by Abe Dancer
Although Jack sensed this was chiefly to scare him, he knew it was possible they meant the threats, to get the ‘prey’ warmed up. From what he’d heard, most swampers didn’t acknowledge laws other than their own. It was how they had been schooled, how they managed to live their lives. But recently, Gaston Savoy had been looking hard about him, was thinking twice about this backward way of life.
‘I’ve got folk in Beaumont who are expecting me back,’ Jack responded. ‘To be honest, they’re looking forward to my money. So if I don’t turn up with it, they’ll come looking. And they’ll hire more law than you ever thought existed. Half the Texas Rangers, most likely. So you wouldn’t want anything happening to me, if you get my meaning.’
‘Hmm. You mean your money’s more important than your hide. Usin’ that to frighten me, are you?’ Savoy sneered.
‘The cruster hit me when I weren’t lookin’,’ Homer Lamb alleged, rubbing the back of his hand across his mouth.
‘An’ he was makin’ cow eyes at Miss Melba,’ another man weighed in.
They just want me dead and they’re stringing it out … filling their time, Jack was thinking disappointedly. Got to do something.
‘Why, the more I get to know you, mister, the more I’m inclined to let Loop have his fun. Is there anythin’ you ain’t done?’ Savoy wanted to know.
‘Yeah, one thing, you oversized lame brain,’ Jack rasped, wrenching free of restraining clutches. He caught Savoy with a punch that swung hard and fast to the low side of the massive man’s jaw. The patriarch of Whistler went a half-step sideways, then backwards before dropping to his knees on the raised walkway.
‘Always wanted to go down with a winning hand. Guess I will be,’ Jack said as pain exploded from his fingers to his wrist and forearm. He leaped forward, dragged a foot across Savoy’s body and stumbled into the man’s cabin. It was a big, single gloomy room, with pungent, feral aromas. Jack swallowed hard. In a brief, desperate moment, he had seen the cabin as an obstacle between the pursuers and a getaway path. And so far he’d got it right. The men didn’t want to enter Gaston Savoy’s dwelling, and with the sounds of cursing welling up behind him, Jack ran for a narrow, single door set in the far wall. Shoulder first, he cracked the door apart, saw it led nowhere other than a small platform at the water’s edge. He cursed at the rank water and turned back.
‘That’s a real private place, pumpkin. ‘You just come to me,’ said a gravel-voiced man, wrapping arms around him as thick and hairy as a grizzly.
Jack thought it best if he went quietly. He let the tension go from his hands and arms, allowed himself be pitched back outside.
Gaston Savoy didn’t bother to look up. He’d raised himself into a hunch, had closed his eyes, the tip of his tongue probing one side of his mouth.
The bemused, albeit cruel smirk on Homer Lamb’s face did little to reassure Jack of his imminent future. But he wasn’t going to regret what he’d done; there seemed little alternative.
Savoy stumbled to standing. ‘I suppose you’re goin’ to tell me that breakin’ the jaw of Gaston Savoy was in the goddamn Constitution, too?’ he rumbled.
Jack was about to say he thought it might be, when Melba stepped in between them, edging up close to Savoy.
Savoy made to brush her aside but she was persistent, stood on tiptoe, whispering behind her hand.
‘I don’t know about that,’ Savoy grumbled, holding a great maw around the bottom of his face. ‘But it might be savin’ me the price of one o’ them pricey jaw crackers.’
Melba kept on in a low voice, while the assembled men waited impatiently. Homer Lamb looked doubtful of the exchange, and Jack just stood there with his arms pinned back, his eyes opening and closing with ominous fatigue.
‘I’m still goin’ to flay him. The varmint tried to steal—’ Savoy started, but Melba cut him short.
‘Just stop it, Pa. You know very well that he didn’t steal anything. Cletus robbed him, and everyone here knows it. Why, that money’s bursting his pants apart right now. Forget how much you dislike outsiders and start acting sensibly. Someone with an eye to the future, you said, remember? As is the gander, and all that.’
‘I remember, okay. Are you goin’ to say he never laid a finger on our boys? He never done that?’ Savoy continued.
