by Abe Dancer
‘Not enough,’ Jack railed. ‘It’ll take more than anything you gutless cow-heads have got. And there’s nothin like a dose of desperation to get me up and going.’
He rolled from the impact of Ducet’s boot, the swing of Cletus Savoy’s scattergun. Then he turned again to Lamb, ramming his kneecap hard into the side of the man’s face.
‘How many more times, scumsucker?’ he rasped. ‘You won’t have a mug left.’
Lamb was down and stilled, but Savoy and Ducet were on to him. Jack had his face rammed into the soft, dark ground, felt it filling his nose and mouth. He gagged, heard his ribs crack from another brutal kick.
But it wasn’t his ribs which made the noise, he realized through the pain. It was the poles of the corral. He twisted his head, and through one eye and against the moon, he saw the sorrel rearing. Then the big horse was kicking free of the corral, bringing down its front legs, pounding its hoofs into the narrow back of Cletus Savoy.
‘That’s good. Kick the goddamn frost out,’ Jack gasped. He was straightening up, wondering what to do next when somebody punched him in the back of the head.
7
Gradually, as though in slow motion, Jack staggered to stand straight. Am I up? he was asking himself. Maybe I’m still down. Maybe, finally, I’ve got to be dead. But I’m not, he reasoned. They’ve been told not to kill me.
He put a hand to his head where he’d been hit and turned around, immediately got a smack in the nose from a massive, tightly bunched fist. Fortunately for Jack, there was no intended follow through, and the punch only hurt, didn’t down him.
‘All gamblers lose in the end. No one ever tell you that?’ Gaston Savoy’s voice echoed across the dark swampland. ‘But you’re smart enough to know I’m not goin’ to kill you. Lyin’ on your back with a broken head won’t get us anywhere.’
Yeah, lucky old me, Jack was thinking as Savoy grabbed him by the lapels of his coat. This was nearer the real Savoy; not so much the man who would be Mr Wellborn, but the roughscuff who regulated with his fists.
Something rammed painfully into Jack’s stomach and he knew it was Savoy’s forefinger, buried almost to the knuckle.
‘Iffen that boy croaks, then you’ll be followin’ soon after,’ the man threatened.
Stopping himself from falling forward, Jack let himself rest against the enormous hand. He wondered if it was Homer Lamb who was going to die, before quickly realizing it was Cletus Savoy. Then he sensed the loneliness and futility of dying alone, still fifty miles from where someone would know him. What was the friendly warning of the liveryman in Blackwater? ‘Go a long ways above the swamps, not through ’em. They ain’t nice people in there.’
Jack dearly wanted to hand Gaston Savoy – any Savoy – one more final smack in the mouth, but he wasn’t up to it. His head, legs and arms wouldn’t work properly. There wasn’t much he could do, save ominous thinking. He was too far into the unfeeling area to grasp that Melba had arrived.
‘Do him any more harm, Pa, and you might as well kiss goodbye to that future you so badly want,’ she warned Savoy.
‘Shut it, Melba. Just for once,’ Savoy replied angrily. ‘The man’s gone an’ broke your cousin’s back.’
‘It was the sorrel, not him,’ Melba stormed. ‘You going to beat them both to death? You know there’s people waiting for him. He told us, they’ll bring peace officers if he doesn’t get home.’
‘There’s a State line in between. We’re in Louisiana not Texas.’
‘Oh don’t be so silly, Pa. You think that’ll stop the Texas Rangers? If you kill him, we won’t be going anywhere, let alone Blackwater. You want to risk it on all our behalfs?’
Jack began picking up the odd word here and there. He was confused, not able to understand Melba’s stance. It sounded accurate enough. Perhaps it really was for the good, his immediate future.
‘Nonsense,’ Savoy blasted. ‘You’re soundin’ like you’re protectin’ him for some reason. Why? You betrayin’ us, girl?’
‘No, it’s you. You’re betraying what you tell us by what you’re about to do. If you’d only taken the time to listen to someone other than Homer, you’d know the horse was staked out. When Rogan showed, Homer tried to make it look like he was stopping him from escape. It’s impatience that gathers unripe fruit, Pa. Don’t accuse me. Maybe they’re right.’
