Mr. Fox and Other Feral Tales

by Norman Partridge

  So there I was, an aspiring writer with a day job. I also was on a budget. One week as I was about to toss out the old due-date cards I decided they'd make pretty good note cards. Hey, they might even save me some money buying the notebooks I usually picked up. From then on, I kept a pile of cards on my desk both at work and home. When I'd get an idea about a story I was working on, I'd jot it down on a card. I'd clip or rubber band all the cards for each story in separate stacks.

  Sometimes I'd write down an idea for a scene, sometimes a snatch of dialogue. Sometimes it'd be a little note about a character or a character's motivation. And sometimes the whole endeavor could be a little challenging, writing around those little computer hole-punches and all.

  But most of the time, using those old due-date cards was the perfect way to organize my ideas. For one thing, the limited amount of space made me keep my ideas concise. Another advantage was that the notes I made were on separate cards which I could put in any order I wanted. One of the problems I always had with writing my notes/outlines in notebooks was that a story would get spread out all over the place. Ideas for the beginning, middle, and end of a story would bejumbled up instead of sequential, as I'd written them down when they occurred to me. And if I stopped working on one project and went to work on another...well, I might end up with notes on a single story spread throughout a notebook, and I'd have to spend a lot of time flipping through pages trying to find all the places I'd written ideas about a single project before I could get that project organized.

  The due-date cards were a huge improvement on that front. I began organizing my cards into sections, the same way I did my stories. For example, when working on a novel I'd end up with a pile of cards for each chapter, with all the notes on plot, character, dialogue, and description that I planned to use in that chapter. Same with the sections of a short story. As I wrote the chapter or section. I'd flip through the cards to make sure I included everything I intended to. And if in the course of writing I decided that something I'd planned to include in one section might actually fit better in another, I could shuffle that note card into another pile pretty easily.

  It worked for me. Of course, things changed. The library stopped using those hole-punched due-date cards. Fortunately we retired the old card catalog about the same time, and I took a few boxes of those old cards home. They've lasted me about ten years. But I'm down to my last couple inches of those now. Pretty soon I'll have to actually start buying 3"x 5"cards, and that will be a blow.

  I'm not much on signs or portents, but (like most writers) I'm superstitious about my work habits. I'll admit that writing notes for my stories on the backs of catalog cards for Ray Bradbury books gave me a little extra creative juice...and maybe made me try a little harder, too. Of course, that sort of thing can just as easily go the other way, too. I mean, if you find yourself writing notes for a bleak noir story on the backs of Danielle Steele or Barbara Cartland catalog cards, you just can't help but laugh.

  ¡CUIDADO!

  TODOS DAN SU DESPEDIDA PERO COMO ESTA NINGUNA…

  - LAS AMARILLAS, TRADITIONAL FOLK SONG

  Spartacus Jackson knew the makings of a bad day when he saw them. The Concord coach was bucking over every rut in the road, his backbone felt like someone had taken a hammer to it, and the beans he'd had for breakfast weren't sitting well. On top of that, the lone woman on the stage was complaining constantly in a voice that was sharp enough to peel the hide off a Gila monster.

  But those were minor irritations compared to the stink that rose from the sharp-tongued woman's crate. It smelled worse than the stage driver or the horses, and that took some doing. The horses had been working hard all day, and the driver, Ben Rose, didn't smell a bit like his surname.

  A month's time separated Ben from his last bath. Jackson was sure of that, because thirty days had passed since he'd shoved the old man into a horse trough. "Ben," he'd said, "as long as I'm riding shotgun on your rig, you're going to bathe right proper now and again."

  "Christ, but you coloreds have put on airs since you got yourself emancipated," came Ben's soggy reply.

  Jackson chuckled over the memory. He had a true affection for Ben Rose, and he appreciated the free and easy friendship that the old driver returned. Ben was a man born for the life of a jehu. Jackson figured that Ben's wild, nearly reckless way with a team would have been admired by Jehu himself, the hard-driving son of Minshi in the Old Testament.

