Showdown at Possum Trot

by David Watts

  Parson Tull sized up the man. He recognized anxiety in the staccato hesitations of his voice, the unsteadiness of his eyes, the sweaty palm when he shook hands. He knew he’d had a serious fright. “Why?” he said.

  “I might be moving my family out of town.”

  “So settle down there a bit, George. What’s got into you?”

  He told him about the visit in every detail, how the man walked around the store, taking what he wanted, behaving badly. How he acted as if the store would be his and if it wasn’t, the implication was that some serious damage would take place.

  “This will not be a problem, my friend,” said the parson.

  George stared in disbelief.

  “Do you believe in the powers of the Lord our Savior?”

  “I do but. . .”

  “Then take heed, believer, that which this man has sewed he shall reap. . . “ the parson raised his eyebrows. “. . . and reap in spades!”

  He looked at George who just stood there with his teeth hanging down.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Didn’t give it.”

  “Describe him to me.”

  George fought off his bewilderment long enough to picture him in his mind. “About 5 foot 9, medium build, black beard and black hair down past his ears. He had a brown suede cowboy hat—I think it was suede—and a black leather vest.” He stopped. “I don’t know the rest. “Oh, wait a minute. . . He had a blue bandanna, blue with white tiny speckles on it tied around his neck.” He paused. “And a black birthmark in front of his left ear. That’s all I remember.”

  “Madson Crow,” said Tull.

  “What?”

  “That’s his name. Madson Crow. Part of the Crow Brother’s Gang out of Amarillo. Killed a woman with a pitchfork he did.”

  “Jesus!” He put his hands over his mouth. “Oh, sorry parson.”

  Tull patted George on the shoulder. “All right to call the name of the Lord in the presence of the Devil. It’s all right. We will need his presence here.”

  “How do you know so much about these men?”

  “I know all of them.”

  “I didn’t know a parson would know gang members.”

  “To know the enemy is to do the work of the Lord,” he said.

  He looked at George with the eyes of the compassionate shepherd caring for his sheep. “When we’re done here just go home, son. Enjoy this lovely evening with your family. Here’s what I want you to do.”

  Tull gestured to a chair on his front porch. They sat side by side.

  “In a day or two he’ll come back to up the ante. If he doesn’t tell you who’s financing this ‘offer’ then ask him. Ask the price he’s willing to pay. Then tell me the details. We need to know who’s involved, though I think we can guess.”

  “Is this going to turn out all right, parson?”

  The parson just looked at George with glazed eyes. He lifted them heavenward. “In my twenty years preaching I have found many ways to serve the Lord. Some say to turn the other cheek. And I understand that. But I have found that when the Devil is working His mischief you might well have to face him with his own methods.”

  He looked at George to find a man radiating disbelief and astonishment. He patted his forearm. “You just trust in the Lord,” he said, “and get your sweet ass out of the way.”

  ELEVEN

  “Whose night is it to say grace?”

  Charity tilted her head to one side, raised a shoulder in shyness and tentatively raised two fingers.

  “Ah. That means a short prayer,” said Faith. “A least we get to eat sooner.”

  “Any prayer is a good prayer,” reminded Missy Charles. “Go ahead, dear.”

  Charity bowed her head and said rapidly, almost in a whisper,

  “God is great, God is good,

  Let us thank him for this food.

  Amen.”

  “Amen,” say they all.

  Beans and squash and fresh bread were passed around. The table cheered as Jackson brought in a small roast pork loin.

  “Hope, don’t forget tonight is your night to wash the dishes,” said her mother.

  “I can help,” said Charity. “She helped me with my knitting today.”

  “How is that knitting coming along? We might need you to make something when the new baby in the Pickens household arrives.”

  Charity giggled. “Hope you don’t mind a few dropped stitches.”

  “It’ll be fine,” said her mother. “It’s a gift of friendship. That’s the most important thing.” She turned to Jackson. “Hope patched the tablecloth on table number five. You can hardly tell where the burn spot was.”

