by Abe Dancer
But Jack sensed, hoped, this was some sort of voodoo talk. Blinking all emotion from his face he stared ahead, saying nothing.
The men glowered at him expectantly, waiting for him to break down. They looked thwarted when he didn’t, possibly slowed by their confusion.
Powerful hands hauled an ashy-faced Cletus Savoy to his feet, pushed and propped him against a black stump knuckle.
‘All right, let’s hear it, Cletus,’ said the long-bearded man. ‘What’s your story?’
‘I’ll save you some time,’ Jack started in. ‘You’ll find my billfold somewhere about him. Go take a look. But who … what are you to believe. That I wanted his crow bait mule, or that he wanted my sorrel?’
Cletus Savoy gave a slow confused shrug. ‘Hell, Homer, you say we’s to make our own way when we can. That’s what I was doin’.’
‘Let me see the billfold,’ the man called Homer said.
‘Heck it’s mine, Homer. I took risks.’
‘Give me the man’s goddamn poke,’ Homer grated. Snatching the billfold from Cletus Savoy’s belt, he pulled it open.
‘Hell an’ Judas,’ the redhead, Loop Ducet snorted ahead of all the others. ‘Must be a million dollars there.’
‘Not quite,’ Jack said. He knew down to the last cent how much money he had, and meant to get it back one way or another. He still carried his pocket revolver – his private indemnity – tucked into his trousers in the small of his back. The swampers hadn’t discovered it yet, but that didn’t surprise him. It was fundamental stuff; they thought that what they saw was what there was. But through his gambling know-how, Jack was considerate of the odds. He knew that even with a pair of fully loaded, matched twin Colts in his fists and a carbine for backup, starting a fight against these sorts of odds would be extremely hazardous and foolhardy. These might be simple folk, but that didn’t mean they were soft in any way, less than cunning.
Homer Lamb fingered through Jack’s personal billfold, withdrew an addressed envelope. He read the words with care and raised a single eyebrow. ‘John Rogan. Blackwater. Is that you?’
‘Yeah. Blackwater’s a place I used to be. The last place.’
‘Hey, reckon I heard o’ them Rowguns,’ Loop Ducet, said, smoothing his hair and giving Jack an exaggerated, low curtsy. ‘So, look up brotherly trash. We’re in high class company. These Rowguns, they any kin to them Rowguns what come to pin us with accusations on whatever takes their fallutin’ fancy? Are you them kind, Mr Rowgun?’ he asked, stepping closer to Jack. He raised his face confrontationally, gave the full breathy effect of molasses and chaw tobacco.
‘If I thought there was even half a brain inside that skull o’ yours, I might dignify that dumb question,’ Jack seethed. His fingers and knuckles itched and he balled his fists. He wanted to bust the man’s nose, do something bad to his face. He’d done similar stuff before, in the confines of the paddle steamers when forcefulness was crucial. ‘I just want to keep what’s mine, same as you do,’ he said, calmly. ‘If you return my money with an apology, I’ll be on my way. If not, I’ll be obliged to find me a star-toter … make him a statement.’
‘Yeah, I can see how you would be, you bein’ a proper citizen an’ all,’ Homer Lamb broke in. ‘But it’s quite a ways from here to the nearest law, an’ there’s many a danger in between. Ain’t that so, boys?’
Jack sensed that Lamb might be the leader of the pack. The man sniffed, spat and rolled his shoulders. He had an old Walker .44 tucked into a broad belt; a sheath knife hung from a loop of shoulder cord.
Heads nodded, made eager, petulant voices sounded. To Jack, the men looked like turkey vultures, eager to rip into their prey, but mindful of an inbred pecking order.
‘Just hand me back my money and I’ll be on my way. Nothing lost, nothing gained,’ he said through clenched teeth.
‘He’d offer us up anyway, I reckon, Homer,’ Loop Ducet drawled, tugging at a bandolier of yellow rope.
‘Maybe. Trouble is, messin’ with the law’s somethin’ we ain’t supposed to be doin’ right now,’ Lamb said broodingly. He turned to the sorrel, and his taut features appeared to relax. ‘But this here young lady’s an unforeseen event … makes things different,’ he added.