  Jackson lowered the bandanna from around his face. The dry desert air held more than a hint of dusty grit, but Jackson hoped that a little dirt in his gullet would help to mask the incredible stink that rose from Mrs. Sloane's big crate.

  He looked to the horizon, and suddenly his day went from bad to worse.

  The darkness hung low to the ground, muffling the desert floor. Jackson sensed a sudden stillness in the air, a foreboding silence that made every noise that much louder and somehow strange. Each creak of the coach became a little scream, and the pounding rhythm of the horses' hooves suddenly sounded as ominous as cannon fire.

  The darkness rolled forward, advancing with incredible swiftness and ferocity. Waves of sand washed across the desert, accompanied by heavy clouds that cut off the sunlight and painted everything in view the color of dried blood.

  The coach bucked against heavy gusts. Ben pulled at the ribbons and brought the horses into line.

  "Looks like a bad one," Spartacus shouted.

  Though they sat at elbow's length, Jackson had a hard time hearing the jehu's reply. "Miserable...good-for-nothing...wind. Damn crate...making us top-heavy as a pregnant...We'll just have to sit it out," Ben complained, and Jackson simply nodded in agreement. He'd heard enough tales of stage wrecks to prevent him from being overly brave in the face of a storm.

  Stage travel was rough. More and more people were choosing to ride in relative comfort on the railroads, and the ribbon of steel that now linked the East to the West was slowly killing off the old stage lines. It was only a matter of time before the rails reached south, because that was the only place left for them to go. As it was, new towns were springing up everywhere, things were getting civilized, and Jackson was beginning to wonder if there was going to be a place for him in what the newspaper scribes called "the New West."

  Spartacus Jackson had come west after the war, only to be greeted by a woeful lack of opportunity. It wasn't just that his skin was black, though that was definitely a mark against him in most quarters, it was the additional fact that his left arm ended in a stump at his elbow. He'd mostly worked in saloons and whorehouses, keeping the peace with a sawed-off shotgun. He'd only come by his job as an express messenger after rescuing the owner of the stage company from a tussle in a Tucson whorehouse without skinning the old lecher's purse or pride.

  At the time, Spartacus Jackson had figured it for a lucky break.

  At present, in the face of a raging wind storm, he wondered.

  There wasn't any cover, so the two men did the best they could in preparation for the worst that nature had to offer. Ben hobbled the horses' legs so the animals couldn't wander, and Jackson fastened leather flaps over the coach windows.

  The baggage in the rear boot was covered, but the big crate up top was something else to consider. Jackson knew that if he covered it with a tarp, the stink would be trapped in the cab like a fart in a bottle. But if he left the crate uncovered, the wind would take care of the gamy smell and the heavy box would most likely be just as safe as the strongbox that was stored in the front boot beneath the driver's seat.

  It was sound thinking, but Jackson didn't get very far with it. The owner of the crate, Mrs. Amelia Sloane of Washington, D. C., caught on to his scheme and complained about her cargo's sitting unprotected in such a blower. Her ice-blue eyes froze Ben as she explained for the umpteenth time that the crate contained the remains of her poor husband, Mr. Howard Sloane, who had met his demise in Godforsaken Mexico while securing artifacts for the betterment of mankind and whose corpse, furthermore, wa
s going to be interred in view of his nation's Capitol, befitting the sacrifice he'd made.

  Spartacus listened, amazed at the way the woman's voice rose above the storm. It was as if the winds were afraid to tear at her righteous complaints. He looked at the oversized crate and figured that Mr. Howard Sloane had been one big sonofabitch, indeed. His choice of lifelong companion probably necessitated his size. It was most likely the only advantage the man had held over a hellion like his tiny wife.

  Ben ducked his head into the cab, out of the wind. "You're right crazy, ma'am, if you don't mind my saying. Your fella's already dead. Fact is, a little blowin' might just freshin' him up a tad."

  Suddenly, the barrel of a silver gun pressed against Ben's forehead. "I think you misheard, grandpa," said a man with gray clothes and very white hands. "Maybe you want me to clean out your ears with this little gadget."

  Ben backed off and shouted over the wind, "We can tie it. It'll be as safe as..."