‘Take a look at him, Pa. A good look,’ Melba invited. ‘I mightn’t know much about gambling and suchlike, but I reckon I’ve picked up something about men. What I see here is someone who could probably shoot holes in any of our fine family, take anything he wanted … if he wanted.’ Melba gestured around her. ‘Do you see anyone carrying more holes than they should be, Pa. Do you?’
Savoy massaged his face, pushed two heavy fingers around a lower tooth. It was true he had a lot on his mind, didn’t want to be wasting time, giving lie to his declared thoughts and wishes. But it was a long time since he’d taken a punch like the one from Jack. Likewise, since he’d taken his rawhide bullwhip to a troublemaker. And now his daughter was suggesting he consider other important matters.
‘Of course you don’t,’ Melba continued, grimacing at the men. ‘There’s nothing to see other than a handful of blank heads. They’re all lying, Pa, telling you just what they reckon you want to hear … hitting you in the vulnerable spot. For goodness’ sake, it was them who caused the trouble, and they’re terrified of getting punished for it.’
‘You know what happened, do you, Melba?’ Savoy asked as though losing a bit of interest.
‘Yes I do, and I wasn’t even there,’ Melba responded quickly. ‘Our Cletus jumped the man then got chased for it. He rode off, fired two warning shots, and the boys surrounded them at Frog Hollow. It’s the procedure for trouble, Pa.’
Savoy was nearly there, just needed a few more moments to get his judgment sorted.
‘This was meant to happen – him sort of dropping by. Take advantage, like any opportunist would. Are you going to be led by old creeds? If you don’t like it, kill it, is out of date. You told us so. You’re the one who wants us to have those civic improvements. It don’t just mean doors and windows. We got to start learning about things, Pa. Got to.’
Nobody knew what Melba was talking about, except presumably, Savoy. Not Homer Lamb or even his sons, Eliot and John. All it meant to Jack was that his immediate future was being discussed, and it depended on Melba’s line of reasoning – whether it worked on Savoy himself.
Jack turned his attention to Melba. It might not hurt to play up to her a little. She was speaking up for him – in a way. He attempted a look that wasn’t far off a smile, something that expressed his thanks.
Melba reacted with a long cold stare.
It was immediately obvious that whatever the girl was talking about, it was for her father and not for Jack. Nevertheless, it obviously didn’t include him being flayed alive or strung from the nearest cypress.
Shortly, Savoy stopped his ruminations. ‘Perhaps you’re right … for some of it,’ he accepted. ‘Unhand him, boys,’ he gestured. ‘There’s another way for me an’ Mr Rogan to straighten things out. You can’t smack somebody when your arm’s around a crock o’ shine.’
I’ll settle for that, Jack thought, agreeable to the mystifying offer.
5
Sweat dribbled from the crumpled lines of Winge Tedder’s brow as he watched Harry Grice push the blade of his skinning knife against the old treadle whetstone.
‘It was those gunshots gave me the jitters. It was middle o’ the night, sounded as though it was over Whistler way. I figured someone was coming to deal with me.’ Tedder kept talking just to fill out the menacing silence. He ran the palm of his hand across his forehead, swallowed dryly. ‘I got the right to be a tad uneasy, Harry. It’s me who’s been takin’ all the risks while you an’ Pegg sit back out of harm’s way. Sorry, I know I ain’t supposed to mention the man’s name, but—’ Tedder suddenly stopped talking, worried about going too far.
Grice pressed the steel into an expressive, rasping screech. At
the explosion of bright, tiny sparks, Tedder wished he’d had the sense to have quit cold, instead of trying to explain.
The two men had met by the creek that connected a long line of shallow swamps, a mile or so out of town. It was called Lis Etang, but its name was long gone, along with the Cajun folk who had once lived there. No matter where you looked along its few miles’ length, there was hardly an oak, tupelo or cypress to be seen. The boat loggers had decimated them. All that remained were stumps, and dark catfish holes. Where once local activity of the float camps kept the sawmills at Port Neches busy, there was now a silent, ghostly wasteland.
Fifty miles to the north, and heading west, a spur of the Gulf Railroad transported barrelled turpentine from the plant at De Quirrel. It was where Tedder had worked the local bayous, employed as an overseer of boxers and cutters. And he wished he’d stuck to it, instead of allowing himself to get involved with Harry Grice and the man he wasn’t supposed to mention, Morton Pegg.
