Mr. C.C. felt more comfortable entering his world of deal making.
“What kind of help did you have in mind, Bates?”
“You help me undermine that widow woman’s efforts to make a go of it, I’ll foreclose on the land, and give you a low interest loan when it sells at the courthouse.” C.C. disclosed his burning desire to destroy the woman responsible for his public humiliation.
“You’re an idiot, Bates!” Carl replied. A cruel grin erupted across his face. “One, I wouldn’t need one red dime of your city money to buy that place if I wanted it. Two, you’re showing me what a pathetic small weasel you are, letting an old widow woman get your goat enough to risk life and limb in the middle of the night, talking to the meanest son of a bitch in this county.”
“I want that bitch off that land and I don’t care what it takes!”
C.C. reconnected with the fire in his belly.
“I have bigger fish to fry, Bates.” Carl’s business mind moved.
“What are you talking about?”
“I can get the widow woman off that place, but you’re a little light on your end of the deal.” Carl countered the banker’s offer.
“Foreclosing on the property and offering you a low interest loan is not what I call a light offer.” C.C. got his courage up a bit.
“One, I don’t need your money. Two, the land would have to be foreclosed on if she failed to pay her land payments, and no one is going to bid against Carl Butcher. Three, I don’t need you to create hell in that old woman’s life. Me and my boys can cover that end of it, I reckon. No, if you want my help in this deal, you are still a little short.”
“What are you angling at?” Mr. C.C. asked. His nervousness returned
“I want that piss ant of a sheriff off my ass, and I want Buford King’s head delivered to me in a flour sack.”
“Christ, Carl! I mean Mr. Butcher!” C.C. recanted, backing up. “Buford King is just as notorious as you are when it comes to running whiskey and putting the fear of God in folks. What makes you think I could influence him one way or another?” C.C. questioned. A new alarm sounded in his voice.
“I know for a fact he owes your bank a considerable amount of money. I win at poker, he doesn’t.” Carl smiled.
“You expect me to gun him down and bring you his head?! I’m a banker, not a killer!”
Carl laughed. “Get the high Sheriff Bigelow to do it for you. You got him in you back pocket.”
“He’s afraid of his shadow; you know that better than anyone.” Bates said. He saw his deal and night’s work coming unraveled.
“I tell you what, Bates. Me and my boys will do the dirty deed for the county. Being as civic minded as we are, you set King up and my boys will rid the county of one less bootlegger.”
Mr. C.C. ran his hand through his thinning hair and wiped the sweat off his forehead.
“I don’t like it, but you’ve got a deal, Mr. Butcher. Buford King for running old lady Watson of that land.” C.C. extended his hand.
Carl accepted the banker’s hand and with his powerful grip, he crushed the banker’s hand.
The banker withered in pain.
Carl spoke, “You can call me Carl now that we’re business partners, C.C., and you know I’ll shoot you down like a dog if you don’t follow through with your part of the deal, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mr. Butcher, I mean Carl!”
Carl released C.C.’s hand and placed a boot in his ass. Carl ended the business meeting.
“I’ll be in communication with you through Mizel, partner, now get your ass back to the city.” Carl laughed and fired three shots in the air. The terrified banker half stumbled, and half ran down the gravel road toward his black Cadillac.
The Burning
The Wild Cat went down easy. Bully sat, huddled in a fetal position, on the muddy ditch bank, anchored by thousands of willow trees in every conceivable shape and size. Through a wintery haze, he overlooked an ocean of cotton in the final stages of harvest. A light drizzle settled in and a distinct chill hung in the wet air. The muddy earth didn’t matter. His clothes didn’t matter. They were saturated with blood and mud after having butchered Miss Lillian’s hog, earlier in the afternoon. The cold didn’t matter; he kept warm with Wild Cat. Early winter brought the relentless rain and cold. The rain brought the mud, and the cold weather brought hog killing. God created Wild Cat whiskey for those who were subjected to mud and hog killing. Mud exhausted the flesh and hog killing destroyed the spirit. Bully allowed the whiskey to bathe his tongue, sooth his mouth, and send waves of warmth through his body. His thoughts turned to Willard. Tears made their way down his face. A sea of distorted cotton fields became a backdrop for the salty pain of his despair.
