Hindsight

by Ronald Kelly

"You boys won't regret it." The lanky fellow with the Mortimer Snerd face winked. "Best damned shine in the whole county."

  As the two men climbed into the cab of their primer-gray Ford, Billy took Johnny aside. "Who are these guys? Seems like I've seen them around town before." The half-breed boy's dark, Cherokee eyes were bright with concern and mistrust.

  It was only when they began to climb into the bed of the truck with C.J. that Johnny had a vague idea who the men were. The back was piled with gardening and carpentry tools, the materials of traveling handymen. The two had been hanging around Coleman for about a month now, doing odd jobs for some of the richer folks in town. He knew the big fellow was named Bully, while the other one, lanky of build and gawky of looks, was known as Claude. Johnny had no idea what their last names were. As far as he knew, no one in town did either.

  "Nice guitar you got there," complimented the one called Bully. "How's about playing something for us on the way?""

  Johnny agreed. As the truck pulled away from the Bloody Bucket and headed southward, the music of the flat-top guitar and Johnny's fluid voice lit the crisp country air, singing "Cotton-Eyed Joe," "T for Texas," and the "Salty Dog Blues."

  Chapter Seven

  "Hey, I know where we're headed now," said C.J. Potts as the pickup moved off the main highway onto a stretch of dirt road.

  Johnny and Billy exchanged knowing glances. They also knew where the rutted track led to. "The old Brewer place," breathed Johnny.

  C.J. grinned slyly, the promise of freshly distilled corn liquor foremost in his mind. "Why, Old Brewer's barn is the perfect place to hide a still. Nobody ever goes near that old tobacco shed anymore ... not even old Harvey."

  He was right. As Bully's truck drove past the dark farmhouse and moved slowly down a rutted dirt path that cut across the old man's property, they could see the decay and overgrowth of years of flagrant neglect. Harvey Brewer had once been the most prosperous tobacco farmer in Bedloe County. He owned two hundred acres of prime tobacco land which had annually yielded a crop that most dirt farmers only dreamed about. His smoking barn was the largest in the county, and after his own leaves had been cut and cured, he had loaned out the great structure to his neighbors for their own use. The huge gray-wood barn could smoke as many as four crops' worth at one curing.

  Then in the summer of '28, Harvey came in from the fields for dinner one day and found no meal cooking on the stove. He searched the house for his beloved Norma. Harvey finally discovered his wife lying in her flower garden, having died of a stroke while weeding her precious flowers. Harvey had never been the same man after that. After Norma's funeral, he had left acre upon acre of young tobacco to insects and root rot, chained the double doors of the old curing barn, and become a lonely recluse, leaving the little, clapboard house only for mail and groceries.

  The Ford's headlights splashed over the choking growth of thicket that grew heavy on both sides of the cramped pathway. Pink-headed thistle, honeysuckle, and blackberry bramble, along with the occasional growth of wild tobacco, choked the rich earth that had once boasted a lush sea of dark green burley and Pryor.

  "We're here, boys," called out Bully as he braked his gray truck to a jolting halt. The three young men in the bed craned their necks, and all eyes appraised the massive hulk of the old tobacco barn.

  It had the same weathered appearance of a multitude of other barns and shacks in the rural, farming community. Its walls were constructed of rough boarding long since washed a dull gray by decades of merciless Tennessee weather. The sheets of corrugated tin that made up the sloping roof were flaked dark orange with rust. A mass of inflamed storm clouds, threatening heavy rainfall before the night was out, wreathed the sharp lines of the barn's eaves, giving it a strangely ominous appearance, almost demonic in nature. There in the gathering darkness of the turbulent spring night, Harvey Brewer's curing barn resembled some unholy shrine, rather than an empty structure of timber and tin. It appeared as some ancient temple, coldly reverent, yet somehow terribly sinister.

  "Well, come on, you guys!" C.J. grinned enthusiastically. "You'd better move your butts if you want your share of the hooch!"

  Almost reluctantly, Johnny Biggs and Billy Longcreek accompanied Potts as he climbed from the truck bed. Bully and Claude talked quietly in the cab for a moment, then joined them. Bully lingered long enough to pull a long object wrapped in burlap from beneath the truck seat.

