Southern Horror

by Ron Shiflet

  “I remember what you done in Jack Town a year or two back. At that house. And what you done for my nephew a few months ago. That trouble with Pos Morely’s old land? You recall that?”

  “I do,” Bass replied, not a flicker of emotion on his face. He did indeed recall Slope’s nephew’s problems with the patch of land he’d inherited from old Pos Morley. And he also recalled just exactly how it was said nephew came into possession of that land. But it wasn’t his business to meddle in such things.

  After all, Bass dealt with the crimes of the dead, not those of the living.

  Of course he might have to start. The nephew hadn’t paid him yet. That was the Slopes’ biggest problem—they had no concept about how to deal with debts they owed. Too used to being owed he supposed.

  “Figured you did. Figured too, you as has a reputation for not spreading gossip say? So maybe you as can handle this problem we got here.”

  “And what problem is that, King Slope?” Bass asked softly.

  “Your kind of problem, John Bass.” Slope’s face twisted as if he were chewing something disgusting. “Some as think we got us a haint in this here camp.” He spit the words out as quickly as he could. Bass fought not to smile. “I don’t know myself rightly what else to call it. It killed them horses you saw just last night. No marks on them, but they necks was broke like a gator or a swamp cat got ahold of them. And they wasn’t the first. Got some of the tracking dogs a night about a day or so ago. They was all busted up in their pens like something done pounded them against a tree by their tails. Just pure mashed all up.” Slope took a deep swallow of his whiskey. “Some of the men has been complaining that they is hearing things too. Like something’s whispering to them while they’s up on the levee round about sundown. Like the swamp’s talking to them. Watching them. And the prisoners is getting all stirred up, but quiet like. They know something, them damn jigaboos. But don’t matter how many of them we put in the box or up on the bucket. They ain’t saying shit.”

  “And what do you think about all this?”

  “What I think is the sun and the heat is getting to every one of them damn fools.” Slope emptied his glass again and refilled it.

  “And what about the horses? And the dogs?” Bass asked, watching him. Slope was silent for a minute, then he shook himself and grunted.

  “Well that’s why you here ain’t it? To find out?” was all he said.

  “Guess so. Three hundred dollars cash money.” Bass said after a moment’s hesitation. Slope choked on his drink. Bass leaned forward before the other man could say anything. “Three hundred dollars, King Slope, for finding out what you got going on in this camp.” He and Slope stared at each other for a few seconds before Slope sighed noisily and leaned back in his chair as if deflated.

  “Fine. But you best find out what’s going on around here, John Bass.”

  “Like you said, that’s why I’m here.” Bass stood without waiting for Slope to dismiss him and wandered out of the office, putting his cap back on as he let the door close behind him. He stood on the porch for a while, finishing his cigarette and watching the sun set and then watching the convicts troop slowly through the orange haze of the dusk towards the chow house. All except for Little Will. Still standing on the levee, on his bucket. Just like King Slope had told him to. Bass nodded to himself and then began to stalk towards the bunkhouse. It was right where he remembered it.

  The bunkhouse smelled like hot tar and spoiled meat and flies clung tenaciously to every available surface, the air heavy with their chorus. The windows had been opened to let the air in, but it was still hotter than a furnace and the wooden walls were sweating. All of the prisoners were at evening chow. All but one. The man with the gator chewed leg lay shivering and sweating in his bunk, his eyes rolling like those of an animal caught in a trap, his dark face pale with pain. They’d dumped him on his bunk like a sack of garbage and left him to live or die on his own. The makeshift bandages hadn’t been replaced yet and the shirt rags were soaked through with thick crimson stains as were the sheets of the bed around them. The wound was already turning in the heat and was infected. Bass grunted in disgust. He doubted a doctor had been called yet. Or would be. Even the black doctors in Jack-Town, what few there, were would be reluctant to come out to the work camp. It was always a distinct possibility Slope would find some reason not to let them leave.

  The camp always needed workers. And doctors.

  Bass stopped beside the wounded man’s bunk and sat down heavily on the one opposite, nodding amiably to the wounded man. “Evening. What’s your name, son?” When he got no answer, Bass reached beside him and began to carefully tear the sheet of the bed he was sitting on into strips. He still remembered some of his basic medical training. In the trenches, every man had been a doctor and an executioner when the need arose. With steady, careful fingers he unwrapped the wound and reached into his pants pocket for a tin of tobacco. He wasn’t a big dipper, but sometimes he got the craving that cigarettes couldn’t fill. He cut off a slice and began to chew it as he examined the wound. It was a messy, ragged gash where the gator’s teeth had sawed into the leg, but mercifully only one was deep enough to be trouble. He’d need it sewed up eventually. Getting up, Bass found a tin and a faucet that belched a thick stream of muddy, warm water. Pulling out his rag he dipped it into the tin full of water and began to clean the wound, trying to fish out the filth and swamp debris. When he had finished, he spat the wad of well-chewed tobacco into the wounds and began to rebind them with the clean rags. The chaw would hopefully pull any poisons out of the wound, help clean it. Beyond that, he’d need a doctor. Bass sat back when he’d finished and sighed in satisfaction. As good as he could hope for and better than the man could expect out here.

