Everyone looked down the dirt trail that lead down the mountain. The lookout was in the tallest tree. From his perch he could see a good portion of the primitive road.
“Who the fuck is it?” Rafe yelled.
“FBI car!” he responded.
“Take care of him,” Rafe said to Leroy and Junior Barnes. “Deacon, hide the body where she can’t find it. We’ll put it in the swamp later.”
Dewey had been watching Rafe, which was a big mistake.
Junior Barnes shot him in the back of the head and watched the body fall to make sure a second shot wasn’t needed.
Leroy checked Dewey.
“He’s dead.”
“Let’s go!” Rafe ordered.
Rafe, Junior Barnes and Leroy ran to the car. A second later it peeled out. In seconds it had disappeared behind some trees.
“Get him!” Deacon yelled to several of his men.
They quickly picked up Dewey’s body. With only seconds to dispose of it, they found a very creative place to hide the corpse.
By the time Mattie’s car stopped beside the still only Deacon and three of his thugs remained. All of them were heavily armed.
Of one thing they were certain. Mattie would not leave the camp alive.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mattie saw that Deacon had put his still in a perfect place. The camp was concealed by a grove of trees and brush that concealed it from anyone on the road. A driver had to practically drive over the copper boiler in order to find it. The narrow road added more security because only one vehicle at a time could drive on it. In addition, the still was on the uphill side of the road, which meant anyone trying to raid the still had to move uphill—sitting ducks to anyone with a rifle higher up the mountain. She guessed there were lookouts in the taller trees some of which were eighty feet tall. From eight stories up a lookout could see lots of territory. She had no doubt they had known she was coming for several minutes before her car appeared through the trees. Another factor Deacon had taken into consideration was the smoke from the still. Most anywhere else the smoke would be a dead giveaway as it rose in thick clouds from the boiler. But Deacon had put the still in a small ravine that coursed steeply up the mountain behind the camp. A nearly constant wind rose up the mountain and funneled its way up the ravine, taking all of the smoke with it and dispersing it among the trees and bushes higher up the mountain.
Mattie only saw four men standing beside the still. All of them were watching her car and all were encumbered with a variety of deadly weapons. Once she parked her car, she walked toward the men with her hand away from her pistol. To them, it seemed like she wasn’t alert but they had no idea what she could do with her pistol. They were going to find out. As she approached the men the rest of the camp and still came into focus. It was much larger than she had imagined. The boiler was a round, oblong copper pot positioned above a metal trough full of hot coals. The boiler was different in that it had a removable top that was latched shut when the mash was cooking. The copper pipe that carried the steam had to be at least two inches around. The pipe went about twenty feet then turned into a bunch of coils that were drenched by spring water from a big pipe. At the far end of the drench pool the copper pipe dipped down into a barrel. When the still was running the whisky ran into the barrel. Judging by the number of cases of empty bottles stacked near the still, the operation put out several hundred gallons of hooch a day.
The closer she got to the men the more attention she paid to their weapons. The man closest to her, a Black man with dread locks, was armed with a 12-guage, semi-automatic shotgun with a short barrel. The White man next to him had what looked like a 9mm Smith and Wesson in a fast-draw holster on his hip. The third man was Deacon Boggs. He was big—almost as big as Leroy but a whole lot leaner. He carried a revolver of some type in his waistband. The White man farthest from her wore two pistols in shoulder holsters. She figured the pistols were either 9mm’s or .45’s but it didn’t really matter
. He also had a rifle strapped to his back.
She stopped about ten feet from the men. She was actually closer to the still than she was to the men. She focused on Deacon.
“You Deacon Boggs?”
The men looked at each other.
“He ain’t here,” Deacon replied.
They were very sure of themselves. Four men against one woman—they’d take those odds any day.
“That’s funny because you look just like him.” With her left hand, she pulled out her badge. “Mattie O’Malley, FBI.”
“What do you want?”