‘They?’ Savoy almost snarled back at his daughter. ‘What the hell are they right about?’
Jack felt Savoy’s attention back away from him, sensed a change in the order of things.
‘What most everyone’s too scared to say out loud,’ Melba continued. ‘That you’re slipping … past your peak. That maybe someone else should be looking to take over. If you go ahead and put Rogan here in the ground, you’ll be bringing the hounds of hell down on us … handing over to a would-be heir, without him having to fight you for it. We’ll certainly never get to that Happy Valley you want for us.’
Feeling a little more clear-headed now, Jack found himself wishing Melba hadn’t mentioned anything about burying him, even with an account of its shortcomings. He needn’t have worried, though. Gaston Savoy’s temper had flared when he heard that Jack had tried to escape, that he was to blame for the sorrel kicking through the corral fence and making an invalid out of Cletus. But hard-boiled as he was, big Gaston wouldn’t do in cold blood what he might do when running hot. And he had no desire to swing for doing it.
Savoy turned on the line of men at the rear of the cookshack. They had been tending Cletus Savoy, who occupied a makeshift bunk along the end wall.
‘Eliot, I’m sniffin’ somethin’ here,’ he rapped at his eldest son. ‘Was it how your sister says?’
‘Reckon so, Pa. Seems like Homer expected Rogan to make a break for it. He was kind o’ layin’ for him out the corral … came down with a bad case o’ not figurin’ it proper.’
For a long moment it was silent in the cookshack. Then Savoy turned to Jack. ‘So maybe Homer did go off half-cocked. He’s sure goosy enough,’ he conceded. ‘But that don’t excuse you from what happened to Cletus. Ever since he lifted that fat poke o’ yours, you’ve had it in for him. There was no harm done, so’s why’d you urge that big ugly brute onto him that way?’
Jack spat dryly. ‘The horse didn’t need urging. And it’s no big ugly brute. He’s got wits and is a thoroughbred, which is a lot more than can be said for most of you sons-of-bitches,’ he declared in a voice he managed to carry. ‘When he sees a whole pack of wretched low-lifes, throwing their weight around, he just ups and does what comes natural. A kind of four-legged paladin. When it’s me, I guess he just adds a tad more vim. You understand that, Savoy?’ Jack wasn’t at all sure that winning an argument with words was a good thing at that moment, or that his strength of mind would save him.
Having rated Jack as out on his feet, with little to retaliate with, Gaston Savoy was taken aback. He flicked a glance at Melba, who was watching Jack with a look he couldn’t read. He looked at his men, was irked that they too seemed stirred by Jack Rogan’s grit. Then he turned back to Jack, faced him accusingly. ‘I ease you from bad trouble, an’ offer you a way out o’ this problem you got. Hell, for a while there in my cabin, I even had you tabbed as a not-all-bad, white man.’
Savoy shook his head slowly and Jack wondered if he was going to learn of his punishment.
‘Then, first chance you get, you try an’ cross me up an’ make me look bad in the eyes o’ my men; the men who wanted you to get together with my ol’ bullwhip.’ Savoy continued his summing up. ‘What am I supposed to do, Rogan? We’re all bein’ let down.’
Jack shook his head in disbelief. ‘You’ve got a real warped way of seeing things, Savoy,’ he said. ‘Like a cheap politician on the stump. Say anything in the morning, if it gets you what you want in the afternoon. You’re all piss an’ wind, ’cause you’re plum out of ideas of how to get what you want. And you didn’t need me to make you look bad in front of your men … your family. From what
I’ve seen and heard, you’ve already done a fair job of that yourself … still are.’
‘Hah, this speechifyin’s what I like, Rogan,’ Savoy grated. ‘I ain’t sure it’s kind compliments you’re payin’ me, but I like the sound o’ the words. An’ I ain’t dumb enough to miss the chance when it comes along … might use some of ’em myself one day soon.’
‘Well, I like your words,’ Jack continued. ‘Some could make a cadaver chuckle. With me lending a hand you want to reform yourself. Then, and after a decade, you sashay into Blackwater as a wronged paramour. And while that’s going on, your people are getting instant respect. Well, it’s all bunkum, Savoy. You’ll never be more than a plug-ugly, inadequate barbarian. As much an outsider to them, as I am to you.’