  Mrs. Sloane nodded. "Very well. But you men will have to stay with it and make certain that it meets no harm."

  Ben hollered, "Lady...there ain't one godda...chance in...of us losin'...."

  The man cocked his pistol. "Do like the lady says. Besides, the likes of you ain't tentin' out with us." Sneering, he turned the gun on Spartacus. "Especially not the likes of him."

  Spartacus eyed the man and remembered that Mrs. Sloane had called him "Carolina" at the swing station. And this fellow was still wearing the Gray, clean and starchy as a dress uniform, though certainly too well-tailored to be regulation. Spartacus felt a phantom pain below the stump of his left elbow, the place where he'd had a forearm and hand before his visit to the hell called Cold Harbor.

  Ben was ready to tussle. The other passenger, a well-dressed Mexican named Castro who had joined the coach at the swing station, seemed ready to take up the cause as well. But Spartacus just let it go. "C'mon, Ben," he said. "We'll do like the paying customers say."

  Ben didn't like giving up. "Mouthy women...railroads...progress....I'm about ready to move south of the border, I swear to God."

  The jehu and the express messenger wrapped themselves in canvas tarps, Ben stretching out up top next to the crate, Spartacus taking shelter under the coach. The storm deviled them through the night. It brought dreams of Cold Harbor to Jackson. He heard the screams of dying men in its whistling howls, and he pulled the canvas tighter, closer, until it rubbed at his face like sandpaper.

  Then the wind was gone, and his dreams went with it. Hands were on him, shaking him, and he came quickly awake.

  Castro bent over him, pity in his eyes. "The old driver...I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, senor. Your friend is dead."

  Even with one arm, Spartacus Jackson could do most things just as well as men who had two. He could roll cigarettes without losing a bit of tobacco, and he had learned to light a Lucifer on just about any surface. He could reload a shotgun faster than any other man he'd ever known, and he could aim and fire the weapon with a deadly accuracy that wasn't associated with a scatter-gun.

  But there were some things he couldn't do, and Carolina wanted him to do one of those things now. "Go ahead and shoot me," Jackson said. "But you're wasting a bullet, because there's no way in hell that a one-armed man can dig a grave."

  Jackson tossed the shovel at Carolina's feet. He stared at the crate that had held the remains of Mr. Howard Sloane of Washington, D.C. It lay broken on the ground. Odd planks had blown about in the storm, forming a boardwalk that led to nowhere.

  There was no sign of Mr. Sloane's corpse.

  Ben Rose lay near his beloved horses, his head lolled to one side at an impossible angle, held to his neck by a thin rope of flesh. A dead dog, bloated and crawling with maggots, was stretched across his chest. Between his legs lay another head, a false one made of rough material that looked like it should be attached to a giant doll. It had a wooden nose, seashell eyes, and a painted red grin.

  And it wore a feather headdress.

  Castro crossed himself and removed the doll head. He rolled the dead dog into the sand and straightened Ben's head as best he could.

  Carolina turned to the well-dressed Mexican. "You seem to have a knack for this, senor. I guess you're elected. Either that, or we can leave grandpa here for the buzzards."

  Castro eyed him for a long moment. He waited until Carolina blinked, and then, as if satisfied with the small victory, he took up the shovel and began to dig.

  Jackson nodded thanks and moved off to tend the horses. Mrs. Sloane was waiting for him. "I'm sorry about your friend," she said, and Spartacus could see that the hard edge was gone from her blue eyes, replaced by an emotion that he imagined was not often found there.

  Fear.

  "Just ain't any figuring it," he said. "Don't know how the crate got down there. Don't know what happened to your husband's corpse. Don't know who cut Ben's throat." He shook his head. "Either of those men leave the cab last night, Mrs. Sloane?"

  "Both of them. I think they...uh...needed relief."

  Jackson nodded. "You got any suspicions, ma'am?"

  "Indians?" she offered, almost hopefully. "That strange head, with the feathers and all, it made me think."

  "I don't know of any Indians in these parts who would make something like that, with seashell eyes and all." He studied her expression. "What I meant to ask is, do you have suspicions about Carolina or Senor Castro?"

