Black as Death

by George G. Gilman

  ‘Shit,’ he growled and the expletive caused him no self-consciousness. ‘Had a snort more than I should have over at the saloon, feller. Not thinking straight. You’ve done a real fine job.’

  Since the Texan had seen Emily Jane’s grave earlier, two stout lengths of timber had been placed across the hole, with ropes running along their tops.

  ‘Appreciate you appreciate the service, Mr. Channon,’ Barnaby Gold replied levelly as he stooped to readjust the distance between the timbers and ropes.

  Then he stood back and beckoned for the Texan to also clear a path for the four pallbearers, whose sweat-beaded faces were contorted with grimaces of strain as they struggled to remain at their full heights under the great weight on their shoulders. The burden was lowered on to the timbers by the solid silver handles that glinted brightly in the sunlight against the deep sheen of the polished mahogany.

  It’s usual to remove the hat,’ Gold said.

  The pallbearers had been hatless since sliding the casket from the hearse. And now the undertaker was bareheaded, after going down on his haunches to withdraw the timbers from beneath the casket, the four nameless men taking its weight again with the ropes.

  Standing directly across the grave from Gold, Floyd Channon showed a contrite expression as he hurriedly took off his hat and held it to his chest.

  He muttered in self anger: ‘Addled brain!’

  ‘Fine,’ Gold said in instruction and the casket, was lowered carefully into the grave.

  When it came to rest in the depths of the arid earth, the ropes were hauled clear.

  ‘Ashes to ashes,’ a pallbearer said mournfully.

  ‘Dust to dust,’ said another.

  ‘May God have mercy on your soul.’

  ‘Rest in peace.’’

  The Texan had closed his eyes and bowed his head. Only opened them at the sound of a small quantity of soil hitting the lid of the casket. And saw, through a blur of not quite held back tears, that Barnaby Gold had tossed a first handful of earth into the grave. This as the pallbearers backed away, their chore completed.

  He reached for the hip pocket bulged out by the roll of bills: as he replaced his hat and brushed a shirt sleeve across his moist eyes.

  ‘I’ll pay for the extra expense I hadn’t figured on.’

  Gold shook his head as he put on his high crowned black hat and stooped to pick up the long-handled shovel from behind the heap of displaced earth.

  ‘The men were retained by the business to do what they did, Mr. Channon. There’s no additional charge.’

  And now he began to sweat as he set about filling-in the grave, his black clothing becoming layered with grey dust motes that billowed up with each shovelful of soil sent into the hole.

  The Texan watched him in silence for long seconds, until the pallbearers had gone from sight beyond the church: and the steadily working undertaker was the sole source of hostility in the marker-featured cemetery.

  Then: ‘I loved her, Gold. Maybe if I hadn’t loved her so much, I wouldn’t have needed to kill her.’

  He started out speaking with an angry tone. Finished melancholic.

  Thought you came close to crying, Mr. Channon,’ the undertaker answered without interrupting the rhythm of his chore.

  ‘You saw her. And I guess you could still see how beautiful she was?’

  ‘I fixed it so she was smiling. I can’t disagree with you. Loveliest woman I’ve ever seen.’

  Floyd Channon peered down into the rapidly filling grave in which there was no longer any sight of the elaborate casket.

  ‘But she used what she had to lie and cheat. If it had just been me...’ He shrugged. ‘But she tricked the whole Channon family. I brought her to the Double-C and so it was my responsibility. She hoodwinked the whole bunch of us. Took the old man for ten grand and run off with a Mex cowhand.’

  He was dull-eyed and dull-voiced: staring down into the dust-exploding grave and, as in the saloon, seeing images of the past pictured there.

  The old man didn’t have to tell me. But he did. The Channons couldn’t let a thing like that pass, Gold. Nobody has ever crossed us and got away with it. So I had to go after her and the Mex. What I did when I found them was up to me. Like I say ... if I hadn’t loved her ... maybe I’d have done it differently.’

  He sighed, as the last of the earth was put back in the form of an elongated mound.

  ‘Gelded the Mex that stole her. Took what was left of the money. Maybe beat up on her some.’