‘There you go again, Rogan. I know you’re right, but I don’t like the sound o’ why. I just know it ain’t good.’
‘Your new partner’s insulting you, Pa … treating you like a fool,’ Melba cut in.
Jack turned. It was faster than he meant and he expected the pain in his head to be sharp. But it was bearable, and thinking he’d rework the setup, he took a few steps towards Melba. ‘And there was me getting to think yours was the voice of reason,’ he said. ‘Hell, I should have known better.’
There was movement from one or two of the men. They moved away from Cletus Savoy’s bunk, attempted to look menacing, but Jack disregarded them.
‘I once knew a couple of sheriffs who worked like that,’ he went on. ‘One of them would punch your head and the other would hand you a cool, damp cloth. An hour later they’d reverse the roles. You never knew where the hell you were. They kept it up until you said what they wanted to hear. It improved their arrest and conviction rate. What’s your motive?’
‘I’m learning,’ Melba replied with a raised voice.
Jack blinked. ‘Learning? Learning what?’
‘How to deliberate. Or is there some other word for it?’
Jack took a deep breath. ‘I think maybe there is, yeah, but that’s near enough. It’s what regular townsfolk do on street corners,’ he said. ‘What you folk would use clubs and fists for.’
‘And what’s a paramour?’ she added, knowing full well.
‘Ask your pa. He’s been one, even if he doesn’t know it.’ Jack then wheeled back to Savoy. There wasn’t much future in sparring with the girl, he realized. Especially as she probably exchanged feisty comments with half the male population of the neighbouring swampland. And there were things he wanted to say to her father.
‘Just listen to yourself, Savoy,’ he said. ‘You don’t know what to make of most anything. You think that someone you’ve already described as a no-good card-sharp is going to turn you into a man of character? It’s farcical.’
‘You’re still in there with plenty jawbone. Sayin’ plenty, still gettin’ nowhere.’
‘I’ll tell you where I’ve got, Savoy. I’m a law-abiding citizen riding through the trees, minding my own business, looking for a short cut home. Your misbegotten nephew lumps along and decides to steal from me. I don’t like it and give chase, an’ all you can do is act as though you’ve done the most magnanimous thing in the history of mankind by offering me a job.’
‘You finished?’ Savoy said.
‘No. You’ve got the cut and habits of a bum and a crook, but you’re spouting a lot of horsecrap about being just the opposite. You think you can prove it by shifting people into town as though you’re some sort of latter day Moses. And that’s where you’ve got.’
Jack paused with an input of knowing breath. He’d got close to touching the fact. The whole situation really was a farce and bunkum. Gaston Savoy might well want to become a towner and get back some primitive standing with Beatrice Marney, but that wasn’t all of it. It was nothing Jack had seen or heard – more what he hadn’t. Savoy wanted him for something else.
‘Well, what now?’ he said, knowing he might have an edge. ‘Do you keep me here until they come looking? The folk I’m talking about will drag you to Texas if they have to. Kidnapping’s a capital offence back there. One they hang you for.’
Savoy was catching most of what was being said, but his mind had wandered. Once again he was thinking about whoever or whatever it was that had engaged his emotions for ten years. Being noticed in Blackwater was the last thing he wanted until he found what he was after. And for that he needed Jack’s participation.
‘Tell you what I’ll do, Rogan,’ he said, shifting ground slightly. ‘I ain’t sure I believe all that guff about folk comin’ from Texas to rescue you. It’s about what someone in your position would say. So, forget what happened tonight. You ain’t goin’ anywhere ’cause my boys’ll let the hound dogs run you up a gum tree. If that happens, you’ll stay there for a week with the kids flickin’ army worms up at you. So, for your own protection, we carry on doin’ what we been doin’. Then, I’ll give you your money an’ your guns an’ safe passage from the swamps. The horse’ll be guarded day an’ night, until then.’
‘How the hell are you going to manage that?’ Jack retorted. ‘It’s a fact that polecats and other low varmints sleep for at least sixteen hours a day.’
Savoy gave a slow, chilly smile. ‘That’s it, feller, keep up the lip. But the sorrel’s where you’re vulnerable … your heel of Achilles. An’ that sortment o’ words comes from a low varmint with no schoolin’,’ he scowled.
