Showdown at Possum Trot

by David Watts

  *****

  Next morning, J. J. Creek stepped into the General Store. He just stood in the corner by the front window and stared at George Pickins helping his customers find what they needed, weighing out flower, sugar, giving away penny candy for the kids at home with each purchase. George could see him, of course, and knew where he came from, but he didn’t let it get in the way of his service to his customers. What he saw underneath the plaid shirt, crumpled brown hat, the burgundy colored leather vest and low slung six gun was a man who moved quiet and dangerous.

  When the store cleared J. J. stepped forward and turned over a shelf containing kitchen utensils on his way. He kicked a few of them out of his path making a narrow space to walk in. He stepped on a whisk and mashed it to the floor with a twist of his foot.

  “I believe my associate was engaged in a process to purchase your store before he disappeared,” he said. “I have taken over his work and am paying this little courtesy visit to assist you in completing the process.”

  George, much to J. J.’s surprise, simply said, “Sure. Fine by me.”

  J. J. stepped back and looked around. Seeing no one, he continued, “We are prepared to take over the running of your store, pay you a salary, to be negotiated later, you know, for working the store and tending to the customers. We will make all the decisions as to what goods are carried, where they are purchased, and how much they cost. . . do you understand?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “In exchange you will sign over the deed to Mr. Horse Diggins.”

  “Ah,” said George, “now there’s the problem.”

  “What problem?”

  “You’ll have to get permission from my partner.”

  “You don’t have a partner.”

  “Ah, but I do.”

  J. J. shifted his weight backward onto his heels and glared at George who seemed unruffled by this whole interchange. “Tell me who your goddamned partner is.”

  George stepped around the counter and showed J. J. to the door. “My partner,” he said, “is Sheriff Jake Paxton. You’ll have to speak to him. The deed is on file at the bank.”

  J. J. stood in place a few seconds. He rippled his facial muscles and kicked a colander across the room. He made a slow and deliberate path for the outside world. George called after him.

  “We’ll send over a little bill, you know,” he said, “for the damage.”

  *****

  Sunday there was a gathering at the churchyard.

  Tull, pleased with himself since he’d gotten so many of the former congregation back in to the church with his Homecoming Celebration, so very pleased, he was, that he decided to do it again.

  So there he was, decked out in his clerical finery—his black hat, clerical color, and his six gun on the outside of his frock—moving deftly through the crowd of parishioners, shaking hands, telling stories, tickling babies on their cheeks.

  Nell Crenshaw brought a rhubarb pie, George Pickens a few bottles of sarsaparilla, and in addition to providing the music, the Charles family brought fresh churned ice cream. The big surprise was the large hunk of roast beef provided by none other than Horse Diggins.

  Diggins arrived late but that he was there at all was a huge surprise to everyone. There he was, trying his best to look Christian among the victims of his foul play. No one knew what to say to him. Tull took him a little way apart from the crowd and confronted him.

  “Everyone is welcome in the house of the Lord,” he said, “but remember what I said about the way you do business in this town.”

  “I’m here to do the right thing by the people,” said Horse, “to make this town great and to ensure that it continues to prosper in the future. You may not know this but I can be friendly at times. There is a soft side to Horse DIggins you might learn to appreciate a little more.”

  Tull laughed. “If I ever saw it.”

  “How about now?”

  “Not without a strong dose of suspicion and watchfulness,” he said.

  Horse tapped Tull on the shoulder with the back of his knuckles. “You do your job,” he said, “I’ll do mine.” He cocked a know-it-all smile up one side of his mouth. “And we’ll just see how all that comes out.”

  Horse turned and walked away.

  The Charles girls played a set of bluegrass music ending on a solo by Faith Charles. Horse was seen to be almost dancing.

  The music over, people gathered their goods and started leaving, Faith drifted apart to a bench under a oak tree and spooned a little ice cream into her tired, dry mouth. Horse came and sat beside her.

  “You looked mighty pretty up there singing,” he said.

  Faith started to get up but Horse kept her down by a tight grip on her arm.

  “I have an offer I think you’ll like,” he said.

  “Not likely,” she said.

  “Wait until you hear all the information. A girl like you can be really successful, can make a lot of money and do a lot of good things.”

  She sat quietly eating her ice cream.

  “I happen to know that the Rusty Bucket is not doing well financially. It could use a nice influx of money to keep it going. I happen to have a vacancy in my staff that you could fill, only on your days off, mind you, which I know is Thursday, and we could keep it secret at first but you would have money immediately to do things for your family.”

  “What kind of job?”

  “Oh, waiting tables, maybe a little singing. . . that sort of thing to begin with. You could move up the ladder real fast and you wouldn’t have to change anything about your relationship to your family.”

  Jackson Charles spotted Horse sitting beside Faith and started a rapid movement that direction. Horse saw him coming.

  “Think about it, darlin’,” he said as he got up to leave. “I’ll see you this Thursday.”

  SIXTEEN

  Jake walked into the Angel Dust. He walked up the stairs against the protestations of the bartender and stepped in the door to Horse’s study without knocking. Rosalie was on his lap, half naked. She rose, deliberately, put on her blouse and left the room.