For Bully, Wild Cat presented an enigma. He sought the numbing effects, yet the clear liquid loosened the gates to his wounded heart. Abandonment would have been the word to describe such a wound. Bully and the other souls between Eculatubba and Jug Fork didn’t have such a word available to them. All they had was Wild Cat and Jesus. That terrible feeling didn’t need the trappings of a word to bang at the gate. Rev. Strawrack would have screamed “There’s power in the Word!” but the power behind the gates of Bully’s heart would steamroll through a million words like a sickle of death through a field of lambs. Mr. John’s love and affection placated the beasts for a length of time. After Mr. John’s death, Bully’s desperate attempt to seek the solace of Willard’s company---an offering to the beasts---only infuriated the demons. Bully’s last line of defense became Wild Cat whiskey and its numbing effects.
Bully emptied the last drop from the quart jar; a warm glow heated the gale force winds of his heart’s anger and despair. A kind word from Mr. John or Willard would have provided Bully shelter, yet no word came, only the relentless building of warmth to fire, fire to fury, and fury to maelstrom. No rain, no word, no act of kindness quieted the rage once the demons escaped.
Bootleggers are night animals; they must be. Hard working folks, from town and country alike, toil by day: working in the fields; keeping the roads up; hauling milk; ginning cotton; and running the stores and shops. Come night fall, with aching backs, sore feet and the thought of having to get up and do it again—well, it’s just too much for some folks, if they don’t have whiskey. Besides, no self-respecting God fearing individual, black or white, man or woman, south of the Mason Dixon would risk being seen by the preacher or their neighbor buying whiskey. Southern folks buy their whiskey in the dark. That’s where Carl came in. Like his daddy, Carl ran his bootlegging kingdom from sundown to first light.
“You boys git them bottles washed ’n filled.” Mizel was in a good mood. Business had been brisk.
“The boss wants to see ya. Says he’s got a little job,” he said, raising his eyebrows.
As was customary, on a busy night, Carl broke out a jar of good whiskey after the last pickup drove off, around three o’clock in the morning.
“Boss says we peddled sum serous ‘shine on dis night.” Mizel screwed the lid off a Mason jar of Carl’s finest. Mizel never touched the stuff himself. While the boys passed the jar of fire around, Mizel exhorted them to finish their task, Carl appeared from his office.
“I need six men who would like a little excitement tonight.” Carl stared off into the distance. He talked to the lone light bulb in the room.
“Six men who want to endear themselves to me. Men who want to show ole Carl they are afraid of no man, except me, of course.” Carl gave a little chuckle, turned his piercing eyes toward the mesmerized group and winked at his boys.
“What you got in mind, Mr. Carl?” a gangly blonde headed kid by the name of Fletcher broke the spell.
“A burning, son. A burning!” Carl’s eyes flashed when a sense of excitement rippled through the room. Voices rose and movement became more animated.
“Hell, Mr. Carl, count me in,” Fletcher responded along with the echo of several others.
“That’s what I admire about most of you boys
; you’re ambitious and a little deranged, like me.” Carl’s gold fang sparkled.
“Mizel, put together your most eager five boys and meet me down at the shed in a half hour.”
“I know this is hurting you, but you’re gonna die if I can’t get your calf turned ‘round.” Curtis ran his arm up to his shoulder inside the young heifer, again and again. She lay prostrate on the barn floor, eyes rolled back in her head, with subdued moans, each growing weaker from the eight hours of labor.
“Mr. John, I hope I’m doing this right,” Curtis muttered to the heavens.
“There’s a foot, I can feel it.” He spoke to a chorus of four dogs and twelve cats who had made their home with Curtis.
“If I can just get my hand on his head,” Curtis strained, “maybe I can turn ‘um.”
Sweat poured off Curtis. The wind howled through the barn timbers. He searched and probed. The dogs stationed themselves in a quiet vigil. The cats demonstrated a measure of concern, betraying their customary aloofness. The kerosene flame emitted long shadows. They danced across the massive timbers, bales of hay and long lines of stalls, which housed hundreds of mules, cattle and hogs.