He reached out to offer a cupped hand to the sorrel’s nose, but the big head snapped down and teeth flashed. The man shouted an oath, drew back his chomped fingers and swung a retaliatory punch with his right fist.
The sorrel reared away and Jack leaped forward. His fist hammered straight into the meat of Lamb’s mouth. The man went down, crumpling like a sack of sugar beet.
Jack reached for his pocket revolver as he wheeled away. But the others, who’d been waiting edgily, were on him, grunting with eager prospect. Jack knew that if he fell, it was odds on he mightn’t get up again. Fearful of the worst, he quickly decided to go down fighting.
He felt the collapse of a smashed nose, the pain of his fingers cracking against a bony forehead. He saw two of his assailants fall, almost had time for a satisfied grin before a rifle butt hit him in the nape of his neck and the moon gave up on its big, waxy brightness.
3
The secluded community of Whistler was less than a mile from Frog Hollow. During daylight hours, most of its people kept to themselves. Night-time was usually more lively, with the men gambling, arguing and brawling amongst themselves. They swilled most stuff found in a jar, and smoked or chewed just about anything that was dead or close to it.
Melba Savoy was an early riser, usually one of the first outside, winter or summer. Slender, raven-haired and just eighteen, it was Melba’s custom to roll from her bed around five o’clock. She preferred that part of the day, the peaceful time before sunrise. In a place so often made untidy by men, children, hogs and dogs, the early mornings were always something to look forward to.
Melba rose and dressed, washed her face and brushed her hair, paused by the faded Jesus likeness that was pinned to the wall beside the front door. She said a few prayer words, thought it might help her family along the straight and narrow path so recently prescribed by Pappa Gaston.
She was ready to start her day, walking out onto the narrow raised deck that fronted the cabin. She listened to Homer Lamb’s red rooster, as it warmed to its task of heralding another day, watched the wood ducks lapping up their weed around the fishing platforms. But a frown stirred her face when she saw the saddle mule appear from the back of the woodshed and head towards her vegetable patch. The animal belonged to Cousin Cletus, and obviously hadn’t been tended to overnight.
Careless, or what, Melba thought. Maybe he was too drunk to tend anything last night. But she knew that the menfolk of Whistler always took care of their work animals before themselves. No matter what. Even Cletus.
Stepping off the deck, Melba went after the mule, caught it by the trailing reins and led it back to the woodshed. There was still no sign of anyone else, and she mused about some of them having an unusually late night. She’d heard them in the early hours, wondered where they might have galloped off to. ‘Perhaps it was the Sabine Cuff,’ she muttered. ‘Perhaps they flushed it.’
The Sabine Cuff was a huge mutated bear of legendary cunning and longevity which had, for many years, succeeded in making the best hunters in the county appear green. A great accolade awaited anyone who wound up sinking their bare toes in the beast’s dark hide.
After giving the mule a drink, Melba walked across a compound that had been created within a dozen or more functional, but crudely built cabins. Wedged in between the forage store and the meathouse, smoke curled lazily from the chimney of the cookshack, a hang-around place for the bachelors of the close-knit community.
Women of a certain age were scarce throughout the wetlands, and certainly within the confines of Whistler. And girls in town tended to shy off whenever an unmarried man showed up with an eager grin, looking for some cosying. But Melba wasn’t particularly worried or wary of them because they were mostly family. Of those who weren’t, there wer
e one or two she quite liked, but not enough for anything further. Now and again, someone would make a concerted effort, but she had a knack of discouraging the advance. Bumping egos was something you didn’t do to impulsive, young male swampers. That she would look more kindly on a proposal from the Sabine Cuff might be what she felt, but it wouldn’t be worth the saying, the upshot.
Homer Lamb refused to be one of the discouraged. Unfortunately, of all the keen young men she knew, he actually would come second to the big, black bear. Smiling at the mixed thoughts, Melba continued on her way across the yard to the forage store.
On the side of the small building, in a narrow plot away from the wind, Melba had planted several squash. Her brother, John, had given her a sack of fertilizer made from dried grass and mule muck, had even dug it into the soil for her. The squash were growing fast, but required almost daily weeding in the rich loam. Melba drew a long forked stick from the soil, pushed the tip back in and twisted against the invasive shoots of mallow and foxtail.