  ‘Channon business isn’t mine,’ Barnaby Gold said, hoisting the shovel to his shoulder and starting back for the hearse. ‘There’s no need for me to know...’

  ‘Channons aren’t cold-hearted killers, feller!’ the Texan cut in harshly as he moved alongside the shorter, slighter, younger man. ‘We’ve got a fine reputation in cattle raising circles and outside. It’s important to us it doesn’t get muddied up by half-truths and ill-informed rumors. Sure I killed a woman and I don’t give a damn who knows it. But it’s real important to me that people who know it know just why I did it.’

  They had reached the side of the hearse.

  ‘If anyone asks me, Mr. Channon, I’ll tell them.’

  Gold brought the shovel down from his shoulder and began to twist it in both hands: unscrewing a third of its length from the rest. Then he halved the lower two-thirds with the same unscrewing action. He pushed the dismantled shovel under the hem of the hammer cloth drape to stow it beneath the seat of the hearse. And withdrew from the same storage compartment a four foot high wooden cross.

  ‘Hey, I’d like a stone marker,’ the Texan said suddenly. ‘I’ll pay extra—’

  ‘No need,’ Gold cut in. ‘This is just temporary. Casket took a long time to make. I was starting in on the head-stone when you came back to town today.’

  ‘Much obliged.’

  He turned his back to go over to where the obedient stallion waited: as Barnaby Gold leaned the wooden cross against the front wheel of the hearse and reached again into the draped space under the seat.

  ‘Hey, you forgot something. You don’t know what name to...’

  He had a booted foot in the stirrup and turned just his head. But what he saw caused him to withdraw the foot and turn slowly all the way around: as his voice trailed away. With the expression of mild satisfaction at having discovered something Gold had forgotten taking on a frozen quality.

  What he saw across eight feet of sunlit afternoon air which suddenly felt ice-cold was Barnaby Gold aiming a gun at him. A hammerless Murcott double barrel shotgun, leveled from the right hip: the young undertaker’s left hand cupped under the barrels so that the muzzles maintained a rock-steady bead on the Texan’s belly.

  After the initial freezing shock of the unexpected sight, Floyd Channon’s features altered into a scowl and he made a motion with his right hand toward the butt of his holstered Remington.

  Gold squeezed the forward trigger of the Murcott. And the cartridge exploded its load from the left hand barrel in a rapidly broadening pattern of shot. The Texan’s fingers had not touched the butt of his revolver before he felt the force of countless grains of metal rip through his shirt and pants to smash into the flesh of his belly, chest and thighs.

  The stallion was peppered by the outer crescents of the pattern, snorted and wheeled away, so offered no support for the falling form of Floyd Channon. Who hit the ground on his back in a billow of dust and clawed with both hands at the blood-oozing wounds in his flesh.

  ‘Why, you murdering sonofabitch?’ he screamed through his agony as Barnaby Gold advanced from the hearse and stood, splay-legged over him.

  ‘Why did you pick Fairfax to make arrangements for her burial?’ the undertaker asked, his finger curled to the rear trigger as he held the acrid-smelling twin muzzles of the shotgun three inches above the centre of the Texan’s face.

  ‘It was the closest place to where I killed her, frig it! I wanted her buried decent! I loved her! There were some good times! I owe
d her that much!’ He uttered a groan, part pain, part despair. ‘Why you done... ’

  The undertaker squeezed the second trigger. And the Texan took the full force of the whole pattern of shot in his head. At just a fraction less than muzzle velocity. So that the skin was shredded, the tissue beneath pulped, the eyes exploded and the front of the skull was momentarily exposed before more blood bubbled up to obscure the whiteness uncovered by the myriad droplets that sprayed to all sides in the shock wave.

  Running feet hit the street and voices were raised in the tone of fearful questions. Those at the front came to an abrupt halt between the church and the house and soon a large, utterly silent throng was standing there. Watching the equally silent, deliberately moving figure of the lanky, black-clad undertaker.