  "Just a little protection, boys," Bully assured them. "Never know when revenuers might be lurking about."

  Bully and Claude ignored the huge, double doors forever sealed with a thick length of heavy logging chain and a large padlock. They walked around the far corner of the building, maybe to some hidden entrance concealed from prying eyes. "Well, are you boys gonna stand there all night or are you gonna come drink your fill?"

  "We're a-coming!" C.J. grinned. He motioned for his two buddies to follow.

  Johnny and Billy exchanged worried glances, then headed around the side of the building, leaving their gear in the truck. Bully waited there, holding a loose board ajar for the boys to squeeze through. Claude stood to one side, a kerosene lantern dangling from one hand. He grinned almost ghoulishly, his wild eyes and protruding teeth giving him the appearance of a sideshow geek.

  Thunder rolled loudly overhead, and they all knew that rain would soon come down in drenching sheets, soaking the rich, Tennessee topsoil. C.J. ducked through the wall's narrow opening first, followed by Johnny and Billy and Bully. The last one through was Claude. He let the board fall back into place with a rasping scrape of ancient wood.

  The kerosene lamp cast an eerie glow upon the spacious interior of the old barn. The floor was packed earth, furrowed in places by long beds of singed charcoal once used to fire the tobacco leaves. A single ladder led up one wall to the loft. There sturdy rafters stretched the width of the barn. It was there that the tobacco had been split, secured to long poles, and hung across the beams for the curing process.

  Johnny's sharp blue eyes surveyed the earthen floor. Except for a few empty whiskey bottles, a scattering of water-logged pinochle cards, and a long, casket-like tool chest at one side, the place was empty.

  "There's no still in here," he told his buddies.

  And he was right. Even if he had not had the advantage of the coal oil lamp, he could have determined its absence by the smell alone. There was no acrid odor of a wood fire, no scent of hot copper tubing and tin vats. No smell of corn mash, malt, or the sour stench of the finished product. None of those scents dominated the cavernous interior of the old curing barn, only the musky smell of raw earth and the faint trace of long forgotten tobacco leaves.

  C.J. Potts whirled like an irate monkey in a cage. "What the hell is going on here?"

  "You've been suckered, that's what," Bully told him in a cold, matter-of-fact voice. He let the burlap slide from the length of his sawed-off shotgun.

  "Now, just wait a minute —" began Billy, taking a step forward.

  "Shut up, injun," sneered Claude. The gangly man had moved to the wooden tool box, setting his lantern on the dusty lid where an assortment of rusty tools lay. "My partner's the only one who does the talking now."

  A heavy silence filled the barn… a silence thick with tension and underlying fear. Thunder crashed overhead, past the cobwebbed rafters, past the rusted sheets of tin. No one paid the storm any attention. Three minds raced in cold anxiety, desperately searching for some way out of the mess they were in. The other two minds, the thoughts of the perpetrators, regarded the situation calmly, well aware of the final outcome.

  "What're you bastards up to?" spat C. J. indignantly. "What about our liquor?"

  Bully laughed. "You're a real dumb-ass, ain't you, boy? Ain't you got it through your thick skull that there ain't no shine here? Do I have to spell it out for you?"

  Potts grew silent. He swallowed dryly and eyed the sawed-down barrels of the twelve gauge. The twin muzzles looked like the bores of cannons.

  "What
do you want from us?" Johnny asked dully.

  "We want the money you're carrying." Bully directed his gun at C. J.'s scrawny form. "Especially that wad of dough your partner flashed back at the beer joint. Boy, that money roll could choke a Missouri mule."

  Potts' inherent greed for money smothered his apparent fear, and defiance flared in his eyes. "Well, you can just go straight to hell, mister! Both of you can, if you think I'll give up my traveling money to the likes of you!"

  Bully held his scattergun steadily at the hip, the twin hammers cocked back and ready. "You're making things awful hard for you and your friends," the big man said. "What's a few bucks to you anyhow? I hear your daddy owns half the county already."

  C J.'s face burned a crimson red in the soft glow of the lantern. "I'm getting outta here! I ain't gonna take this anymore!"

  "No," replied Bully. "Not anymore."