‘Weeds is weeds. No matter how much you fight ’em, they just keep on coming.’
The voice was so close and unexpected it startled Melba, making her gasp. She looked round sharply but saw nobody. A moment later she turned towards the nailed slats of the store’s window hole.
From six feet away, a total stranger with a rugged face, a steel-grey moustache and eyes of almost the same colour, was peering at her through a gap in the crude wooden lathes.
‘What are you doing in there?’ she demanded, taking a step back.
‘If it was some sort of field hospital, I’d say recuperating,’ Jack Rogan answered. ‘Perhaps those who put me here can tell you,’ he added.
Her composure returning, Melba jabbed the forked stick back into the soil, squinted at him with open curiosity. The forage store had always been the spot where troublemakers were held, trespassers and snoopers, sometimes a violently drunk relation ready to do mischief to themselves as well as others. But there hadn’t been anyone locked away for some time, and from what Melba could see, this prisoner was hardly a young tear-away, didn’t fit into any of the accustomed categories.
A moment later, the penny dropped. A bunch of men riding off in the middle of the night had woken Melba up.… ‘Let me guess. It was you my kin were after last night. Who are you?’ she asked, thinking that the Sabine Cuff wasn’t the cause of the commotion, after all.
‘There’s some folk call me Mr Rogan. That seems rather out of place at the moment, so just call me, Jack. Do you want to keep the advantage?’
‘I’m Melba Savoy,’ Melba said. ‘Why are you locked in there?’
Jack frowned thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t. It started off with someone robbing me. I was fast asleep and minding my own business.’
‘You sound like a towner to me, and that could be reason enough. Those boys sure got an aversion to them.’
‘Well I don’t know about being a towner, as you put it. But I am moderately civilized,’ Jack replied. ‘Which is more than can be said for the gutless half-wit kin of yours. ’Specially the one who tried to break my neck.’
‘If that had’ve happened, they would have fed you to the hogs.’
‘Well, in this place here, it was hard to know I hadn’t been. Took me a while to realize hogs move around a bit more than onions and goddamn goober peas.’
‘Very funny. You must have done something quite bad for them to lock you away for the night. It was the same men, wasn’t it?’
‘Yeah, your kinfolk. I counted six of them. They probably took it in turns to whack me when I was out cold.’
‘We’re not all like that, Mr Rogan. You say they robbed you?’
‘One in particular. I haven’t worked out exactly who and what you people might be, or what the hell this place is, but an idea’s growing.’
‘Hmm. The one who robbed you. Have you got a name?’
‘More like a breed. It was Cletus.’
‘Cousin Cletus. I guess that makes some sort of sense. He’s not the sharpest knife we’ve got.’
‘Yeah. From what I’ve seen, he really hasn’t got much going for him,’ Jack said.
‘Look, Miss Melba Savoy, I want out of here, so you go and shake awake whoever’s at the top of your pecking order and bring ’em here.’
‘You want to crack on with whatever punishment they’ve got in mind?’
‘Not particularly. But if they were going to kill me they’d have done it already. The way it is, they’re building up a big piece of trouble and you’ll be included for aiding and abetting. Tell him that. I think his name’s Homer.’
‘That’ll be Homer Lamb, but he’s not the elder.’
‘Bring anybody. If it can open up this goddamn shack, you can bring your dog.’
Beyond Melba, Jack saw a few men approaching and he didn’t bother to continue. The man in the centre with the long, wispy beard and badly swollen mouth was Homer Lamb.
‘He’s not going to be too sympathetic,’ Jack muttered to himself.
One man pulled away the bracing board and opened the door; two others dragged Jack out roughly.
‘Homer,’ Melba said, trying to intervene. ‘What the deuce do you think you’re doing? Has he killed someone?’
Homer Lamb dug powerful fingers into the top of Jack’s arm, gave the girl a curt nod. ‘Mornin’, Miss Melba. Your pa wants to take a look at him.’ Lamb gave Jack an inhospitable stare. ‘I guess he wants to take a look at the stranger who thought he could take us all on. Wants to know what he was doin’ here.’