All kinds of alarms were going off in her head. Something wasn’t right. Either something had just happened or it was going to. There was a charge in the air—something not definable—that put her on edge.
“I’m investigating the murder of Paxton Flatt. Did you know him?”
Deacon pretended to think about it.
“Never heard of him.”
She noted that very slowly the three “gun” hands were spreading out—putting distance between each other so they wouldn’t be easy targets. The alarms in her head were so loud she was sure they would hear them. She was in as much danger now as she had ever been in her life. Her adrenaline soared.
“That looks like a still to me. I hear ATF’s been looking for it. Guess I should give them a call, let them know where it is.”
She turned toward her car.
“Ok, ok, I’m Deacon.”
She wasn’t sure why the men were on edge. Maybe because she had found the still.
“What about Paxton?”
“I knew him. You might say he was a customer of mine.”
“Not a good customer, right? He didn’t pay for his last two loads.”
“If you kno’s everything, why you askin’ me?” he grunted.
“Just answer the question. Did he steal the last two loads?”
“Son of a bitch, white bastard.”
Deacon was rising quickly on her list of potential suspects. The smoldering hatred she saw in his eyes showed he was a lot more angry than he let on.
“Is that a yes?” she asked.
“He threatened to bring the Klan up here and burn me out.”
He was positively flying up the list.
“I’d say that gives you a motive to kill him.”
Realizing he’d let his anger get the best of him, Deacon closed his mouth. Through clenched teeth he responded.
“What you talkin’ about? Noonan killed him.”
She saw the change in him and knew she wasn’t going to get much more out of him. He had visibly reined in his anger.
“The killer lifted Paxton into the baler. Isn’t any way Noonan did that. It had to be someone big--someone very strong--like you for instance.”
His face went blank. Until that moment he hadn’t known what she was after. Now he knew. She wanted a murder suspect. Him.
“I got a dozen witnesses who will say I was over at Sara Davis's place eatin' ribs when it happened.”
“I’ll bet you got a dozen more who would say you are the Pope. Hell, if you put your fist in my face, I’d probably agree with them,” she joked. “By the way, how do you know what time he was killed?”
She wanted to keep them thinking they were in control. After all, she was just a gullible “nigger” woman with a gun. Far as they were concerned, they could take her out any time they wanted to.
“Don’t matter what time it was. I was at Miss Sarah’s all night.”
She threw out a bluff. Figured it wouldn’t hurt.
“If that's true, then why do I have a witness who saw your truck drive away from Paxton's place just after he was killed?
“You bluffin’ me cause my truck weren’t there,” he exploded.
Ahh, she thought. Deacon has a temper. Something to remember.
Behind her the still made a strange burping noise. Without taking her eyes off of the four men, she backed a couple of feet until she was beside the boiler. The fire to heat the boiler was dying down, probably because the men who had been feeding the oak logs to the fire had run for the woods. She could smell the sour odor of the mash. The first two feet of pipe that came off of the boiler was Plexiglas, so they could see what was coming out of the pot, she imagined. As she watched, a stream of clear liquid ran out of the boiler and through the Plexiglas.
“What kind of truck do you have?” she asked.
She was taunting him to see if he would blow up and give her more information.
“A blue Ford,” he snapped.
She had certainly pushed his buttons.
Just as she started to turn away from the still, the fluid in the Plexiglas turned from clear to red.
“Is that supposed to be red?” she asked.
“Yeah. We’re makin’ hard cider.”
She thought about it. To her, it didn’t make sense. Any liquid boiling off of whatever was in the boiler should be clear. That was the point of the boiler. With her hand near her holster, she unlatched the top of the boiler. It was hot as hell but the latches had wood handles, which made it possible to snap them open. Once the latches were undone, she pushed aside the heavy lid. It took her eyes a second to adjust to the darkness inside the boiler. When she did, she jerked back with a start for staring up at her was Dewey’s slowly roasting body.
“Shit!” she exclaimed.
