Mother's Revenge

by Abuttu, Querus

  What they got instead was the oil spill, the river being part of the Carquinez Straits and deep enough to float the tankers. Not so many, one or two a day, slipping past like great floating cities, giving the illusion that it was Port Bella moving, the whole town adrift, not just fiscally but physically. The tankers were a thrill for the tourists back when they had tourists. Their kids running along the bank, calling out to the hands on deck, the biggest thing they’d ever seen, passing so close you could hit it with a rock. One so wide it took out the retaining wall by the railroad loading dock. A real mess what with the spill spreading halfway up Main Street before the salvage boys got a handle on things. The oil fouled up the new sewage system, seeped into groundwater, coated everything in crude and stank to high heaven. What with dead birds and dead fish, the whole bouquet settled into carpeting and clothing, washing out with the tide and then back in again. Every day for months until the yuppies buckled, packed it in by the carload, taking their kids, their incomes, and their tax base with them. Cut their losses, turned and ran, leaving the old-timers holding the bag.

  Some say they brought it on themselves. It’s how folks go about things that does them in. Others scoffed at the notion. Folks were the same everywhere, their strengths tempered by their weaknesses, the bad balanced by the good. Why it went south is anyone’s guess. Newcomers muscle in, the old guard tries to stem the tide, and this old world keeps wobbling along. Maybe they just moved too fast or maybe it was an unnatural progression. And maybe, just maybe, they got what they deserved.

  I’m thinking it was the lack of a thing, the air of something special, loud talk, laughter, and more fun than you’ve had in a long time. Some places have that going for them. Not so much pretty as pretty damned interesting. A place like, say, Monte Villa, way down on the Baja. Coming out of nowhere for who knows what reason? Strictly one-horse, with the post office, the bodega, the old cantina with the windows boarded up. Just a whistle stop really, until . . .

  Tom Larsen has been writing fiction for thirty years and his work has appeared in any number of obscure literary reviews. His two novels are available on Amazon.

  Annals of the Allred Clan

  by

  Mark Mellon

  I. A Raid by Savages

  Rulon walked outside to the yard. Moroni had already fetched the hoes. He handed one to Rulon and headed toward the fields, not bothering to see if he followed. Rulon quickly caught up. Long hoe balanced on a narrow shoulder, he followed Moroni and ate the breakfast his mother Nauvoo made, cornbread and an apple.

  The fields lay some distance from the house. Hyrum, Rulon’s father, farmed twenty acres of bottomland, his allotment. Despite baking heat and drought, he raised crops by irrigating soil from the Bear Stream’s gentle flow.

  The sun, just past the horizon, silhouetted the scarecrow amid neat rows of knee-high corn stalks that cast long shadows. Beans, potatoes, and melons grew in other fields while some were left fallow in keeping with Allred tradition. The air was clamorous with birdcalls. Barren land flanked the fields, cracked into yellow-brown clods by decades without rain.

  Moroni vigorously weeded. Rulon followed his example. They worked quietly. The boy knew this was necessary, but was still bored. His quick mind craved distraction.

  “Grandfather Moroni.”

  “What, boy?”

  “When do you expect the men back?”

  “The Sabbath for sure.”

  “Maybe they’ll have cowhides. Do you think we might go to the Salt to sell hides?”

  Moroni laughed. “So you can see some girls? See what the Lord provides, boy.”

  They worked steadily after that.

  “Last Sabbath, Grandfather Abinidi said a road used to run by here and people traveled in wagons on it like the ones in books.”

  “Abinidi makes such a mystery. You can see what’s left of Highway 91 on the trail to the Salt. A big jumble of broken rock, thanks to the Lord’s wrath.”

  “Did you ever see the wagons, Grandfather Moroni?”

  “They stopped making ’em after I was born, but I saw ’em, like Abinidi. Just machinery that quit.”

  They finished weeding. Moroni removed his black elder’s hat and mopped his bald, sweating dome with a homespun kerchief. Despite the early hour, it was hot.

  “Let me get my breath.”

  “Did they quit because they ran out of gasoline?”

  “I’m glad your father teaches you something. They just ran out. That’s why your sisters walk the treadmill for light and power while we work here.”