  The deafening bellow of the shotgun's twin barrels exploded throughout the old barn, rattling the weathered structure. The force of the loads hit C. J. full in the stomach, knocking him ten feet from where he had been standing. As the echo of the blast died and the sulfurous pall of gun smoke dissipated to the rafters, all eyes were on the cocky teenager. C. J. sat on the earthen floor, an ugly hole torn through his midsection from belly to back.

  Johnny watched numbly as C. J.'s hands moved sluggishly to the wound, as if trying to hold in the gory mess of blood and chewed entrails. C.J. stared dumbly at his friends, then fell backward with a gurgle. A crimson froth shot from his nose and mouth, staining the front of his blue chambray shirt.

  Billy began to scream. Uncontrollable wails as shrill as those of a woman tore from his throat, piercing the musky air and reverberating off the shadowy walls. The half-breed began to back away, staring in terror at C.J.'s blood-splattered body, then at Bully and Claude.

  He screamed once more, then dove for the ladder that rose upward to the loft.

  "Stop him," Bully said, spitting a stream of tobacco juice at the barn floor.

  Claude nodded and absently grabbed up a rusty hatchet from atop the old tool chest. He raised it overhead as he approached the frightened boy, a gleam of pure meanness in his eyes. He swung down forcefully just as Billy Longcreek grasped the first rung. The hatchet struck Billy across the left wrist, cleanly cleaving his hand from his arm.

  Billy's screams increased tenfold as he dropped from the ladder, landing with a thud in a bed of ashen charcoal. The boy thrashed in agony, the stump of his wrist spouting a grisly fountain of life's blood.

  Claude stared in disgust at the hysterical man at his feet. He cast an uncertain glance at his partner. "What should I do?"

  "Finish him."

  A crooked grin split Claude's homely face, and he let the hatchet drop once again. The rusty edge buried itself in Billy's skull, ending his terror forever.

  Johnny began to back away from the two murderers, away from the lifeless bodies of his best friends. The numb state of shock suddenly vanished, as if he had been doused with ice water, and the horror of what was happening hit him full force. His mind raced, desperately seeking some small chance for survival.

  He looked to Bully. The big man snapped open the breech of his shotgun and fumbled in his pants pocket for fresh shells. Claude was attempting to pry his hatchet from Billy's scalp.

  Now, Johnny's thoughts screamed. You've gotta get out of here right now!

  Johnny Biggs turned and ran, his scuffed work boots pounding on the hard-packed earth and scatterings of burnt charcoal and ashes. He reached the wall where they had made their entrance. He grasped frantically at boards, finding only secure lumber. Where? Where the hell is the loose one?

  "You've got no place to run to, boy." Bully's statement was emphasized by the crisp clack of the shotgun's breech snapping shut.

  Oh, dear Lord, please. . . please, let me out of this place! Then a board slid open on a loose nail, and the exit was there. The cool night air washed over Johnny, heightening his senses, increasing his fear. He ducked through the narrow portal, knocking the dark gray fedora from his head in his haste. His face met the inky twilight, then his arms and torso. But as he dragged his left leg through, a rusty nail snagged his trouser leg. He heard the two men coming for him on the other side of the gray-wood barn.

  Close! His mind whirled as he felt for the source of his entrapment. Oh, Lord, I was so blasted close!

  The roar of Bully's shotgun made his heart skip a beat in sheer horror. The load of double-aught hit him in the left buttock. Johnny was propelled into the darkness, the force of the shot knocking him clear of the wall's narrow passageway. He hit the ground hard, then rolled a couple of feet. He ended up on his back in the heavy thicket. Frightened to even move, he lay perfectly still and listened for the shot that would end his life.

  "Where the hell is he?" growled Claude, no more than a dozen feet away. There was the sound of the loose board scraping on its nail and the swish of footsteps in high grass.

  "Must be out here somewhere," said Bully. "I put a load of buckshot in his tail end; there's no mistaking that."

  Johnny reached down to his left thigh. His denim trousers were saturated with warm blood. His trembling fingers traced the erratic pattern of his injury, feeling the neatly punched holes in his flesh. I'm shot! God help me, I've been shot!

  "Let's split up," Bully suggested. "We gotta find that boy. If he gets away, we're done for."