  “Well done,” Jackson said.

  Hope tossed her blond curls. She’d become quite attentive to her hair recently, recognizing its distinctive difference from her sisters and beginning to discover that the adults paid a lot of attention to it. She brushed it constantly. Even now, at the table, hidden in her skirt pocket was her hairbrush, something she didn’t dare take out and use at the table for to do so was to invite certain confiscation for at least a couple of days and that would be agonizing. Knowing that, however, didn’t keep her hands from itching for it and occasionally reaching down to comfort themselves by fingering the brush through her clothes.

  Jackson nodded. “I counted fifteen people who came in for food today and ten for drink. That’s up a little over average. Everybody is doing a good job.”

  “Hard to compete with Horse Diggins,” said Hope.

  “We give a completely different quality of service,” said Jackson. “So in a sense, we’re not really competing with him. I guess if we’re competing with anyone it’s ourselves. He’ll always have his own audience.”

  It was Faith’s day to check the pantry for supplies, so she filed a little report. “We’re low on cornmeal,” she said, “and I know that George is low on supplies so we’d better get what we can tomorrow.”

  “Charity,” her mother said, “your turn to drop off our extra food over at Sally Swenson’s tonight.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said.

  Faith sighed.

  Missy picked up on her attitude. “We may not be wealthy but we have food to share,” she said. “Mrs. Swenson has to scrub floors for her food and often hasn’t got enough. It doesn’t hurt us to take our extras over to her and it helps them a lot.”

  “The helping hand is sometimes insulting,” Faith said.

  “I know what you mean. Nobody wants to admit they need help. But we’ve been discrete. Anyway, she’s not complained about it.”

  Faith paused, stopped eating and looked around the table like she felt out of place, like she was uncomfortable being there. Then she looked at her father. “Daddy,” she said, “I’d like to go to Ft Worth.”

  The table grew quiet. Jackson put down his fork. Everyone knew that for some time she’d wanted someone her age to talk to, a companion. When she was younger she had an imaginary friend, Pippy Mae, a girl her age who thought like she thought, who could speak about things adults never did: not cleaning house but taking trips, not practicing her music, but finding a tree to climb and look out over the world. Now that she was older, only a real friend her age would do to tell her secrets to.

  “It’s a long way away,” said Jackson.

  “Daddy, I’m nineteen years old. There is no one in this town my age I can talk to. Aunt Dalzell lives over there. Because she’s teaching in the school and participates at church she has a lot of contacts with families there. I’m grown up now, Daddy. I need to be able to meet people my age.”

  Jackson frowned and clenched his jaw. “You couldn’t go alone. Too dangerous. I’d have to take you and then come back and pick you up.”

  “Let’s set a time. Please! How about next week?”

  Missy reached over and touched Faith’s hand. “Don’t be impatient,” she said. “All things come to those who wait.”

  “I’m not so sure. I’ve been waiting. I’m beginning to
think that everybody just wants to put me off. I might never get to go.”

  “Can we talk later?” said Jackson.

  Faith looked around as if examining the credentials of her family. She had a “what am I doing here” look on her face. A blush appeared on her cheeks. Her eyes grew large with wetness. She sighed. She threw her napkin on the table. “You always say that,” she said. “You always put me off.” She started crying. “I think you won’t ever let me go.”

  She got up abruptly and left the table.

  TWELVE

  Crissy was proud of her new position as a doctor’s assistant. She greeted the patients with a brand of service that she effortlessly modified from the style she used to use to make men feel comfortable at the Angel Dust.

  The Hampton boy came with a bone felon that needed lancing. She held his hand in hers, his eyes in hers, as Galen sliced his finger. The boy was mesmerized.

  Ruth Ann came with a cough lasting five days. Galen gave her a mixture of Almond emulsion, Syrup of Squills, and Syrup of Poppies. She staggered out the door. Crissy made sure she got back home safely.

