by Jerry L
“I’ll see if I can find out what it was that the Serving Wench prepared?” and as he turned toward the dark interior of the old building he began to himself bellow for the Serving Woman. The beefy Warder stood, “Provincials! Stupid cows, each and every one.” He hitched his trousers, oblivious to the discomfort of his dinner partners.
Had the light been better in the low-ceiling structure, and he considerably less-intoxicated, he would have been immediately noticed that things were not well. Instead, he emptied a huge tankard of ale and wiped a hand across his greasy face.
A low rumble came from deep within the big man so he lifted a leg and he lustfully emitted a huge cloud of the most-wretched flatulence. The scent was of near palatable proportion.
“I have to find the privy,” he announced to the empty room. “You’ll keep after the Serving Wench for more of that wine, won’t ye?” he asked over his shoulder.
Two paces later, he froze, and then he doubled as if a pitchfork had been rammed into his gut. He turned as he collapsed to his knees; but the Magistrate wasn’t looking his way. Neither was the skinny man, his head was back and foam and spittle dripped from his chin onto his waist coat. The skinny man was in spasms and with each jerk, flatulence came from somewhere below the table.
But the big man no longer cared as his sphincter gave way and he was engulfed in his own stench as he soiled himself. Cold fingers clutched his heart and as he was overcome by pain, cold, and blackness, he heard Leather Apron bellow, “Woman, where are ye? Taylee? Taylee White, where the Hell are you? His lordship wants you?”
14: The ‘Kid’
The ‘Kid’ sat pensively on the edge of the steel bunk and listened as the old Padre droned on.
The old man had heard his confession and had given him the last rites and was now nervously filling the last minutes with idle chatter. Time was running out and Sean made his decision to live.
He looked the Padre in the eye and said “Father, you know I had me a dream last night. In that dream I was an old man, I was bouncing one of my grand-kids on my knee, she had red hair and green eyes just like my mother. Padre, I don’t believe that it’s my time to go quite yet.” In the hall an iron door clanged open against the wall. “That will be the Warden coming now Sean.” The priest said looking towards the corridor. Steps of several men approached the cell.
Sean ‘The ‘Kid’‘ O’Toole had left home at the age of sixteen. Soon becoming tired of riding the rails he joined the Marines. Sean was tough and smart, an odd combination in those days. He rose to corporal and another year found him lugging a B.A.R. through the jungles of Haiti. While stationed in China he left the service at the same time a diplomatic pouch filled with processed Opium and Rubies disappeared.
The depression found him in Oklahoma City broke and hungry with only a Colt pistol to his name. Three bank robberies in Oklahoma, Two in Kansas and a murder he didn’t commit had landed him in this death row cell in Texas.
The prison officials bunched up in front of the door as ‘Kid’ had hoped. The warder swung the door wide open and the ‘Kid’ was upon them. During his time as a Marine in China he had studied with an old man who knew an ancient Chinese way of fighting: it all hinged on speed and the element of surprise. ‘Kid’ had been an apt student. The Warder now withed on the floor clutching crushed testicles, The Warden gasped for air, The two guards were out with concussions. The old priest lay against the wall, his hands clutched to his chest and his face turning purple.
In the hall the ‘Kid’ lifted the key ring from the Warders belt and for the first time became aware of a red headed convict cowering in the corner. The convict clutched a mop that was stuck in a roller bucket of soapy water. “Ralph , what the hell are you doing here?” ‘Kid’ asked.
“Warder Jones sent me, I’m supposed to wipe up the crap and piss when they get done killin you.” Ralph squeaked out. The ‘Kid’ headed towards the door the Screws had entered. Ralph waved him away with his arms and told him, “Don’t go that way ! There are two more guards in the hall beyond and they have guns.”
‘Kid’ was instructed to go through the other door turn right, go down the hall through two more doors , take the next left through the guard room. The door at the far end would open onto the yard. Ralph couldn’t help him after that . He pushed the bucket holding the mop towards the ‘Kid’.