Mizel’s faded red truck cut through the darkness with the smell of gasoline, Wild Cat whiskey and taunting yells trailing away in the crisp fall night. Fletcher squeezed in between Mizel and Junior up front, straddling two five gallon cans of gasoline and three sawed off shotguns. Three of Carl’s boys stood over the truck cab, screaming obscenities, passing whiskey around and throwing RC bottles at every road sign that came into view.
“You boys are in some kind of fine form tonight.” Mizel grinned with an unlit cigarette in his mouth and a match in his hand.
“This is my first burning, Mizel! I’ve heard ‘bout’um from some of the fellas but never thought I’d be asked to come along,” Fletcher spoke, wild eyed with fear. He locked onto the match in Mizel’s hand, amid the suffocating fumes of the gasoline.
“You boys jest do what Junior and me tell ya, and we might bring you again.” Mizel raked the match across the dash of the old truck.
“Augh!” Fletcher screamed.
Junior’s thick arm grabbed the terrified boy around the head.
“Damn, boy, will you settle down!”
The cold match fell between the two gasoline cans and Mizel regained control of the swerving truck.
“You need to git a grip on yourself, Fletcher. You gonna git us all killed.” Junior spoke in a monotone voice amid the yelling and catcalls from the back of the truck. Junior released him and handed Mizel another match.
“They don’t make ‘um like they used to, Junior.” Mizel laughed as the old truck headed for Ms. Lillian’s place.
“There it is. I knew if it had a foot, it must have a head.” Curtis spoke to no dog in particular. A young pup came up and starting licking Curtis in the face.
“Tippy, now you knock it off. Can’t you see this is serious business? I ain’t got no time to be messing with you.”
The pup returned to his station. Curtis turned the calf’s head. Contractions erupted and the heifer made chilling moaning and groaning sounds. The dogs barked and the cats headed for cover.
Curtis let out a howl. Blood, juice, slime, calf and after birth exploded in an antediluvian flood of new life. Curtis pulled the struggling newborn toward him and wiped the slime from its nostrils and eyes with his shirt tail. The calf struggled to get up from the barn floor. Possessed, the young mother struggled to her feet. Weak and exhausted, she lurched and fought to get her legs under her in much the same manner as her new calf.
“Easy! Easy!” Curtis comforted.
The new mother gained her balance and approached her new creation with trembling curiosity and concern. She licked, nuzzled and smelled the wet black and white calf. The calf made its instinctual search for the nectar of its mother’s milk.
Curtis and his supporting cast of mutts and returning cats moved aside and watched in awe. The young mother and calf participated in the ritual of connection; old as the ages, yet extraordinary for the young mother and her calf.
Mizel cut the engine and lights. He crested the last hill before the long slow decline toward Ms. Lillian’s barn. Junior banged on the back glass, signaling to the young bucks to become silent. The old truck coasted down the graveled road toward their destination. The full moon cast a faint light across the bottom. The huge timbered structure appeared, cathedral like, out of the darkness. Mizel turned the truck into an abandoned logging road and decided to traverse the remaining distance on foot. Amid faint whispers, creaks from rusty door hinges, and a log chain escaping from the truck when Fletcher tripped in terror, Carl’s boys dismounted and loaded themselves with gasoline and shotguns.
“Boy, you make one more stupid move like that and I’ll twist your head off and leave you out here for the buzzards.” Junior said, yanking Fletcher back up to his feet.
“Your gonna wake up the whole damn county. Now, put that chain back in the truck and don’t make a sound.” Junior exclaimed. His hot whiskey breath faded; he pushed Fletcher to the ground. When Fletcher struggled to get the massive chain back into the truck, one of Carl’s boys, slightly older, came over and assisted.
“Let’s go. Let’s get this over with.”
Mizel led them off with a double barred sawed off shotgun over his shoulder. A shotgun toting Junior and the four young boys, who were taking turns carrying the cans of gasoline followed. Fletcher’s can kept sloshing gasoline. He tripped and stumbled to keep up with the troupe.