  “Where’s your manners? Oh. I forgot. You were raised in a barn.”

  “I’ve got two messages for you, Horse, special delivery. Thought I’d bring them over myself.”

  He plopped down two pieces of paper on his desk. Horse examined them without touching.

  “These seem to be delivered to the wrong person. I have ordered nothing from George Higgins.”

  “These bills are from the Sheriff’s Department in the name of George Higgins, one for the dead bull your man, Madson Crow, shot, and one for damages another of your men, J. J. Creek produced in an act of vandalism in George’s store. Due in full upon delivery.”

  Horse leaned back in his chair. “You a delivery boy now, sheriff? You run little errands picking up small change from the small people of this town, bringing bogus bills to me hoping I’d be foolish enough to pay for something I did not order.” His voice rose to a small roar with the last part of the sentence.

  “Ah, but you did order it, both times. In any case, these acts were perpetrated by your men, for whom you are responsible, just as sure as a father is responsible for the vandalism of his son.”

  Horse stood and came around to the front of his desk. By this time Horse’s men had come into the room and were standing around at the perimeter. You have a lot of hair on your chest, walking in to this room by yourself. Provoking my rage. That’s a dangerous thing you do. Somebody could get hurt.”

  Jake turned to face the men. To their surprise he drew so quickly he caught them off guard. By the time they noticed his gun was facing them. To draw now would be sudden death.

  The gun he held turned to his side pointing blindly at Horse. The implication was clear: anyone drawing would cause Horse to be shot.

  Jake turned to face Horse. “This is how it works,” he said. “You get the first bullet. That simple, and I don’t care. As you may know I’m about crazy enough to shoot you anyway. Then
we would see how many of these crackerjacks stick around to get shot themselves, or instead, take the opportunity to pursue their craft in sweeter waters.”

  Horse was silent.

  Jake moved around behind Horse and pointed his gun at his head for a few brief seconds. “I’m going to put my gun away now so I won’t be collecting your money at gunpoint but you have to know, if any of your men are foolish enough draw on me, my promise for the first bullet still stands.”

  Jake allowed a brief interlude.

  “It’s simple, Horse. You pay the bill and I don’t have to take your precious Venus de Milo as collateral.”

  Horse stood still as the stature itself for almost two minutes. He came slowly alive, looked around the room, dismissed his men with a wave of his hand, opened his strongbox and paid the bills.

  “You’re a dead man,” he said.

  Jake paused at the door. “We’re all dead men, Horse. Just doing our best to stay alive as long as we can.”

  *****

  “You did what?”

  It was evening and Jake and his aggregation of folks were sitting around the table. Jake was crumbling cornbread into a glass of buttermilk.

  “Which what are you talking about? “ said Jake as he wiped up a dollop of gravy with a biscuit. “Walking in on Horse or signing with George Higgins on the deed to his store?

  “Both,” said Galen.

  Jake swallowed a gulp of soggy cornbread noisily. “Well, you know I got enough piss in me to walk in on Horse, besides, I’m smarter and more unpredictable than he is. That makes me dangerous. . . drives these dumb-ass bad men crazy, don’t you know.”

  He rubbed a biscuit in some gravy but paused in the middle of the trajectory to his mouth to wave the gravy sopped morsel at Galen.

  “You can triple your effect if you keep your enemy off balance,” he said, and then he popped the biscuit whole in his mouth.

  “And maybe a lot of luck,” said Galen. “Next time, you go in with me, hear what I’m saying?”

  “Might have to.”

  Galen got curious. “Change of mind?”

  “As I walked out the door four more men showed up and tied up outside the Angel Dust. If I remember rightly, that makes seven men Horse has in his little gang about now.”

  Jake raised an eyebrow at Galen. He laughed. “I could handle six but I don’t know about seven. . .”

  “You don’t see me laughing.”

  Jake sniffed. “As for the deed,” he said, talking around a new biscuit he just popped in, bulging out the side of his cheek like a chipmunk with a hazelnut, “if you care to check it out, I’ve signed on to every piece of commercial property in the town: the Outfitter, Rusty Bucket, the Hampton Stables, you name it. It’s all part of that little scheme I told you about. You see,” he swiped another biscuit in gravy, “if I’m on the deed, any transaction, especially those that result in transfer of property of some kind, have to be approved by all involved.” In went the biscuit to his mouth. “That takes the responsibility, and therefore the crosshairs, off the proprietors. Brilliant, don’t you think?!!!”

  “Go on.” Galen pushed a go away gesture at Jake. “I reckon it works as long as you’re still alive,” he said, “which, given that you are on the deed just might set you up for a little target practice. Besides, at first glance it seems like you stole something.”

  “Naw. I only took ten percent. And it’s stipulated in the deed that it is activated only in transactions that result in transfer of property. Even then, if the owner expresses to me, in convincing terms, that he or she has not been threatened into selling, then I will release my percentage. Oh. And it’s not an ownership that has any value to it. I get nothing. I’m just there to divert the pressure.”