  Crissy took the payments and locked them in a strong box with a key she wore around her neck, a way station in the pathway to the bank across the street at the end of the day.

  Just before closing two men came in the office. One had a black mark on his left cheek.

  “May I help you,” she said.

  “Just looking,” said Madson Crow.

  She shifted in her chair.

  The birthmark loomed closer as he leaned over her desk. “You’re mighty pretty to be working in a dump like this,” he said.

  She dropped her eyes.

  “Didn’t you used to belong to Horse?”

  “I don’t belong to anybody.”

  “Maybe now you think you belong to that pretend doctor.” He strolled around to the side and made a point of looking down her dress. “Maybe you give him a poke from time to time.”

  She glared at him. “That would be none of your business.”

  Crow came around to the front of the desk and turned to the door. “It seems,” he said still facing away, “that you don’t understand.” He turned back. “Horse still thinks you belong to him.” He leaned over the desk again. “He’s going to come and get you back some day.”

  “He already tried. That didn’t work out too well.”

  “Just a stone in the path to be kicked aside.” He kicked his leg to one side. “And as long as you keep playing hooky over here you’ll be a sitting target for mischief.”

  Crissy got up from her desk. “I can’t tell you what a pleasure it’s been talking to you.” She turned to get Galen.

  Crow stopped her with a fierce grab of her arm.

  “We don’t need him,” he said.

  And he reached into her cleavage and fingered the key lying shyly between her breasts, turning it over and over in his hand. “You should be more careful,” he said, “some harm might come from wearing this right here.”

  She struggled. He tightened his grip. He ripped the key from her neck and held it up to the light.

  “Let’s see,” he said. “This must be the key to the money box you have hidden in that desk drawer you don’t want me to open.”

  He tilted his head and squinched his cheek.

  She kept her cool, focusing her eyes on him.

  “Or maybe,” he said, “this key belongs to something else. His eyes scanned every inch of her body. “Maybe,” he said, “it belongs to your heart. How romantic!” His eyelids dropped to half-mast. “So if I have the key to your heart do I get to fuck you?”

  Her eyes dilated.

  “Let’s see if that’s true.”

  He thrust his hand and key into her blouse and wrapped it around her breast. She fought him but he shoved her over the desk and began struggling with her clothes.

  “Aw, come on,” he said. “You’re just a whore. You shouldn’t mind a little touch and play.”

  A fist appeared out of nowhere and wrenched the man’s head instantly to one side. The blow was so strong he bent over at the waist. Galen kicked his butt hard with the side of his boot and he shot across the room and crashed into the wall.

  The other man reached for his gun but stopped abruptly, facing the muzzle of Galen’s quick social equalizer, Claudette, five inches from his forehead.

  “Just where would you like me to put this slug?” he said.

  The man shot a beam of hate from his eyes but did not draw. He spread his hands to one side. The punched man stumbled to his feet. Galen kicked him back to the floor and stood over him, gun drawn, the man sprawled on his back.

  Galen approached him and placed the ball of his foot between the man’s legs and pressed down. Crow stiffened and gritted his teeth.

  “You were planning to use this little peckerwood of yours somewhere? Huh? You’d be lucky to get out of this store with it still attached to your body.”

  Crow groaned. His partner stood very still, wary of the muzzle of Galen’s gun, still drawn. Galen pressed his foot downward in little pulses like he was cracking a pecan. Crow couldn’t control the little guttural utterances of anguish that burst forth from his throat.

  To anyone watching what happened next looked like this: Galen was intent upon Madson Crow, lying on his back on the floor, his foot in his crotch causing mayhem. Without moving his eyes away from his task, Galen suddenly shot the other man in the foot, without even turning his head.

  The man, totally shocked, cried out and started hopping up and down, Galen still statuesque in his posture over Madson Crow, still working his task until he was done did not move.

  The second man hobbled out the door.

