by David Boop
“Now don’t go and be taking that Louisiana necktie off just yet, Jew boy,” James Beaumont said, satisfaction in his voice. “It’s there so you realize the importance of saying yes to my next request.”
“You want, I should make another golem.”
“Considering that your last one killed four of my men and, with the one the Indians killed, that makes five, yes. Yes, I do. That little fiasco of a battle cost me a third of my men, and the Indians are still in the mine.”
Shlomo paled. “The golem killed. Oy, that is not good.”
“You don’t say. Popped their heads like grapes. So, you’re gonna make another one and have him finish the job. Now that we know he can kill with no problem at all.”
“Mr. James, a golem can always kill. That’s why I can’t make another one. That soil is tainted now. Who knows what will happen?”
“Who cares? Send it in to kill the redskins, and we’ll ride like hell for an hour till it goes away, if you find that you can’t control it.”
“And if this one lasts more than an hour? What if it sticks around and decides to keep killing? My blessed ancestor supposedly faced such a golem, but he knew how to send it back. I don’t.”
“Fine, use different dirt.”
“Mr. James, if I could use different dirt do you think I would be hauling that dirt around the country?”
“Don’t care, Jew boy. If you bring it back, you live. If you don’t, we hang you in front of the town for killing those five men. Lots of people in town are not happy with you siding with the Indians over white folk. We’re just gonna kill the redskins anyway, even if we have to collapse the mine and dig the company a new entrance. They don’t have any warriors left to speak of, so your golem will make short work of them.”
“Mr. James, I’m not bringing him back. And it’s not just to protect the Indians. It’s to protect everyone in a hundred miles of this place.”
“Listen up, you Jew son of a bitch. The only one who will die if you don’t—well besides the damn redskins—is you.” James spat on Shlomo’s face. “Think on that, you Christ-killing bastard!”
Shlomo left the spit where it was, not wiping it off. “Mr. James, I am far from the best person G-d almighty put on this Earth, but if I do what you ask…” Shlomo smiled sadly. “Well, that would make me just like you. I think it better to die.”
James Beaumont seemed just as happy with that choice by the way he waved his pistol for Shlomo to move.
Shlomo shrugged and left the cell. He walked slowly, but steadily, giving a sad shake of his head every once in a while and generally attempting to look brave, but truly acting forlorn.
Truth was, Shlomo had a plan. It was stupid plan, but better than being hanged.
As he got to the door, he burst out of the knot of men escorting him and, in a flash of great speed, made it a good ten feet down the street before anyone could react. James, the first to his senses, put his foot down on the rope.
Shlomo’s neck jerked at a painful angle as he flew in the air and crashed down on his back. The people in the street pointed and laughed at the crumpled weird little man.
“You dead yet?” James looked down at Shlomo, smirking.
“Not yet,” Shlomo squeaked out in a barely heard rasp.
“Reckon, we can fix that.” He turned to the gathering crowd. “It’s time to hang this Jew son of a bitch!”
With cries of delight, the crowd dragged Shlomo to the center of town with festive glee.
“I’m down five men!” James proselytized. “Men who didn’t have to die, so I am going to enjoy watching this freak of nature dance at the end of a rope.”
Shlomo looked at the gallows. It wasn’t one of those drop-floor fancy versions, but only a high beam between two posts. He shuddered.
Shlomo’s fear fired James up. “You’re right to be afraid,” snarled James. “No quick drop for you. Y’all’s gonna twitch for a long time!” The remainder of James’s gang carried Shlomo to the gallows. They threw the rope over the high beam.
Shlomo grasped at the rope as they hoisted him into the air, until his legs dangled free before tying the rope to the support beam. Shlomo kicked and swayed as the rope constricted, cutting off his air. If he had known this would be his fate, he would have just lain on the stick of dynamite earlier and been done with it.
Through the cheers of the crowd, Shlomo swore he heard the bray of an enraged mule.