Sean caught on in a second. He grabbed the mop and pushed the bucket to the door Ralph had indicated. Squatting, he checked the number on the lockset and then found the correct key on the Warder’s ring.
Unlocking the door he opened it a crack and checked the hall; it was empty. He quickly rolled the bucket down the hall and through the two doors unchallenged. He stopped in front of the door leading into the guardroom; through the glass and wire window he could see three men playing cards amid a haze of cigarette smoke.
Beside the door, ‘Kid’ noticed a buzzer. He pressed it and one of the men got up, still holding his cards he approached the door. ‘Kid’ bowed his head as the guard looked out.” It’s that retard Ralph.” Sean heard the man say as the man unlocked the door. The guard held the door open as ‘Kid’ pushed the mop bucket into the room. “Hey! What the hell! That ain’t Ralph!” yelled one of the card players.
The ‘Kid’ was a blur of motion as he attacked the men. The man who opened the door was first. ‘Kid’ slammed his fist between the man’s eyes, breaking his nose in the process of knocking him unconscious. With a bound he was between the other two before they could rise. Neither ever got to his feet let alone, draw his gun.
The ‘Kid’ quickly stripped off the jacket of the man who was closest to his size, the hat was a little large, but ‘Kid’ figured the darkness would hide that fact. Picking up a sheaf of papers ‘Kid’ stepped outside into the yard. He headed towards an open side gate where a group of guards were gathered around a hearse. Two men wearing suits had the long hood open and were bent over the engine. ‘Kid’ passed the stalled auto and continued through the gate. Ahead of him another car was stopped in the middle of the outer gate and a guard was leaning into the window arguing with the occupant inside. ‘Kid’ walked up to the guard and asked him if this was Judge Maits?
The guard said “No, this is the guy from W.K.K.Y. and he ain’t got no pass.”
“Don’t let em in then, you know what the Warden told us… “This ain’t no circus “ ‘Kid’ said.
“You heard the man!” the guard told the man in the car. ‘Kid’ walked out of the gate and into the gathered crowd.
“What’s happening inside?” a reporter asked ‘Kid’.
“The bastard is a fixin to fry… it won’t be long now!” ‘Kid’ answered, continuing to walk towards the parking lot. Finding an unlocked sedan he removed the jacket and hat and tossed them in the back. ‘Kid’ slid into the driver’s seat. Reaching under the dash he hot-wired the starter switch, put the sedan in gear, and pulled out of the lot. Behind him the sirens inside of the prison went off.
Just before dawn he pulled off the highway and parked behind the ‘Sanchez Bros Garage’. ‘Kid’ killed the engine and slept for a couple of hours before being awakened by one of the Sanchez kids holding a loaded shotgun as long as he was tall. An hour later ‘Kid’ was boarding a Greyhound bus headed towards Baton Rouge. He was wearing a bandage that obscured most of his face, wore new clothes and had a hundred dollars in his pocket .
Twenty five years passed and the very successful businessman that Tacoma Washington knew as Sean Kidd was locking up for the night. The war was making him work late hours but the business was doing great. Of course any one of his children could probably have run the business as well or better than him but he believed in keeping his hand in.
Mr. Kidd walked two doors down to the Texas Star to have his usual one beer before heading home to supper. Greeting Murry the bartender he took his usual seat at the bar and ordered his beer. Sean noticed an open book laying on the bar. It had a bright red cover with a snarling faced man pictured in the
center. The man had a noose around his neck. The words ‘YOU CAN’T CHEAT THE HANGMAN!’ were blazoned across the front. In smaller letters Mr. Kidd was informed that these were true stories of American criminals who had tried to cheat justice, none had succeeded. Out of curiosity ‘Kid’ picked up the book and marking Murry’s place with a coaster, turned to the Table of Contents: Some of the names he was familiar with, some he had never heard of, one about half way down he knew quite well....It was his own! ‘Sean ‘The ‘Kid’ O’Toole:’ The man who cheated death out of five hours!’ The heading read.
With fascination ‘Kid’ turned to page 174 and began to read. He had never been to Colorado so he couldn’t have robbed the two banks that the author had credited him with. The other banks he had indeed robbed but had gotten away with only about half the money that they had claimed.