  “And what about if they shoot you dead? That seems like an obvious solution to the problem.”

  “Then it just enters my estate to be delivered to my beneficiaries, whoever they may be.”

  “I think you’re going to be a busy son of a bitch,” said Sabo.

  Crissy nodded her head and laughed under her napkin.

  “Doubting Thomases.” Jake said. “That’s what we got here. I just pulled off the smartest insurance scheme in the universe and I fail to hear my due applause from around the table.”

  The table burst out in applause and laughter and whoops and hollers, and exaggerated cheers all at the same time.

  Jake stood and bowed, and bowed, and bowed.

  SEVENTEEN

  Thursday came and Faith left home as she often did. Since she customarily used the day to take walks or strolls through the stores in the town, her departure early in the morning wasn’t triggering suspicion.

  She circled around the town, stopping in at some of her usual haunts and then landed at the Angel Dust, pausing for a few seconds before walking directly in the door. Horse came down and greeted her with smiles and accolades.

  “What would you like me to do?” she asked.

  “We’ll start simply,” he said. “I’d like you to wait tables, bring drinks to the customers, help behind the bar if the barkeep needs you and we’ll see how all that works out.”

  “What will I be paid?”

  “I don’t know yet, darlin’. It all depends how well you do. We’ll talk about it at the end of the day.”

  Horse disappeared. The barkeep set her up with tray and instructions and she started tending to the patrons.

  Part way through the morning the girls came down. They eyed her with a distinctively quizzical air Faith couldn’t quite discern, something like anxiety with a touch of suspicion. They kept to themselves but watched her every move through the room.

  Martha seemed disturbed by something but Faith didn’t know her well enough to ask nor did she know how to broach the subject, so she just continued trying to do her very best believing that was the most important thing for her to do in this new and unfamiliar environment.

  Mid way through the afternoon Horse called Faith up to his office. The girls by that time had had a few interactions with customers that hinted what their position was in the chain of events at the bar. Yet it never entered her mind that she might be asked to do the same thing.

  She entered Horse’s study expecting to be complimented on her work. Instead he took her to the window and stood behind her.

  “This is the view out my window, something I have to look at every day. I want you to see it from my perspective.”

  “Why is that important so to you?” she asked.

  “What do you see there?” he said.

  She stepped closer to the window. “I see three people walking down the street. Two horses. . .”

  “No, no!” I mean what buildings.”

  She was a little taken aback by his abrupt manner, but launched forward into an attempt to satisfy his question. “Well, I see the General Store and around to the left I see the Outfitter’s Store. . .”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, of course, I see the Rusty Bucket.”

  Horse almost shouted. “The Rusty Bucket! I have to stand here every fucking day and see that thorn in my side, my competition, my nemesis, the presence on this street I hate most staring me in the face day after day, making me remember each and every customer I see going in there who does not come here. . . all that money lost, all because your father came to town and brought this fucking disaster.”

  Faith gasped.

  He started pacing wildly, gesturing with his arms. “You see what that means to me. What I have to put up with in my life. I’ve been thinking for a long time how to get back at him, how to cause him that surgical quality of pain he deserves, don’t you think so, for disrupting my hold on this town, surely you will agree.”

  He came up against her from behind and placed two hands securely on her waist. “And now I have it, right here in my hands. I have my revenge.”

  “I think I’d better go,” she said.

  “Oh no,” he said, “the fun is just beginning.”

  He slipped
his hands around front to her belly and pulled her to him. She struggled but he slid his hands up to her breasts. “Cry out and I’ll kill you,” he said. “Suffer the poor decisions of your father like a loyal firstborn and you might survive this.”

  “You’re hurting me.”

  “I don’t think so.” He massaged her breasts through her clothing. “You see, there will be no paycheck for your coming here today, that is, unless you become one of my whores and take on the men of the town to the enrichment of us both. I don’t think you’re going to do that. Either way, I get my revenge against your father because today, right now, I am going to open the cherry of his first born girl.”

  He grabbed her around the waist and lifted her onto the top of his desk, spread her legs and lay down on top of her. She kicked and struggled against him but he was stronger and pinned her hands together on the desk above her head with one hand and with the other started pulling at her clothing. “And this will be our little secret, what’s about to happen here, because let me tell you what the story will be like if you go tell your father.”

  He began lifting her dress up to her belly. She panted and moaned with fear, her hands pinned to the desk, her torso pressed to the surface by his heavy weight.

  “He will get enraged, that’s what will happen. He will lose all his composure at the thought of his darling girl forcibly raped on my desktop, and grab whatever pea-shooter he has at hand and charge across the street intending to do me harm. But listen to me closely now,” he stopped his struggle with her for a moment and pressed his mouth against her ear, “because this is the magic of the situation. The minute he steps in the door I will shoot him dead in front of everyone, because, as you must clearly see, it will be in self-defense. Isn’t that brilliant? But you don’t want that outcome.” He started struggling with her clothing again. “So what happens here will stay our secret sweet girl. Anyway, you’re far too pretty not to be fucked by now.“