  What really happened was that the second man, believing Galen to be so absorbed with payback for Crow he’d not notice a little quick draw, a really quick shot somewhere that would do some damage, a big reward when he returned to Horse’s lair.

  Galen, years staying alert when guns were drawn, had peripheral vision as sharp as his central. He saw the anticipation, the little bump in the hand that usually precedes the draw so he was alerted what was coming. When the hand made its move he was ahead of it. He never even looked at the man.

  Galen stepped back and addressed Crow. “What you need to know is what you deal will be dealt right back to you, double,” he said.

  Crow rolled to his knees and stumbled to a standing position.

  “Time for you to go,” Galen said, “and tell Horse-ass over there that I am done with him and his men. Furthermore, the next one of you sets foot in this office, I will shoot, no questions asked.”

  Galen paused to let that sink in. Crow rubbed his face.

  “Now git,” he said.

  *****

  Crow paused outside the shop. He dusted himself off, awkwardly. He called after the second man hobbling back to the Angel Dust.

  “A little business to tend to,” he said, and staggered away from his companion.

  *****

  Galen and Crissy found Jake on the front porch smoking a hand rolled cigarette and pitching back and forth in a rocker.

  “Been stamping out disease?” said Jake.

  “Best we can,” said Galen.

  “I ‘spect you used a little witchcraft before the day was done.”

  Galen smiled. “That’s how the day started. Speaking of day. You been sitting on your ass all day?”

  “Most of it.”

  “Don’t believe in productivity.”

  “Been doin’ productivity all my life. I’m coasting a bit.”

  Galen sat down next to Jake. Crissy went inside.

  “Besides,” said Jake, “I been active.”

  Charlie the rooster came up onto the porch and began strutting around, his head arched like a procession of Egyptian Pharaohs.

  “Active doing what?”

  “Keeping this here chicken in line for one thing.”

  Galen leaned back and mocked him. “Keeping this here chicken in line. . .�
�

  “Yeah,” said Jake. “Watch and learn.”

  Charlie approached cautiously but not relinquishing one smidgeon of his regal countenance. “You have to do this just right,” Jake said.

  Jake remained still until Charlie came up close, paused, clucked a couple of times then started to pass on by.

  “The trick is to wait ‘til he’s facing away.”

  The men remained still. Charlie looked this way and that, took a couple of cautious steps beyond. Jake suddenly shuffled his right foot.

  Charlie squawked like a snake bit him and jumped three feet in the air, flapping his wings. Jake laughed long and hard. He slapped his knee. Charlie settled, looked around and resumed his strut.

  Jake sighed and wiped his face. “Funniest damn creature,” he said.

  “And you get your jollies terrorizing that poor chicken?”

  “Nah. He’s all right. He done forgot about it. Besides, every now and then you gotta remind the arrogant of this world they’re not so smart.”

  “And you need to be the one to tell him that?”

  “We all could use a little more humility.”

  “You expect humility from a chicken?”

  Jake grinned and looked away. He shook a pointed finger at the sky. “It’s a hell of a lot of fun trying, I can tell you that.”

  Galen looked off in the clouds and shook his head. “That’s all you do, sit here, shuffle your feet, scare the hell out of that poor chicken and raise your little finger a couple of times?”

  “Rooster. And I did raise my finger a couple of times. Raised it all the way to Horse Diggins’ desk.”

  “Well now, that must have been fun.”

  “A barrel of monkeys.”

  “What’d you do, give him a citation for having too many horses in his corral?”

  “I told him he was a dead man.”

  Galen raised his eyebrows. Got serious. “Must have loved that.”

  “Oh, I think he knows it. But he also knows that I can’t up and shoot him without more to go on. And since the agent of his mischief is dead and can’t testify against him. . .” Jake took off his hat, smoothed down his hair, put it back on. “I can’t do much just yet. You and I both know that’s true. We both have a spot in our sights marked for him. You also know guys that are so evil they just can’t help themselves. He’ll hang himself soon.”