She looked up to see all three of the men with their guns pointed at her.
“Kill her,” Deacon commanded.
For the four men, time seemed to stop because what happened next was so fast, it couldn’t be followed with the human eye. In less than .07 of a second, Mattie drew and fired her first shot which killed the man with the shotgun. Next, in less than .10 of a second, she shot the man with the fast-draw holster and in less than .15 of a second, she killed the third man with the two shoulder holsters. All of it happened within the blink of an eye, which for the average human is .15 of a second. Deacon and the three men didn’t even know what had happened. By the time Deacon’s mind caught up with what was happening, his three men were dead at his feet. One second earlier he had been planning out what to do with Mattie’s body and in the next second, his three men were dead. His mind just couldn’t grasp it. For a brief second, his brain locked up. It was just too much to comprehend.
For Mattie the shooting order had been easy. The man with the shotgun was the biggest threat, so he went first. The next biggest threat was the man with the quick-draw holster, which made him number two. The man with the two shoulder holsters hadn’t been much of a threat at all. He had just touched the handles of his pistols when her third shot punched a hole in his aorta. By the time he realized he had been shot, he was dead. Even though Deacon had the pistol in his belt, she holstered her pistol. She wasn’t being arrogant. She just didn’t need to have it out.
“Your turn,” she said to Deacon.
Deacon shook his head, tried to get a handle on the situation. He was now alone and facing a woman who had just killed his three men. He swallowed hard, tried to get his brain going.
“I ain’t gonna draw,” he stammered.
“Come on, Deacon, where’s your balls. Go ahead. I’ll even turn my back.”
No way was he going to draw his gun. While he couldn’t fathom the why of what had happened, he could fathom the results.
“You FBI. You can’t kill me in cold blood.”
Her draw this time was closer to .06 of a second. Deacon never saw it. She fired one shot and holstered her pistol well before Deacon felt pain sear through his right earlobe. He bellowed and clapped his hand to the bloody hole where his earlobe had been.
“You shot me!” he raged.
“Only once,” she exclaimed. “I want to know who killed Paxton. You have five seconds before I shoot off your dick. Five—four—three—two—“
“I don’t know, but it weren’t me,” he yelled.
She looked pointedly at his crotch then dropped her arm to her side. He had seen that move before. Rig
ht before his three men died.
“Wait! Wait! Don’t shoot! I swear it wasn’t me.”
“Take a guess who it was.”
“Rafe—had to be him. It was his shine.”
Mattie was learning all sorts of new things.
“I thought it was your still.”
“I jus’ run it. Rafe own it.”
Rafe went instantly to the top of her suspect list. With Noonan and Gus off the list, it was a mighty short list with Rafe’s name in neon at the top. He had motive and the means to make it happen.
“Who’s in the still?”
He hesitated. No way was he going to say anything more about Rafe.
“Dewey Young.”
“Why’d you kill him?”
“Ain’t sayin’ no more. Shoot me if you want to but I ain’t talkin’.”
“Fine. You’re under arrest for killing him and attempting to kill me. Now, move it.”
She followed Deacon to her car where she handcuffed him and seat-belted him into the back seat. After one more glance around to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything, she drove back to town.
After parking in the driveway of Grace’s new mansion, Jubal walked to the front door and knocked. He couldn’t believe how big the house was. Even though he had heard about it for several years, he hadn’t driven past to see it. He didn’t know what Grace was going to do with so much space. With Paxton dead it was just her and the kids. He had heard the owner wanted $250,000 for the house, which was more than he would pay for just about anything.
Grace answered the door, wearing a new outfit. She looked like a new woman. When she saw Jubal, she beamed.
“I came over to see how you’re doing,” he ventured. “Oh, and Hannah sent over this casserole.”
He handed it to her.
“Come in, Jubal. There ain’t nobody else here.”
Jubal wanted to but it was broad daylight. He didn’t want the neighbors gossiping about the two of them.