He’d caught their attention after he was upgraded to the company’s stump blaster, started by accepting payment for running errands, occasionally leaning on those who wouldn’t do what Mr Pegg wanted. But as time went by, Tedder found himself handling more dubious assignments, when the leaning got to be more forceful, and now he wanted out.
He knew the morning wasn’t far away when he’d wake up to find himself surrounded by hunting dogs. He was paid well for what he did, but it wasn’t ever going to stop the marshals from Lafayette.
I could go now … just disappear, he thought, watching Harry Grice put a needle tip to the slim blade. I could take a train to El Paso … be safe enough there. I could keep my mouth shut about everything that goes on here, goddamnit.
Grice’s silence was now getting on Tedder’s nerves. ‘Are you listenin’ to me, Harry?’ he demanded. ‘It could’ve been someone gettin’ flushed out. Could’ve been me they were after. Hell, it’s certain I’ll get informed on one day. They can’t pin everythin’ on them bayou folk.’
Tedder’s consideration was a realistic one. Recently, he’d been called on to visit certain people who, for one reason or another, had refused to do business with Pegg. He’d had to get tough with them until they changed their minds. He claimed there was an accidental death, but friends and family who found the body wouldn’t have seen it that way, and neither would the law. ‘I’m thinkin’ of movin’ on,’ he added.
By now, Grice had decided he’d done enough honing. He took his foot from the iron treadle, slipped the knife into a leather sheath and looked up towards a cluster of dilapidated buildings. They were the abandoned sheds used for rosin and pine oil extraction.
‘You know somethin’, Tedder?’ he said, telling rather than asking.
‘Yeah, I know plenty. That’s my ace in the hole, so to speak. I was gettin’ round to it,’ Tedder replied, knowing it wasn’t what was meant.
‘Your goddamn bellyachin’s got me real worried.’
Tedder’s shoulders sagged and his face lost a shade of colour. He was tough enough, physically strong and looked it. But Harry Grice was dangerous. His knife and high-priced Colt revolver weren’t worn for effect; they were tools of his trade.
‘Why should that be?’ Tedder asked.
‘Well it ain’t so much me, old friend. It’s you worryin’ about him.’
It took a moment for Grice’s reply to take on meaning, then Tedder turned to look behind him.
The short, dark-suited figure of Morton Pegg stood beside one of the old stump grinders. He was staring directly at Tedder.
‘What the hell’s goin’ on?’ Tedder grated, slowly backing off several steps, looking to the left and right of where Pegg was standing. ‘How long have you been there?’ he asked anxiously. ‘I was just thinkin’ about givin’ somewhere else a try. There’s no law against that, is there?’
‘No, Winge, there isn’t, but it’s not you I’m worried about,’ returned the level voice. ‘It’s all the stuff you’re moving on with. You understand the concern that gives me, Winge. What a thorny position I’m suddenly placed in.’
‘If you mean information, I wouldn’t ever get to blabbin’. I’m implicated … be diggin’ my own grave.’
‘What do you think, Harry? Do you trust him?’ Pegg asked.
‘It’s a sword above our heads. Don’t think I could live with that,’ Grice warned.
Tedder trembled with tension as the ensuing quiet held and lengthened. He realized that Pegg had been there all along, had heard everything. Right now, the man was wondering if he could take the risk of letting him go – whether to give Grice the nod.
Tedder backed towards his horse. ‘So you’ve heard my mind’s made up. I guess what you do about it’s up to you,’ he said with bravado he didn’t feel.
Grice drew his Colt, staring at the gleaming blued steel as though an old friend had arrived.
Tedder couldn’t swallow; his mouth and throat turned arid. It was how those people must have felt, he thought. The not knowing, your very survival determined by others. The condemned man suddenly became aware of his surroundings, the cloying smells of damp timber and pine oil, the floating vegetation on old holding ponds. He cursed, heeled short spurs into the belly of his horse.
Harry Grice turned. Holding the movement of his Colt smoothly, he actioned the trigger and squeezed, just the once. A man with his gift wasn’t going to miss from thirty feet.
Tedder gasped at the hammer blow between his shoulder blades and knew he was dead. I didn’t think he’d do it in cold blood, he thought. I should’ve kept my mouth shut.