Rivka burst through the crowd sounding as furious as ever a mule sounded, and galloped right up to Shlomo who barely managed to stand on her back. If he balanced on his tippy toes he could relax the noose some. The scene became even more farcical; when someone in the crowd tried to get close enough to knock Shlomo off the mule, Rivka would kick and bite. This made balancing on the back of the spinning, screaming, biting mule a dance of such complexity as to make a prima ballerina despair. But somehow Shlomo stayed on.
After a few minutes of this, a bored and irate James drew Shlomo’s revolver to shoot the mule dead. He froze, however, as the sound of a Winchester’s retort filled the air.
Cletus stood at the edge of the crowd, pointing in the general direction of James, who then slowly put the pistol back. Cletus might not have been the best shot in town, Shlomo thought in his oxygen deprived brain, but it was tough to miss with a Winchester at that range.
“What are you doing, Cletus?” James asked in a conversational tone.
“Can’t let you hurt Rivka there,” Cletus said in the same tone. “Your beef is with Mr. Slow-Mo. You leave Rivka alone.”
James sighed. Cletus may not be the smartest man in town, but Shlomo hoped he was one of the most stubborn.
“Fine. We’ll just wait for the Jew boy to slip and die, and you can get the crazy mule afterwards.”
“Works for me,” Cletus agreed. He apologized to the slowly strangling man. “Sorry about that, Mr. Slow-Mo.” Shlomo wanted to say he had no hard feelings, but then his feet slipped. He strangled there, desperately trying to find the mule’s back. Rivka didn’t help by not standing still long enough for Shlomo’s feet to gain purchase.
“Well, this won’t take nearly as long as I thought,” said a delighted James. Again, his happiness was interrupted when three fire arrows flew through the air, one after another, all hitting the roofs of three different buildings. The desert dry wood needed little encouragement to catch fire and within moments, the town was filled with smoke. People rushed to fight the flames and barely noticed a fourth arrow slicing through the rope above Shlomo’s neck.
He fell hard onto the spine of his mule, landing backward. He hit his testicles bringing forth a yelp and causing him to slump forward. With his face on the rump of his mule, Rivka took off like all the hounds of hell were after her.
Two men lifted weapons to shoot at Shlomo, but more arrows came from the edge of town killing both men. James’s gang sought cover, but by the time they were ready to fight back, Shlomo waved goodbye from his hauling ass.
* * *
About a mile out of town, Rivka stopped, and Shlomo slumped off the mule, falling bonelessly to the ground. When he finally got the noose off his neck, he took a long shuddering breath. Footsteps approached, and he got ready to fight, only to discover the fierce Indian woman. Up close, she had to be one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, and he had traveled through France on the way to America.
“I should want to thank you—and everyone with you—who saved my life.”
Emotionlessly, she informed him, “There is no one else here. I did this on my own because the rest of the warriors are dead, thanks to you.”
He started to croak out, “About that, I should want to apolo—”
Snarling, the woman smashed him across the head with her unstrung bow. As darkness took him, again, Rivka snorted her approval.
Part 4
Rabbi Shlomo Jones
Once more at the Knuckle Nugget Mine, Shlomo woke to an even bigger headache than the dynamite one from earlier. Actuall
y, it was probably the same headache just worse. He couldn’t get the strength to open his eyes.
A cup was pressed to his lips, and an older-sounding man said in perfect Yiddish, “Drink slowly, my son, but drink. It will help.”
In desperation, Shlomo took a tiny sip of what had to be the vilest liquid he had ever sampled, and he had fought for the Union. But before he could spit it out, he noticed that his head ached slightly less immediately. Having to choose between horrible taste and unending pain, Shlomo thought about it a moment, gave a shuddering sigh and drank more.
By some miracle, he did not throw up and, by the time he was done drinking, his headache was almost entirely gone. “That is it, son,” said the man.
When Shlomo opened his eyes, he did not see a rabbi or a fellow Jew, but the ancient Indian he had seen escaping from, and then fleeing back into, the mine earlier.
“You speak Yiddish?” Shlomo said in surprise.