  "The Mexican, though cursed by his birthright, is a gentleman. The American is not."

  Jackson nodded and turned his attention to the horses. Amelia Sloane was a tiny woman, but her eyes had once again turned hard when she'd spoken of the other passengers. Maybe the conversation had been a test, Jackson thought, her way of deciding if he'd been responsible for Ben's death and the disappearance of her husband's remains. If that was the case, her play at being fearful had been a way to get him to open up.

  Jackson studied the scene. Castro had gone through a foot of earth, into dirt that was just as dry and chalky as the topsoil. Ben's corpse was stiff and going to purple. Someone, probably Castro, had weighted Ben's eyelids with two silver coins.

  Jackson's gaze drifted over the flat landscape. There was no other corpse to be seen. He sniffed, drawing deep breaths. No other corpse to be scented, either. Only the dead dog smelled, and that smell was very familiar. In fact, it was the same stink that he'd been suffering for days.

  Fat flies buzzed around the dog. Suddenly, Jackson was very curious about Mrs. Amelia Sloane and her missing husband.

  "You about done with the horses, boy?" Carolina asked. He was sitting on the driver's box. Jackson's shotgun was in his hands, and the strongbox was on the seat beside him.

  Unlocked.

  "Time to get to work." He grinned. "Sorry about your buddy. No reason for it really. He died for nothing. That thing she had in the box....Whatever it was, it sure didn't have gold teeth. Wasn't worth dyin' over."

  Jackson said nothing, trying to figure it.

  "You know what this is, boy. Except this is one time I don't have to tell anyone to throw down the box. That's 'cause I'm takin' the whole damn stage." Carolina cocked the shotgun. "Boy, you free those horses' legs and move off, real slow." He turned the gun on Castro, who had stopped digging. "Senor, you just get comfortable in that grave and think about the fit of it."

  Reluctantly, the Mexican did as ordered. Spartacus freed the horses. Mrs. Sloane came around the side of the stagecoach. "You can't leave us here," she said. "Don't you have any Christian decency?"

  "That's a laugh!" Carolina said. "Lady, did you butcher that dog yourself? And that thing in the box, all bound up like Christmas time, where'd you dig it up, anyhow?"

  "I can get money." She pointed to the strongbox. "More money than that. Just tell me what you did with my...with my husband."

  "Husband? That's rich. You must have been married to Methuselah." Carolina laughed. "As for what happened to that thing, you best ask these two, 'cause I left it in the box along
with the other old sourpuss."

  Amelia Sloane's hand rose, a derringer looming large in her tiny grasp. She fired, and Carolina let go with a shotgun blast. Mrs. Sloane lurched backward, her white petticoats ruffling, her yellow dress stained with blood and gore and her eyes flat and vacant. Jackson dove away just as Carolina fired a second blast. Pellets missed him by inches, whizzing over his shoulder. A few caught Castro as he rose from the grave.

  The Mexican fell back with a grunt. Carolina slapped the ribbons. The horses sprang forward, and so did Spartacus Jackson.

  He was behind the stage in an instant. He got a grip, pulled himself onto the rear boot, and held tight.

  “¡Cuidado! ¡Cuidado!"

  Jackson glanced over his shoulder. Castro was chasing the coach, but he was too far away to catch up.

  "Beware!" the Mexican shouted. "Beware!"

  Jackson climbed on top of the stage, scrambling over the tarp that Ben had used as a bedroll during the storm. He rose on two feet, glancing down as he steadied himself.

  Four brittle twigs extended from between the canvas folds.

  Not twigs. Fingers. Hard and brown and —

  Moving! They closed around his ankle, tight as a vise, and he nearly screamed. He fell backward and landed hard, kicking, trying to free his leg. Carolina turned, his silver Colt revolver in his very white hand. Jackson stared at the gun, then at the bony brown fingers that held him.

  Then the thing rose between them, dry and dead and grinning.

  Jackson caught Carolina's eye, just for an instant, and remembered the gunman's comment about a thing that was as old as Methuselah.