  Johnny waited for a long moment before moving. The thrashing of searching men dominated the underbrush, along with the soft patter of the starting rainfall. Johnny raised his lean face toward the heavens, letting drops of cool water wash his brow and cheekbones, clearing his mind of the slaughter witnessed mere seconds before.

  All right, just get a hold of yourself, he told himself. You can get out of this alive if you just keep your wits about you.

  There were two acres of heavy thicket between him and the woods that bordered the Brewer property. If he could just make it that far and claim the dark cover of the forest, then he would make it. He had grown up in those woods between the Brewer place and Old Newsome Road. He had hunted coon for miles on a moonlit night, had fished for crawdads and minnows in the clear-water creek. Despite his disabling injury, Johnny was certain he could make it the quarter mile to the safety of the Biggs house.

  The boy waited until both men were out of earshot, then carefully got to his feet. Agony lanced like hot knives through the muscle of his gunshot leg. Johnny gritted his teeth, attempting to bear the pain without sound. Slowly, he began the long journey through the tangle of underbrush.

  The thicket that was once Harvey Brewer's prime tobacco land was now a nearly impenetrable wall of blackberry bush, thistle, and milkweed. Great masses of newly bloomed honeysuckle blocked his way at every turn, as did scrubby trees and brush. It was pure hell getting through the thorny bramble without making enough noise to wake the dead.

  The rain increased its tempo, changing from a gentle spring rain into a pounding downpour. Johnny's hair was soon plastered to his head, his clothing clinging wetly to him like a second skin. Several times a mighty boom would assault his ears, and he would duck. But it was only the roll of thunder or the brittle whip crack of lightning.

  It took Johnny ten minutes to cross a hundred yards of heavy thicket, but soon the brush began to thin out. Through the rain he could see the dark woods nearby. I'm gonna make it, he thought wearily.

  He had taken a couple of steps into the open when he spotted a dark form only a few yards away, its back to the wounded boy. Johnny dropped to the ground. He landed wrong on his hurt leg, and the sudden pain forced a low groan from his lips. He lay there, shivering, beneath a scraggly growth of wild tobacco, one of the plants left to rot in the field by a morose Harvey Brewer.

  The form turned its head, staring hard at the spot where Johnny had stood a second before. Then it started toward the spot to investigate, the length of the sawed-off shotgun resting easily on one broad shoulder.

  John
ny Biggs lay there, eyes screwed shut, lips mouthing a silent prayer. He tried to picture his father and mother, but the horror within blocked their faces from his mind. The only thing that stuck with him in that awful moment was the image of little Cindy Ann standing in the gateway, an expression of awful sadness creasing her freckled face. Be careful, Johnny. The words assaulted him again and again, and he bitterly wished he had turned around that very moment and stayed safely in the bosom of his family, instead of gallivanting off with C. J. and Billy, the promise of a year's freedom foremost in their youthful minds.

  Footsteps thrashed the thick overgrowth, walking closer, moving dangerously near the spot where Johnny crouched. He heard the man cough, and a glob of warm saliva hit the boy on the nape of the neck. Johnny braced himself, awaiting an indication of discovery, but none came. The hunter continued through the choking brush, his eyes intent, his meaty finger lightly caressing the trigger of his gun.

  Johnny waited for what seemed an eternity. His ears strained as the big man's rustling progress faded and safety once again presented itself. Just a few more feet. Then I'll be home free.

  The lanky son of Clayburn Biggs felt the driving rain on his back as he struggled to his feet and faced the woods.

  "Gotcha, Johnny," rasped Bully from behind.

  Then came the thunder.

  Chapter Eight

  Maudie Biggs put her children to bed that Friday night and then returned to the front porch. Clay had been out there since after suppertime, just sitting in an old cane-backed chair, staring grimly into the darkness. Her husband had been spending most of his evenings like that lately, and it worried her to no end. More than once she had seen the look of a desperate man in his eyes.

  The black sky rumbled. A steady rain fell earthward, giving sustenance to the spring vegetation, pattering noisily on the leathery leaves of the big magnolia near the road. Maudie closed the screen door quietly and stood behind her man. Her thick hands rested comfortingly on his lean shoulders. Clay acknowledged her touch with a faint grunt of approval.