“Not a word,” said the ancient Indian in perfect Yiddish. “But you are hearing me in Yiddish? Crazy name for a language.”
“So when I speak, you don’t hear Yiddish?”
“I hear what I call ‘the language of the people.’ Catchy, huh?”
Shlomo had a million questions about that, but settled for, “Why am I in this cave?” When he noticed the hostile stares of the women and children around him, he added, “Why haven’t you killed me yet?” Shlomo held up his hands. “Not that I am complaining, mister. I can assure you, I am done complaining. No more complaining for me! Every time I complain, I seem to get into a worse situation and, though that might SOUND like complaining, I can assure you it isn’t.” Shlomo raised his arm heavenward to accent his “not” complaining when the tittering of children and adults alike made him pause. He looked to his benefactor. “What is so funny?”
“You are, Jew Boy Slow-Mo. And thank you. These people have not laughed in a very long time.”
“They are welcome, but please my name Shlomo. Shlomo Jones.”
“I am Line Walker. Shlomo Jones. We must leave.”
“I agree. I don’t know how long I was knocked out…”
“Thirty-five minutes,” answered the woman who had saved, and then knocked out Shlomo. She approached the fire with a grace and purpose that Shlomo found alluring and terrifying. The girls of his shtetl didn’t look anything like this.
“Ah! Welcome, Dahteste.” Line Walker took her hand.
“You woke up finally.” She looked at Shlomo like he was something vile she had stepped in.
“And good he did,” said Line Walker. “Have the farting dick people returned?”
“Yes, Line Walker.”
“Wait,” said Shlomo, “the farting what people?”
“We are close, Dahteste,” Line Walker said. “One more sunset and the passage will reopen to my land. I can bring all the people that are left with me.”
“Excuse me,” said Shlomo raising a finger. “The farting what people?”
“The farting dick people,” hissed Dahteste. “That is what he calls whites because they all hold penis like objects that make a loud noise. He says that it explains all anyone needs to know about white people.”
“I’m not exactly considered a white person,” Shlomo said trying not to be charming, while still trying to be charming.
“You look white to me,” she scoffed.
“Shlomo Jones is not white,” confirmed Line Walker. “Well, at least not white the way the other whites are.”
“She does not seem to like me,” Shlomo said to Line Walker conspiratorially.
“You did kill her father and brother,” the old man responded the same way.
Shlomo looking stricken asked Dahteste, “I am so—”
Dahteste slapped Shlomo. “You do not get to apologize! That Earth Spirit you summoned knocked them out and dragged them into the open for those bastards to kill. That is your fault!”
“That was not supposed to happen. They were supposed to let you all go to the fort.”
“And you believed them! You’re either a liar or a fool!”
“I am not a liar!” Shlomo paused. “But maybe I’m a fool. I was a drunk, greedy fool who took their whiskey and their money and didn’t care.”
“That is not entirely true, Shlomo Jones,” corrected Line Walker. “You cared enough to ask them not to kill us, but you did not care enough to make sure they wouldn’t. I think there are many farting dick people like you. Caring people, but not caring enough.”
Shlomo fell to his knees. “I killed those men.” He started to bang his head on the sandy cave floor. “I killed those men. I killed them for money and booze. I can’t undo that!”
Line Walker lifted Shlomo’s head by the chin. “You can’t undo that, but you can help those whom you have hurt.”
“How?”
“You must summon another Earth Spirit to defend us,” demanded Line Walker.
“I can only create a gol…summon an Earth Spirit once a day. The earliest I can create one will be this afternoon, near sunset. How long is that?”
“Seven hours,” said Dahteste. “But the farting dick people will attack in less than an hour.”
“I cannot help you,” pleaded Shlomo.
“There is nothing you can do?” sighed the old man.
“He can, he just won’t,” spat Dahteste.
Shlomo pleaded to them to understand. “It is said if you try to create more than one in its time, you will only summon death to you. I tried it once when I was drunk and before I could utter a word I felt my life draining away. To do so would kill me.”