‘What I’m doin’ here is a strategy of yours, not mine. I was hoping to pass through, but one of you robbed me of my money while I was asleep. I was just exercising my right to get it back,’ Jack answered. ‘And where’s my sorrel?’ he snapped.
Lamb had his own thoughts on what was going to happen next. ‘We’ll see what ol’ Gaston has to say,’ he replied. ‘But just in case somethin’ needs to be stretched, Loop, get it prepared.’
The redhead, Loop Ducet, nodded. He didn’t say anything, just grinned malevolently as he fingered his coil of rope.
For the shortest moment, Jack considered the possibility of escape. But he saw the language of their faces and knew they were ahead of him. It was what they wanted; an opportunity to call out the dogs. The decision not to break away was so reassuring, it almost took his mind off the searing pain across his shoulders, in his neck and head.
Lamb nodded and strong hands reached out, shoved him in the direction of the largest of the settlement’s buildings.
Jack turned his head to glance back at Melba. Now he was hit low in his back, close to his kidneys. His knees went shaky, nearly brought him down.
‘Straight ahead. Miss Melba ain’t for payin’ you any mind.’ The voice then became a throaty laugh; Jack thought it was Cletus Savoy.
A puncheon door, mounted on fat leather hinges, swung out. A man, who practically filled the frame top to bottom, as well as from side to side, stepped onto a double-planked levee. He glanced at the still water before swinging his black eyes to Jack.
Jack cursed. ‘Some of ’em come stacked high. He must be six-six,’ he muttered, an obvious and shared thought of those watching and listening.
‘Is this him?’ the huge man barked. ‘Him who’s disturbin’ the peace of our community … my community?’
Not for the first time, Jack got it into his head that he might have trouble getting out alive if he didn’t come up with a probable story.
‘Who are you, an’ what you got to say for yourself?’ the man continued.
‘I’m Jack Rogan, and I’m riding west to Beaumont, Texas. I thought starting off south would be a good idea … save me a hundred miles or more. It was a mistake, but not one I should make an apology for.’ Jack was hoping his frankness was akin to truth, the way to go.
‘So why were you settin’ about my boys?’
‘One of them crept up on me in the middle of the night and stole my billfold. It cer
tainly weren’t neighbourly. He was doing more of a trespass than I was. Haven’t you heard of the Constitution out here? We’ve got one, you know. It’s my right to take back what’s mine.’
4
Gaston Savoy was the community patriarch, the one who had made Whistler their home, brought them in on the old float roads. For almost a decade, families had confronted hardship and prejudice, but they were tenacious and maintained a niche for themselves. What they couldn’t steal or poach, they paid for in cash from selling eels and squirrel meat to the nearest towns west and north of the nearby lakes.
The head man of the community never had much of an inclination for tolerance. One hard look told him that Jack Rogan was the kind of outsider he felt most antipathy towards. Every accoutrement and gewgaw that the stranger owned would have been shop bought. With a fat billfold of cash money, there was nothing in common. Savoy decided to give Jack a rough time because of it, make a show with his men looking on.
‘That’s as maybe. Where’d you come from? he demanded. ‘What sort o’ line you in?’
‘I played the boats on Big Muddy. That money’s my grubstake, and Beaumont’s my home. I was hoping to introduce the two.’ Jack stared back. When it came to giving someone a cold, undaunted eye, he was up there with the best of them.
‘A cardsharp, huh,’ Savoy grunted as though another assumption had just been affirmed. Again he looked Jack up and down with gimlet eyes. ‘Let me figure. You was figurin’ on easy pickin’s among the simple folk. Put on some lard.’
Jack was going to say how absurd the idea was, when Savoy looked towards the group of men. ‘He tried to steal your mount, too, I hear?’ he asked of Cletus.
You got to be some sort of idiot to believe that, Jack thought, and nearly smiled at the continuing foolishness.
‘Yessir,’ Cletus Savoy lied without hesitation, hawked and spat for emphasis. ‘Then he tried to shoot me like a pot pig, Uncle. Can Loop hang him now? Can we run him?’