‘Kid’ knew that in those days of private bank ownership, it was common practice for banks to claim that they had lost more money after a robbery than they really had. It was part of the reason that, when caught the robbers usually had very little or none of the stolen loot. Who was going to believe a robber? ‘Kid’ figured that it helped with the bank presidents retirement funds.
‘Kid’ was gratified in learning that the author had discovered from his research that ‘The ‘Kid’” couldn’t have killed the man in Texline Texas that he had been sentenced to death for. It was discovered later that the man had been killed by his brother over a gambling debt. The brother had made it look like a bungled robbery attempt.
The author now detailed the arrest and conviction of ‘The ‘Kid’’. The robber had been caught outside of a café in the town of Lubbock by a sharp eyed ‘Town Marshall’ named Grover Bells. He had a swift, but fair trial and had been sentenced to death by a jury of his peers.
On the night of his execution the attending priest had suffered a heart attack and was dying. During the confusion ‘The ‘Kid’’ escaped from his captors and had hidden for five hours in a coal chute before being found. A picture showed a blindfolded man covered with coal dust being led to the execution chamber by four bandaged guards, his hair had been hand tinted red by the photographer. The author went on to state that during the execution, by electric chair, the coal dust had ignited! The sight sickening the witnesses, and horribly disfigured the body. ‘The ‘Kid’ was buried in the prison cemetery.
Sean Kidd closed the book and laid it on the bar. The bastards had fried poor Ralph rather than allow anyone to know that the real ‘Kid’ O’Toole’ had made fools of them! He looked at his reflection in the back bar, the seamed face and, graying red hair, his green eyes now behind gold rimmed spectacles stared back. A look of sorrow crossed his face as he slid off the stool and put on his topcoat. With a wave to Murry he headed home to supper.
His oldest boy he had named Ralph. Sally and Ralph’s third daughter was just a year old and had red hair and green eyes. ‘Kid’ thought maybe he would swing by their house on his way home. He sure had taken a liking to that little girl and it would only take a minute or two. An hour later, he was bouncing Sally on his knee.
15: Missionaries
They came from the North, over the Kush and down through the saddle in the hills, four grim turbaned men, moving fast and traveling light, each dressed in identical loin cloth and each wearing a light cloak the color of ocher dirt. All four were shod in tough, ox hide sandals and each man carried a shoulder bag. Each of the lean men also wore a long wicked knife at his waist and each carried an evil curved sword. It was unlikely these men were traders. The scout, the man who coursed out front of the others first saw the old man.
His simple loin cloth identified the old man as one of the ungodly lowlanders and he was busily occupied with some minor task as he squatted in the center of a clearing boiling water over a small bed of coals. A bag of tea and a gourd full of dried noodles clearly indicated that he was preparing a meal, perhaps the only meal of his day, if his sparse frame was any indication.
The four made it over the Kush and they planned to succeed where other hadn’t.
They were the “angles” of the God Sha’ana, missionaries in the holy quest of glory in Her name. They were the “brooms of the Holy Mistress,” and they were on a “Juda,” they would wash away the unclean, wash it away the only way God would accept, with blood.
It was late when the scout unexpectedly came across the old man, they all knew they would encounter the natives of the Land of the Rice eaters, but they had thought they would be able to perform the cleansing rituals first, this was a problem. Nonetheless, they had forseen such a possibility and acted accordingly.
The senior priest told the others to pull back and perform the rites. The first man, identifying himself as a wayward traveler, would stay with the old man. The priests hurredly gathered brush and some herbs, then they built a small fire and started the “cleansing,” it would take until after dark.
Finally the last “summa” had been sang and each man had made his vows to wash in the blood of the unbelievers, the fire was scattered and the men stowed their cloaks and blackened their bodies with ash from the fire, they then oiled their blades and dulled the sheen with more ash, as they moved into the night, they were invisible.
The senior monk assumed the center position of the “Crescent of the Moon” and the other two moved to the left and the right.