“We are dead anyway. You with us.”
Shlomo made as if to argue, but shrugged instead. “There is some truth to that.” Then shook his head. “Even if I could make one before dying, I would need the dirt I had used before, and I can’t.”
Line Walker nodded his head in agreement. “You must not use that earth. It is tainted.”
“Exactly, it is. Hey, how did you know?”
“I smelled it after you and the others left.”
Shlomo tried not to picture that. “Without that earth, I cannot make a golem and with that earth, the golem will likely kill you as sure as protect you.”
“Come with me.” Line Walker got up and moved to the back of the cave.
Shlomo followed. “Isn’t this supposed to be a gold mine? It seems much more like a cave.”
“This section has no gold and was abandoned. Luckily, it is the only section we need.”
“Wait. You only wanted to stay in the nongold part of the mine and for this they wanted to kill you?”
“The yellow metal makes the farting dick people evil,” said Line Walker.
“Mister, you have no idea.” Shlomo spotted a mound of red clay that to Shlomo had a slight glow. A similar glow he had only seen from another pile of earth in his entire life.
Shlomo smiled. “Well, that’s that. It was nice knowing you, Mr. Line Walker. You’re the first Indian I have ever really talked with.”
“I’m not really an Indian. My people left this world centuries ago. Long before the farting dick people ever showed up.”
“They died?”
“Don’t be silly. We just walked the ley lines to the spirit world.”
“Oh, is that all,” said Shlomo. “I will summon an Earth Spirit with this. And all it will cost me is my life. Well it’s not like I was doing much with it anyways.” He rubbed his hands together.
“Wait.” Line Walker held up a hand. “What will you command the Earth Spirit to do?”
Shlomo smirked. “You want to know what to do, you pile of dirt,” Shlomo yelled at the clay. “You will protect the innocent. That’s what you will do!”
And with that, Shlomo Jones clapped his together and rubbed them before he said the words he had said many times before, but this time, he felt his very life ebb away. He began to fall when Line Walker caught him. As he did, both Line Walker and Shlomo glowed with a white light that turned into a m
ulticolored pulsing strobe before spreading to the piled clay in front them. Shlomo continued his prayer/spell. His weakness left him and his words filled the cave, shaking the tunnel until dust rose and rocks fell. The same light poured from his eyes, and the cave disappeared in a blinding flash.
* * *
Shlomo awoke just inside the cave. Dahteste spoke to a large, very large and perfectly formed, red-skinned, blond-haired man who stood in front of her completely naked.
“Who the hell are you?” Shlomo said, immediately concerned and protective of Dahteste, despite the number of times she had hit him. The six-foot seven-inch giant was circumcised and very proportional. It intimidated him some.
“I don’t know, Rabbi,” the giant said in perfect Yiddish. “Who am I?”
“What’s his name?” Shlomo asked Dahteste.
“How should I know?” she spat out looking out the mouth of the mine. “You’re the one who created him. Well, you and Line Walker.”
Shlomo looked to the giant again, then to Dahteste, then back to the giant. Blinking, he asked, “Golem?”
“Yes, Rabbi,” the giant said innocently. “What is my name?”
“Names later,” Dahteste said, pointing out the cave to the eight men setting up a twelve-pounder piece of artillery. “Fight now.”
“Golem, go and disable that gun. Make it so the men can’t fight, but don’t kill them. Make it so they can walk when you’re done. Outside of that, though…”
“He’s going into battle, not church, Rabbi,” Dahteste reminded him.
“I’m not a rabbi,” Shlomo said vehemently. Before they could debate more, the golem had run from the cave and approached the overlook.
“Please G-d, I know I have no right to ask a thing of you after being the shnook I have been, but please let the hour be up after the golem is done saving these Indians.”
Dahteste looked at Shlomo and considered his words. “You would use your prayer to save us?”
“I have to make up for what I did the best I can. Luckily, the golem will only need a minute or two, and we should be safe till your people can leave.”