The barn cast a long shadow across an expanse of land, crisscrossed with corrals and fences made from rough cut timbers. Muffled sounds of sleeping animals blended with the smell of honeysuckle and gasoline.
“Junior, you take Fletcher and pour gas down the sides of the barn, and then git back on up here; we’ll cover you,” Mizel said.
Junior motioned to Fletcher and they moved out. Junior poured gasoline while Fletcher struggled ahead under the weight of his can.
“What the hell are you doing, son?”
Junior’s muffled voice chastised Fletcher. The boy labored to move the can further down the side of the barn.
“I stepped in a hog wallow,” Fletcher whispered.
“Well, just git to it,” Junior threatened.
With much effort, Fletcher splashed the gasoline along the oak siding and returned to Junior, reeking with its noxious smell.
“Boy, you gonna ride in the back of the truck going home,” Junior said.
Junior and Fletcher joined Mizel and the others at the point closest to the truck. Mizel removed a Big Chief kitchen match from his bib overall’s pocket and flicked the phosphorus head upon his hardened thumbnail. A yellow and blue flame burst from its head, illuminating Mizel’s cupped hands and the faces of Carl’s crew.
“Roast pig, boys?”
Mizel tossed the match toward the side of the barn. The howling wind overcame the flame until it fell into the gasoline drenched grass near the barn. Bright orange, red and blue flames exploded down its sides, leaping to the rafters. Heat poured from the flames. Vines erupted with loud, crackling sounds. Fletcher, gasoline drenched from the ordeal, burst into a human torch. The smell of hair and burning flesh pervaded the small group. He started to run across the barn lot. He screamed with his clothing a mass of flames.
“Kill him, Junior. Shoot him,” Mizel ordered.
Junior raised the shotgun and for a moment, time stopped.
The troupe waited for the merciful blast.
“I-I just can’t shoot him, Mizel.” Junior lowered his shotgun.
Mizel grabbed Junior’s shotgun and fired two rounds of double aught buckshot into the hapless boy. He fell over a fence, engulfed in flames. The barn exploded in a synchronous cacophony of waking animal sounds when the shots rang out. Mizel and his men ran for the truck, leaving Fletcher’s charred body draped over a fence.
“Goddamn, Mizel! Why did you have to kill him?” The young man who had help
ed Fletcher with the log chain screamed. Tears streamed down his face.
“He was dead already, son. He just didn’t know it. Get in the truck and shut up!” Mizel said.
Mizel started the truck and backed out on to the gravel road. Mizel looked over his shoulder to see the wind whipping the flames skyward. The burning barn lit the Mississippi landscape.
“I just couldn’t pull the trigger, Mizel. I just couldn’t make myself shoot that boy.”
“Don’t fret yourself, Junior.”
Silence pervaded the truck cab. The whine of the transmission provided the only relief. Mizel knew he would never trust Junior again. Junior knew it, too.
Carl’s boys were more subdued on the way back to Guntown.
Curtis drifted into a sweet sleep when he heard the gunshots. He jumped to his feet, slipped on his rubber boots and emerged from the tack room. Curtis’s whole world was ablaze. Terrified horses, hogs and cattle joined in a chorus of death. Dogs barked, flames leaped, and the wind howled.
“Got to git them gates open. Mr. John would want me to get them gates open,” he said, trying to reassure himself.
“Tippy, get outta this barn!” Curtis screamed.
Down the long hall, Curtis moved with great diligence: gate after gate… gate after gate… gate… gate after gate… gate after gate… the chains grew hotter and hotter… gate after gate… gate after gate… gate after gate… they opened… heat… terrible heat… running, animals running… stampeding… gate after gate… gate. after gate…
“Git! Git outta this barn… Got to get that baby calf.”
Curtis scooped the young calf off the floor and ran toward the opening. Terrible animal sounds, dying animal sounds, falling timbers sounds, and windswept flame sounds roared from either side of the hallway. The wild-eyed mother ran after Curtis, head down, bellowing. Without warning, a giant support timber came crashing down, crushing Curtis’s legs and trapping him under its tremendous weight. The newborn calf flew across the barn floor and the mother halted her run.
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