The old man sat before the small fire and the caped shoulders and turban of the first “Follower of the Trail of Blood”, the scout, was visible across from the old man, the gleam of his sword cradled in his lap visible in the flicker of the flames.
The senior priest smiled. The “churip” of the night plover was all it would take to let the others know it was time, and then he, the Elder would step from the night and sever the throat of the “rice eater.”
The man to the left indicated his readiness with a short “kiy-up,” the bark of a small nocturnal mammal, and then he automatically turned in the direction of the right “Wing”, awaiting his matching call. He and the “center” froze as one, the man on the left should have been the last in place, and his response should have been immediate. Something was wrong.
The Elder didn’t wait, he stepped soundlessly from the darkness and by all appearances, a shadow swept in a flat Arc and the head of the old man was lopped from his neck. The head hit the ground with a plop and rolled face-up into the circle of light formed by the small fire. The Elder felt a chill, there was none of the spurt of blood that accompanies such a deadly stroke and the body remained in the sitting position, he looked at the head and a small animal growl escaped his lips.
The priest whistled, and there was a soft shuffle from the brush to the left, then a rustle. The Elder jerked in the direction of the sound, there should have been no noise! These men were very dedicated and they were very well trained. Then the priest saw the left “Wing of the Moon” stumble from the darkness and fall face-down.
The priest whistled twice and stepped around the fire, then he flipped back the hood of the figure across from the headless old man. The hooded cloak was supported by crude wickerwork. There was no one sitting there. The Elder looked at the headless man only to realize that the severed head was that of the scout. The old man’s ragged wrap was draped over the scout’s lifeless shoulders.
The Elder was an emotionless mask, but he recognized the situation only too well, he had seen from the darkness what he felt now. The prey, confused, knowing what awaited, but not the how, or perhaps even the why. Intuitively, the Elder also knew why the right “Wing” hadn’t answered.
With a whirl the priest sprang past the headless body and lept for a nearby tree. He slipped the sword into his waist band, grabbed a limb, and deftly swung his feet onto the limb with the agility of an acrobat. The first arrow was painless, but the next severed the spine and the priest was aware when he hit the ground but any spirit that existed in his body took that moment to depart.
The Chieftain knew of the old one’s approach long before the gaunt fig
ure entered the community grazing grounds. The low-landers only survived these troubled times because of their vigilance.
There would be celebration and feasting. The old man’s arrival meant two things: the snow had at last sealed the pass, and the upper valley was free of the enemies from the other side.
The old man carried a coarse-woven sack, “How many?”
“There were four.” He threw down the sack and the hilt of a sword tumbled out.
In the upper valley, two young men had dressed the priests as one would have some wild game and were dragging the bodies to the ice caves for storage. In April the carcasses might be the last barrier to starvation.
“The old one is getting careless. True, he alone killed three, but I think he missed one.”
“That’s good for us; it gives us something to play with.” The men laughed.
16: Serving Papers
It was late afternoon when I entered the Texas Star. The cool darkness was a welcome relief from the 101degree heat out-sides. The ‘Star’ was almost empty this time of day. I take a seat at the bar and Murry slides me an ice coated mug of beer. “Damn that hits the spot!” I tell him.
This guy comes in the bar about now. The few patrons look up at the flash of light as the door opens but soon return to their drinks. The guy is a pudgy sandy haired man about thirty. His eyes adjust to the darkness and he decides to sit at the bar. Pulling out a stool he sits down leaving one stool between us. He orders a bottle of MGD and passes the time of day with Murry. Murry soon moves off to serve a black woman sitting alone in a booth.
The sandy haired guy turns to me and asks if I know who won the game. “It sure as hell wasn’t the Yankees!” I reply. “Damn! I was hoping they would though. No play offs for them now I guess.” He says before taking a drink. Setting down the bottle he states, “I thought I was the only Yankees fan in Texas.” “Naw, shit man, I been following them for years.” I reply. We talked baseball for a while. We both agreed that without Ryan the Rangers were screwed. A couple of people left the bar while we were talking. He says his name is Jim Carr and reaches across the empty stool to shake my hand.