  He swung away from the shot-shattered corpse and went to the hearse. Returned the Murcott under the seat, lifted the wooden cross and went out into the cemetery. It required little effort to push the stem of the cross into the soil at the head of the new grave. Only then did he lookup to acknowledge that he was aware of his stunned audience.

  ‘Appreciate it if somebody would take care of the horse!’ he called.

  The black stallion had managed to bolt only forty feet away from the hearse, then collapsed on to his side in the slow-running stream. Where he now lay, staining the water with his blood as he screwed his head around, teeth bared as he tried to bite out the many fragments of shot sunk into his side.

  Because it was a gunshot that had brought them running to the cemetery, many of the men had snatched up weapons before leaving what had occupied them. It was the blacksmith, who also acted as an unqualified vet in Fairfax, who broke away from the crowd to do Gold’s bidding. He examined the multiple wounds for just a few moments: before pressing the muzzle of an old Starr .44 revolver to the head of the animal. And squeezing the trigger to end the stallion’s suffering.

  ‘Appreciate it, Mr. Hogg,’ the undertaker called, and removed his hat as he looked down for perhaps a full ten seconds at the neatly painted legend on the smoothly planed and perfectly jointed wood of the cross.

  The years of birth and death on the upright with, along the cross member: Emily Jane — Once beloved wife of Barnaby Gold Junior.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ON his way back to rejoin the throng at the corner of the church, the powerfully built and bitterly frowning John Hogg came closer to the new grave than when he passed it to shoot the injured horse. Close enough to read what was painted on the wooden cross.

  He pulled up short and expressed a greater degree of shock than when he first saw the gunshot remains of the Texan.

  ‘Jesus, son,’ he rasped.

  And was ignored by the lanky young man who now swung away from the grave to stride quickly toward the hearse. Where, as he climbed up on to the cloth-draped seat, Jack Cater called: ‘You ain’t gonna just leave him like he is, Barnaby?’

  Gold unhitched the reins from around the brake lever and replied: ‘I’ll take care of it,’ before setting the team moving, to bring them and the hearse into a tight turn.

  The bystanders, some still suffering from shock, others puzzled, some bewildered and a few angry, fell back into two groups so the rig could be driven between them.

  ‘Somethin’ you folks should know!’ John Hogg yelled. ‘Come on over and look see!’

  The undertaker did not look back as the crowd advanced into the cemetery to join the blacksmith at the graveside, all swinging wide of the sprawled body of Floyd Channon, where a swarm of flies was gorging on the rapidly drying blood of the ghastly wounds.

  There were just a handful of women in the cemetery. Most had remained in the safety of their houses and business premises and these now peered out with tacit questions in their eyes at the man riding up on the seat of the hearse. Who did nothing to satisfy their curiosity. Halted the rig out front of the funeral parlor, climbed down and went inside. To reappear less than a minute later at the mouth of the alley, dragging a plain pine coffin, which he loaded into the rear of the glass-sided hearse. Then climbed back up on to the seat, demanded another tight turn from the team and headed toward the cemetery once more.

  This as the mournful-faced men and women who had read the lettering on the cross began to come around the corner of the church.

  ‘It’s terrible, son.’

  ‘Can understand how you feel.’

  ‘But you shouldn’t have done that to him.’

  ‘I’m real sorry, young man.’

  ‘Thank God your poor father was taken before this happened.’

  The black-garbed driver of the hearse seemed not to hear what was being said to him: certainly made no acknowledgement of any of the remarks.

  The slightly-built, neatly bearded Jack Cater was the last man to appear between the church and the house. And forced himself to be heard after moving into the path of the team so that the horses had to be reined in.

  ‘You’re in big trouble, son,’ he said grimly. ‘After you done with the new buryin’, advise you to listen to what I gotta tell you. And do what I say.’

  ‘Soon as I’m through, plan on leaving for Europe, Mr. Cater. Appreciate it if you’d stand aside.’

  The town barber complied, shaking his head and muttering: ‘You’re a strange one and no mistake, son.’