Jack sighed. His new thinking was, as far as Achilles heels were concerned, Savoy definitely had one or two of his own. ‘There’s no such word as sortment,’ he replied. ‘It’s the kind of beefhead mistake that’ll get you noticed.’
Gaston Savoy gave a short, considerate nod. He looked past Jack towards his men who were still milling about anxiously. ‘Do what you can for Cletus. Pour some shine into him,’ he told them. ‘The rest o’ you get the sorrel, an’ remake the corral. Our Mr Rogan’s changed his mind about goin’ anywhere just yet.’
*
Early morning, Jack had just finished a plateful of fried fish and corn bread. The door of Gaston Savoy’s cabin was propped open with a branch, and he was looking through the cat-tails to the lily pads, speculating on the possibility of escape. But wading across the bayous would mean leaving the sorrel behind, then drowning and being eaten by alligators, so he turned to the more pressing commitment.
‘I’ve agreed to help, but I really don’t know what the hell you want,’ he told Gaston Savoy, with Melba listening. ‘I don’t even understand the circumstances. I’m a gambler. So what I know is that the odds against you passing yourselves off as gentlefolk are about the number here in your clan, to one. You got to go East to learn that stuff, or leave the swamp and start your own obliging town.’
‘Tell us what you know, what you had to do to last in that town.’
‘I already have. I lasted as long as it took me to smack down someone who ill-treated his dog,’ Jack replied. ‘He wasn’t exactly a class specimen. From what I recall, he was so backward, and mean with it, he might have been a relative of yours.’
Savoy ignored the insult. ‘Then give us a broad picture,’ he said.
‘I’m thinking of a way to twist the obligation. Racing cockroaches around the rim of a hot plate might be entertaining, but it doesn’t have much going for it, even in a place like Blackwater. I can teach you how to play stud and draw, but you’ll have to know how to sit in on games of seven-up or faro. And you won’t be able to carry guns to shoot up anything that takes your fancy. Mostly guns are worn for protection. That’ll be from the likes of Homer Lamb and Loop Ducet.’
Savoy curled his lip. ‘I’ll worry about them. The rest ain’t so difficult,’ he said.
‘It might be,’ Jack responded. ‘They’ve got a newfangled system of transacting goods. If you want something you pay for it. With real money, like nickels and dimes, sometimes folding stuff. If you don’t get the hang of any of those things, you can end up in a place they call jail. And that’s for the likes of your Cletus. Or someone like him,’
he added quickly. ‘Think about how you treat outsiders here in Whistler because that’s what’s going to happen to you, if and when you put a foot in the wrong place. If it’s integration you want, just do it, for Chris’sakes. Use politeness and civility. Look and learn. Pay your way.’
‘We’ve got money,’ Melba confirmed.
‘Yeah, an’ more comin’,’ Savoy agreed. ‘Show us what to look for … what to learn.’
‘I can win a hand of cards easy enough. But I don’t reckon it’s that talent you’re really after.’ Jack thought he was pushing a best guess for Savoy’s purpose as far as he could. ‘I’m thinking there’s something you’re not coming across with. Maybe a lot. What is it?’ he said.
‘Huh, you an’ your thinkin’ … your goddamn questions,’ Savoy blustered. ‘Hell, just get on with what we been doin’, only more so.’
‘What’s your hurry?’ Jack asked. ‘I mean, I know what mine is.’
As though he had something on his mind and not certain whether to come out with it, Savoy stared at Melba for a moment before he spoke.
‘The railroad workers are strikin’ camp. They’re moving on to somewhere in Texas an’ we’re takin’ over their whole goddamn city. It ain’t that far out o’ town, an’ if tent lodgements are good enough for them, it’s a good enough start for us.’
‘Like a fifth ace in a poker deck,’ Melba started. ‘I had no idea.’
‘I was goin’ to tell you. I had other stuff to think about.’
‘But what’s with the timing? We don’t usually rush into anything.’
‘If we’re not there to keep an eye on them celestial heathens, they’re likely to run off with what’s bought an’ paid for. We’ve got a week to get civilized,’ was Savoy’s final word.