  Rulon looked back at the house, high on a bluff that marked where the Bear River once flowed broad and wide. Hyrum had built the solid, two-story home with locally made brick and lime. White solar panels on the roof gleamed in the sunlight. Beyond rose barren mountains whose peaks had gone snowless for generations.

  “That’s also why it’s hot and dry?”

  “Some so-called educated man might spout some fool theory like that, but Allreds know better. The drought and the famine are the Lord’s wrath because the Church abandoned polygamy. Rain comes again if we stick to Joseph Smith’s revealed truth. Every last tenet. We’ll have a new century in ten years, maybe a new age, but only if we’re holy. I won’t see it, but you will. You have to sanctify yourself. Understand me, boy?”

  “Yes, Grandfather Moroni.”

  “Good. Get back to work.”

  In a nearby thick canebrake, Sangrito crouched and spied, reins held lightly in one hand. Insects bit him viciously. He ignored them. Sangrito slowly crept away, his ride trailing behind him. Out of eyesight and earshot, he mounted his horse and trotted northward. Dressed in deerskin leggings, he rode bareback with only a hackamore to control his mount. He’d stolen the swift, tireless brown and white paint near the Albikerk from a Tohona O’Odham he’d murdered. Armed with a Bowie knife and a bow, he wore a quiver that was filled with arrows painstakingly made by hand. His long, lank black hair was tied back with bright ribbons. Three scalps hung from his belt.

  The camp was hidden in a dusty draw where a small tributary stream once flowed. Sangrito rode in to find the crew chewing cold deer jerky. Fearful of detection, Kid Crip allowed no fire. Sangrito dismounted, led his horse into the corral, removed the hackamore, and joined the crew. His brother Manolo handed him jerky and a corn tortilla.

  Kid Crip ran his fingers through thick, greasy blond hair. He wore a padded black vest, antique armor from the Fat Times, bought with five horses at the Albikerk’s market. At his waist was a Colt .45. Reluctant to fire, having limited ammo, the Kid used the pistol to whip errant followers or other offenders into line. Two shriveled brown ears strung on a copper wire hung from his neck, previously attached to Kid Blood, the crew’s former leader, defeated by Kid Crip through a treacherous ambush. The sidearm, armored vest, and his murdered predecessor’s ears were tokens of his status as crew chief.

  “Dog, what did you find?”

  “Like you said, jefe, the next place is a long ride away. I sneaked up last night while they were eating. The men are hunting. There’s just an old man and a chico.”

  “What about horses, cattle?” Muerte Frio demanded. He wiped his rifle’s barrel with an old rag.

  Sangrito grinned. “Mucho. New mounts for all. And cattle, fat enough to last to the Albikerk so we can sell them at the market.”

  “Didn’t I say crew chief can smell a juicy steak from across the Big Desert?” OG crowed.

  “There’s more. Women.”

  The men exchanged knowing looks, leering smiles, and sudden wild, raucous whoops of lustful laughter.

  “The crew’s getting wives today,” Mo Ali crowed.

  “Shut up,” Kid Crip hissed, “You want to give us away?”

  Abashed, the men bowed their heads. “Yes, crew chief. Sorry, crew chief.”

  “That’s better. Sangrito, where’s the old man and boy?”

  “Out in the fields.”

  “Okay, we’ll go now.”

&nb
sp; The crew’s faces lit up.

  “Remember, this is the biggest job we ever done. Do it right and we’re rich, a real crew with good horses, fat cattle to sell, and wives.”

  “No more cooking or chopping wood,” OG said.

  “So pop the old man and chico first. Everything’s easy then. Ride in slow. Smile. I say we want to water the horses, trade for beef and salt. When I signal, OG and Manolo spear them. Make sure they don’t shout. Understand?”

  “Yes, chief.”

  “Good. Mount up, then.”

  He put on his war bonnet, an Oakland Raiders ball cap, torn and faded with age, worn backward for strength and courage. The crew stroked ritual amulets and prayed to small, stone bultos. OG and Mo Ali saddled Kid Crip’s horse. Muerte Frio saddled his own. They were the only ones with firearms and saddles. The others slipped on hackamores and draped blankets over their mounts. Armed with handmade but effective lances, bows, and daggers, heads shielded from the sun by broad-brimmed straw sombreros, they had faces that were lined by constant exposure to sun and wind. Forgotten in the Big Desert, ignorant of civilization or humanity, the crew had banded together like feral dogs to hunt prey. Despite the long, nearly fatal journey to the far reaches of the upper Ute, they were eager, chins up and grinning, rapine and plunder ahead. They rode from the draw toward the Allreds.