  The man was looking at him now with a glazed expression on his face. Bass asked again. “What’s your name, boy?” Still getting no answer, Bass pulled his packet of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and extended one to the man, who took it with trembling fingers. Bass helped him ease it between his lips and lit it for him. The prisoner coughed gratefully, some small modicum of awareness blooming on his face.

  “Rueben Parks,” he said between coughs. With the pain eased on his face, Bass could see he wasn’t but fifteen or sixteen. No man this, but just a boy. “Thank you, mister. You didn’t have to do that. I’d have been fine.”

  “No. You would have died. But then something tells me that’s what somebody intended. Why’d they push you, boy?”

  “You don’t want to know who?”

  “Don’t really matter now does it? Someone’s already on the bucket for it. But I’m curious why they pushed you to a gator when it would have been easier to stab you or smother you in your sleep. So I figure out the why, maybe I’ll know that too.”

  Parks’s face was paler now, but not with pain. At least not only with pain. With fear as well. Bass recognized the face of fear like the face of an old lover. “I-I don’t know. Maybe they think I deserved it. But I had to do what I done!” He started coughing again and the cigarette slipped out of his lips. Bass caught it and gently handed it back. “I had to.”

  “What did you do?”

  Parks swallowed. “I told the King about Sugar Goody. About where he’d gone. Everybody knew though, if it hadn’t been me it’d been somebody else!” Parks’ voice was shrill now and he sat up as best he could. “I had to! They’d have beat me mister! I-I can’t take no more beatings. I gotta get out of here. Gotta go home!” Bass eased the boy back down, trying to calm him. The boy continued to speak. “I didn’t know they’d do what they done to him…I didn’t know they’d ride out there after him and set them damn dogs of the King’s on him! I didn’t know! I just didn’t want to get beat no more! I just want to go home.” The boy’s eyes were glazed over again and he was shivering harder than before. The clean bandages were already soaking through. “Home,” the boy whispered again before he slumped, his eyes rolling up in his head. His breathing was shallow and Bass knew
he wasn’t going to make it the night. He’d bleed out before dawn. He got slowly to his feet and left the bunkhouse. Slope was leaning against his office’s doorframe, smoking quietly and staring out at Loogroo Swamp when Bass stopped beside him.

  “You need to call a doctor for that boy. Or at least someone who knows something about stitching. He’s going to bleed out by dawn.”

  “I done called. Ain’t my fault no doctor wants to come down here. Ain’t like I can make them now is it?” Slope replied curtly, not looking at Bass. Bass shook his head.

  “Actually, you can. You is the King after all, ain’t you?”

  Slope’s head jerked around and fixed Bass with a glare. “What I am and what I ain’t, ain’t your business Bass. That ain’t why you is here, now is it?”

  “Nope. It sure ain’t. But I reckon it’ll be somebody’s before long, unless you get that boy some help.”

  “You threatening me?”

  “Nope. I’m promising.” Bass’s eyes were dark and steady and met Slope’s glare easily. An old hound dog staring down a king boar.

  The boar flinched first and Slope’s gaze slid away like a fish in shallow waters. Bass nodded. “Best go call that doctor again, King Slope.

  “Reckon I should.” Slope replied harshly, through gritted teeth. He shuffled back into his office and slammed the door behind him. Bass looked out over the swamp and saw Little Will on his bucket. Time to ask some more questions. Time to leave this place with all its bad smells and memories and shadows. Bass walked towards the levee.

  The old man was wizened and froglike with wrinkled, blue black skin and his foggy brown eyes stared out at the swamp with the air of a dog waiting to be kicked. He glanced sideways at Bass as the other man clambered to the top of the levee and stood beside him, watching the swamp flex and breathe in the evening air. “Evening, Mister Will.” Bass finally said, not looking at the white-haired man as he pulled his crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and extended one to him. Will took it without any acknowledgement beyond a curt nod. As Bass lit it, he shifted his weight and the wood of the bucket bottom creaked slightly, even under the man’s miniscule weight. “Ain’t you Will Tucker? Annie Tucker’s daddy?” Bass went on after a while, his tone one of simple curiosity. Will grunted, smoke slithering out of his nostrils as he took a long drag and blew it out. Bass nodded, as if some reply had been received. “Thought so. She favors you a bit in the nose I think. I’ll tell her I saw you. Said howdy.”