Jack Rogan didn’t like being tricked. It was something that didn’t sit well with a one-time professional gambler. He’d rather someone come right out and give you the bad news. It saved time before reading it in their faces.
What didn’t make sense was what Gaston Savoy hoped to gain. In return for his life and the return of his belongings, Jack would give some sort of advice in the art of civil propriety. Goddamnit, Savoy could just as well tie him to a tree for his dogs to take chunks out of. From Savoy’s standpoint, what sort of cockeyed return deal was that? Jack wondered.
‘You know what I mean, Rogan,’ Savoy started to explain. ‘The day-to-day stuff, like, when to lift your hat; who gets the right o’ way on the street or the sidewalk. When’s it okay to curse an’ blaspheme.’
Jack wondered again if Gaston Savoy was playing some cruel game with him, whether the moonshine was from a particularly muscular batch.
‘I reckon you’ve already got someone,’ he said. ‘I heard them telling you not to wilfully kill just because you like it … because you’ve no argument. That’s a start.’ Jack also thought there might be personal gain from Melba’s little truism.
His uncertainty must have shown, for Savoy pressed him with another snort from the liquor crock. While Jack tried not to gag on the fiery liquid, Savoy stomped around the room, his language going in and out of a curious patois. It seemed to Jack as though the man was trying to convince himself that ignorance and poverty wasn’t good fun after all.
‘You got to see it from my side,’ he said intently. ‘We’ve been in this neck o’ the woods for nearly ten years … cut off for the most part. We’ve got along with our own way of life, but the world’s changin’. I know, I’ve seen it. So, I reckon there’s some o’ my people who should have the chance to go along with it … start livin’ like regular folk, not goddamn swamp vermin.’
Savoy broke off at Jack’s obvious incredulity. ‘What’s with the sneery look?’ he asked with a harder edge to his voice. ‘You think because we’re from the bayou, we’ll never get accepted as other folks’ equals? Well I’m sayin’ we will, mister, an’ you’re goin’ to help us do it, lock, stock an’ goddamn liquor barrel.’
Jack couldn’t begin to see how, even if he wanted too. But he made a pensive expression and nodded, bided a bit more time. ‘Well, if you’re that set, an’ I don’t have a choice, there’s not a lot to consider,’ he said.
&
nbsp; ‘There. What you just did. That’s what I’m talkin’ about,’ Savoy almost shouted, pointed a big finger.
‘What did I do?’
‘Mopped your chops on your sleeve. We use the back of our hand, then lick what’s left. Hell, Rogan, I swear, you’re the one to learn us. You ridin’ in here was an act o’ divine providence. I’m thinkin’ you was sent to convert ol’ Gaston Olivier Savoy into a blue-chip, blue-blood. Goddamnit, no one’s goin’ to snigger behind our backs any more.’
‘Steady,’ Jack said flatly. He wanted to correct Savoy’s idea of him riding in, but couldn’t see the point. ‘You’re getting ahead of both of us,’ he offered instead.
‘Besides, I’ve been most places twixt here and the Mississippi. We both know it’s not fair words or gentility you need.’
Savoy gave Jack a questioning look, inclined his head slightly as if prepared to hear more.
‘So, I’m thinking all this isn’t for anyone other than you. It must be something to do with Blackwater … why I’m your divine providence,’ Jack continued. ‘There’s no one else here now, so if I’m right, tell me. I wasn’t exactly the town preacher, but maybe I can help, instead of pretending to.’
‘You know the place. Enough to know what’s required of us.’ Savoy extended a massive paw, relieved Jack of the crock. ‘I’ll need this when I’m finished,’ he gruffed, his black eyes gleaming. ‘I remember the first time I saw her. Up until then, I always thought Melba on a Sunday was a pretty enough sight.’
‘Her? Who are we talking about?’Jack asked.
‘Beatrice. The woman I fell in love with ten years ago.’
‘What happened?’
‘Someone else saw what I saw. He was some sort o’ town official … took flowers an’ fine manners an’ a silver tongue. I never stood a goddamn prayer.’
Jack was intrigued, despite himself. ‘And you’ve not moved on … wanted to?’ he pressed.