  The sun had neared its peak when Moroni stopped for dinner. Bevenee, Rulon’s little sister, fetched bacon and cheese sandwiches and a pitcher of milk and then left, complaining about the heat. Moroni also cut up a small melon, which Rulon found refreshing. Full from their meal, the old man and the boy resumed work.

  A horse’s sneeze, a loud snort from the canebrake, was the first sign something was wrong. Moroni stared uncertainly into the thicket.

  “Is that you, Grandnephew Brigham, playing another practical joke?”

  A man on horseback pushed through the cane and onto open ground. Others followed. Rulon stared openmouthed. Horses he’d seen before, although these were poor nags compared to his father’s. The men startled him. He’d never seen anyone other than Allreds before.

  The riders moved slowly, well spread out, open grins marred by gaps in their teeth. The six men were a mixed bunch. The one in the lead had blond hair like an Allred. Despite the heat, he wore a curious, bulky black vest. Two brown lumps hung from a wire around his neck. Another was pale, closer to a scarecrow than human, bone-thin in a long coat. Two had black skin, something Rulon had previously seen only in books.

  “Wassup,” the blond said. A strange flat bill hung from behind his faded hat. “Want to trade beef and salt.”

  Moroni’s hard, horny hand caught Rulon full in the chest. The boy staggered backwards.

  “Run, Rulon. Warn the women. Get Great Uncle Enos’s gun.”

  Moroni’s tone brooked no argument. Rulon took to his heels.

  “The chico’s getting away,” one man cried.

  “Manolo. Get him, dog.”

  A rider galloped after Rulon. He rode by his legs alone, an arrow already nocked to his bow, dark eyes alive with excitement and pleasure.

  “Gentile scum.”

  The edge of Moroni’s hoe caught the rider full in the face, swung with all the strength the eighty-four-year-old farmer could muster. The rider fell from his horse with the awful scream of a hog under the butcher knife, features split wide.

  “Manolo.”

  Moroni faced the riders. Hoe raised high, breath heavy and labored, it was increasingly harder for him to move.

  “Evil Lamanite dogs.”

  The scarecrow rode close to Moroni. He unlimbered his long rifle and fired into his belly.

  Rulon heard the shot. He turned to see Moroni slowly sink to his knees.

  “No.”

  Another man rode up to Moroni and shot an arrow into his chest.

  “That’s for my brother.”

  “Dog, you slipping,” the blond shouted. “Get the chico.”

  Rulon ran faster than ever before in his life, but he was a boy against mounted men. There was only enough time to rush into the yard where his mother and sisters were gathered, anxious about the gunfire.

  “Rulon, what’s wrong?” Nauvoo cried. “Where’s Father Moroni?”

  “Run. Strangers, bad men. They killed Grandfather Moroni.”

  Bevenee began to cry. Nauvoo slapped her hard across the face.

  “Stop that. Girls, run as fast as you can to the hiding place. I’ll be right behind. Godlove, look after Bevenee. Go.”

  The girls fled, long blond pigtails streaming behind.

  “You come along,” Nauvoo said, “We’ll hide until the men return.”

  “Once I get Great-Great-Granduncle Enos’s rifle.”

  “There’s no time.”

  “Grandfather Moroni said.”

  Rulon ran up the stairs.

  “I’ll wait.”

  Over seventy years ago, Enos Allred returned after fighting overseas in the Babylon War. Afflicted by a severe concussion and a severed leg, he brought back an AK-47 assault rifle. Like other Fat Times artifacts, the rifle was treasured as a family heirloom and hung from a place of honor in the parlor. Rulon put a chair next to the wall, stood on it, and took the rifle from its hooks. He took out a magazine from the glass case where it was stored. The banana clip was loaded with special-caliber bullets made to his father’s order by gunsmiths in the Salt. He slipped in the magazine and pulled back the charging handle.

  “Let me go,” his mother screamed.