  Gold drove out to the side of the now deserted cemetery and after he had halted the hearse he remained on the seat. Shoulders hunched, head bowed and hands clasped tightly together. The attitude was one of prayer, but this was coincidental. The young undertaker held this posture for so long to keep from shaking: fighting desperately against the threat of a trembling fit that was abruptly on the point of attacking every muscle in his body.

  It was a delayed reaction to a double shock. The first when he unwrapped the blanket and saw that the stinking remains were those of Emily Jane. The second when he carried out his decision — impulsively made on recognizing his wife — to kill her murderer. The latter more shattering than the former because Barnaby Gold Junior had never before killed anything larger than a quail.

  He overcame the desire to shake from head to toe, but the effort this required left him drained and weak. So that he almost fell when he climbed down from the seat. He leaned against a wheel and stared fixedly out at the horizon. Waited until the meeting of sky and land ceased to tilt from side to side. Then took a tin case of slim cheroots from an inside pocket of his frock coat, struck a match on the wheel rim and lit the tobacco.

  The smoke negated the taste of bile in his throat and his body seemed to draw strength from it when it filled his lungs. It was only half finished, its remains squashed flat under a boot heel, when he felt ready to do what was necessary.

  He dragged the pine box from the rear of the hearse and across to where the fly-covered body of Floyd Channon lay. The lid was only tacked to the sides and there was a hammer and bag of nails in the cotton sheet-lined interior.

  Before he placed the faceless corpse in the coffin, he searched the pockets which were empty except for the fat roll of bills. He arranged the body with the hands clasped on the chest, then nailed down the lid.

  He put the money under the seat of the hearse from where he took the three pieces of the shovel and screwed them together. Then began to dig a grave on the edge of the cemetery, just a few feet from where the plain coffin rested.

  The grave, like the box, had to be longer than usual to accommodate the taller than average Floyd Channon. Barnaby Gold dug it with the easy skill of long experience. But then had to struggle, singlehanded, to get the coffin into the grave: determined the Texan without a face should have his eternal rest on his back. And the only way to achieve this was to stand the coffin on end at the foot of the grave — tip it off the edge.

  It was an irreverent method of committing a corpse to the earth, but after the crash of impact and the clearing of the dust it raised, Barnaby Gold saw it had worked well enough.

  He shoveled the dirt to refill the grave and when he was thr
ough the afternoon had run its course: with darkness gathering on the eastern horizon, waiting for the redness of the setting sun to fade in the west. And the smoke of many cooking fires was strong in the cooling air of dusk.

  Apart from when he asked John Hogg to end the agony of the horse and was forced to listen to the ominous warning of Jack Cater, Barnaby Gold had been detached from everything that did not immediately concern him since he fired the first shot at Floyd Channon. And he remained so now, as he unscrewed the three parts of the shovel, stowed them in the accustomed place and climbed up on to the seat of the hearse.

  Until he drove the rig back on to the street and saw that one of the fires pouring smoke into the evening air was not for cooking.

  A building was ablaze, midway along the western side of the street: the leaping flames holding back the encroaching darkness and illuminating the entire male population of Fairfax. Who were split into three groups.

  It was the funeral parlor that was being consumed by flames: burning with a ferocity that suggested they were being fuelled by more than merely the timber and fabric of the building’s construction and furnishings.

  And as Gold drove closer, he smelled kerosene. At the same time, he noticed that the two smaller groups of men, gathered out front of the draper’s and the laundry which flanked the blazing building, were holding pails of water. Ready to douse the neighboring premises should flying sparks threaten to set them alight, too.

  The larger body of men were gathered out front of the saloon. Some of them still toting rifles or with revolvers stuck into their belts from when they had run’to the cemetery earlier in the day.

  Gold angled the hearse toward the saloon, but halted it short of the waiting men: to keep the fire-scared team out of range of the intense heat radiating from the burning building.

  The Reverend Baxter, John Hogg, Jack Cater, Jeb Stone who owned the saloon and Festus Norbert the banker detached themselves from the large group and came toward the stalled rig.

  The flickering firelight showed the grimness of their expressions. Also illuminated the quizzical look on the youthful face of the undertaker who remained up on the seat