  “Pretty strong for an old woman.”

  “Yeah, but where’s the rest?”

  Rulon burst through the door out onto the porch. Two men held his mother, a black and the blond. The other three were still mounted.

  “It’s the chico. Shoot him, Muerte Frio.”

  The scarecrow raised his rifle, but his intended victim was armed this time. Before Muerte Frio could fire, Rulon put the AK-47 to his shoulder and shot a controlled burst into the center of mass. The bullets’ impact knocked the raider off his horse into the dirt, where he lay motionless. Muerte Frio was now dead himself.

  An arrow whizzed past Rulon’s head at a hairsbreadth distance. The man who shot Moroni screamed abuse.

  “Stinking Mormon.”

  He pulled another arrow from his quiver. Rulon shot him in turn.

  “Ain’t any you any good?” the man in the cap said. He shoved Nauvoo aside and shouted. “Hold her, OG, while I take care of business.”

  He pulled a heavy pistol from his belt and fired in one motion. The shot went wild. Rulon was raised not to waste precious ammunition. He aimed slowly, deliberately, again for the center of mass. The raider pointed his pistol straight at the boy, a confident sneer on his face.

  “Last day, dog.”

  His tanned face turned dead white, leached of color by the bullet’s force. He hit the ground like the others. Rulon turned the assault rifle on the man with his mother.

  “Let her go.”

  The two surviving raiders had knives and lances. Rulon’s voice cracked high with strain and fear, but the bodies scattered about the yard were mute testimony he was just as dangerous as any full-grown man.

  “Here, chico, take her.”

  The man shoved Nauvoo toward Rulon so hard she fell to the ground. He jumped onto his pony and rode off with the other man. Glad to see them go, Rulon ran to his mother and helped her to her feet. Her long, graying hair had come undone and she was badly shaken, but otherwise unharmed. He held her tight, fighting hard not to cry.

  Nauvoo stroked his hair, gently lifted his chin, and said, “You were right, son. If we left without Enos’s rifle, they’d have caught us in the open. I guess we can fetch the girls.”

  Rulon basked in his mother’s esteem. “First I better look these fellows over. I should at least get that rifle and pistol.”

  Nauvoo smiled. “Very well.”

  She left. Rulon walked over to the scarecrow’s body and picked up his rifle. In death, his fac
e kept the same expression, but was even more shriveled and pale. Rulon wondered if he should go through his pockets, but rejected the idea as mean and low. He went to the blond and bent over him.

  BLLLAAAMMM

  The .45 slug whizzed past Rulon’s left ear, ruptured his eardrum, and left him half-deaf.

  “I’ll kill you,” the blond said. He pulled the trigger again, but the clip was empty.

  Head spinning, in horrible pain, Rulon still had enough presence of mind to slap the dead scarecrow’s rifle butt flat into the blond’s face. Rulon raised the rifle high by the barrel.

  “No. Wait. We can talk.”

  Rulon brought the butt down with all his strength.

  The blond said no more. Rulon took his kerchief and put it to his ear to staunch the streaming blood. Dead men sprawled around him. They had to be buried before they rotted and drew flies. Poor Moroni and the other raider also lay in the fields. Unannounced and unbidden, manhood forced itself on Rulon that day, years before he should have played that role. In the aftermath, what remained was grief, injury, and the awareness that life in the Lean Times was indeed so much harder than Rulon could have ever known.

  II. A Raid on the Gentiles

  It was late when the cart pulled into the barnyard. Hyrum handed the reins to Obadiah.

  “Untack the horse. Put him in his stall. Brush him down and see he’s fed. Then go to bed.”

  Hyrum went into the house.

  Rulon heard his mother’s voice raised high in greeting. A wet puff of breath invaded his left ear. He whirled around, hand cupped protectively over it.

  “Obadiah, leave my bad ear alone.”

  “Or what? You going to help me untack the horse like Pa said?”

  About to speak further, Rulon thought better of it and went over to the horse. He slipped the bit off while Obadiah undid the harness.

  “You didn’t seem eager at the convocation.”

  “You made up for that, Obadiah.”

  “Guess you don’t like the bad wilderness, far from Ma and home.”

  “Don’t see the point, that’s all. Besides Manolo, I got the other fellows.”