  “You won’t do no such thing, peckerwood.” Tucker rasped, his voice high and sharp like a razor across a belt. He still didn’t look at Bass. “You don’t talk to my daughter.” Bass nodded again, amiably, looking at the swamp.

  “Just a thought. Maybe you’ll talk to me then.”

  “Hunh. Ain’t got nothing to say to no peckerwood.”

  “Then I guess it’s a good thing I ain’t no peckerwood then huh?” Bass turned slightly, the smoke from his own cigarette mingling with that of Tucker’s. “I stood on that bucket before. Stood on it all damn night and a good sight of the day as well. I know the best way not to fall off or get et up by cramps is to distract yourself. So talk to me, less you fancy falling off, getting cut all up and beat bloody. Ain’t no way to spend a night Mister Will. No way at all.”

  Tucker released a long breath, swinging his cotton topped head to face Bass. “What you wanna know?”

  “What done killed them horses busy ripening down there under the dirt?” Bass pointed a thumb over his shoulder. Tucker grunted, his eyes sliding back to the swamp.

  “Ain’t for me to say.”

  “You scared of haints, Mister Tucker?”

  “Nary met a man who ain’t, but no. I’m piss-scared of that mean ol’ boar hog watching us there.” Tucker said, licking his lips. Bass glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of Slope watching them, his beady eyes narrowed as he stood on the porch again. Bass grinned at him and Slope flinched as if struck.

  “Best way to get shet of a boar hog is just to whack him between the eyes, Mister Tucker. Otherwise he’ll ride your ass all the way to town.” Bass said, turning back to him. “Slope won’t do nothing. Not About this. This is my business. And I need you to tell me what it is that done killed them horses.”

  “Sugar Goody.” Was the terse reply. “Sugar Goody done killed him those horses cause they rode him down.”

  “And the dogs?”

  “Them dogs rooted him out and tore him up. So he returned the favor.” Tucker pointed to the swamp. “And if you want to be talking to Sugar Goody about them there things, you need to just set your foot on down out there in the swamp, John Bass. Because Sugar Goody is on out there and he’s got some things yet to do.”

  “Is that why Rueben Parks was pushed? So maybe Sugar Goody wouldn’t have to come looking for him in the camp?” Bass asked softly. Tucker flinched. Bass looked up. The swamp was silent. No longer breathing, no longer moving.

  It was waiting.

  The moon was up now and it shone down on the trees and tangled plants that made up the edge of the swamp, and slipping through the bars of moon light came a curling, coiling something. Like swamp mist, that settles on the wet places in the early morning hours, but this was no idle thing, content to move with the water and wind. It was groping along through the trees like a blind man or a dog on the scent, curling around trees and hauling itself along, boiling out of the swamp like pus out of a sore. Bass could hear a voice in his head, a heavy, dark voice like stone striking iron, saying many things but none of them really clear. But some were clear enough. It roiled up the swamp side of the levee and crept towards the two men, whispering and roaring quietly like some great beast off in the distance. In its mass Bass thought he could see other shapes as if whatever the fog was hiding couldn’t decide what it wanted to be from one minute to the next. It sweated pure malevolence and Bass felt his gorge rise as it swept towards him, hissing and spitting jumbled words and accusations. Tucker trembled on his bucket, trying to block the sounds from his ears.

  “Sugar Goody.” He whispered over and over again like a prayer. Bass didn’t look at him. He kept his eyes fixed on the whispering thing creeping towards them slow as lightning on a hot summer day. Bass whirled and shoved Tucker off of his bucket and practically threw the man off the side of the levee and followed him gracelessly, cursing as his palms and knees scrabbled through the debris scattered around the bucket. He and Tucker rolled down the levee and the fog crawled past them, slinking weasel quick towards the bunkhouses of the camp. Tucker was shivering where he lay, his eyes closed, his hands over his ears. “Sugar Goody done come back to camp.” He said quietly, his voice a low moan.

  Bass grunted.

  “He sure has.”

  “Sugar Goody ain’t got nothing to do with nothing.” Slope said from behind them. He was ambling slowly towards the levee, mopping his florid face with a dirty rag, two of his deputies walking alongside him. “That jigaboo escaped a month back and he’s done skedaddled from these parts. Besides, wasn’t no man what done this. An Sugar Goody wasn’t even that. Just some no account piece of Jack-Town shit. Just like you, Little Will. Oh, and did I say you could get off that bucket?”

  “No. But I did.” Bass said calmly as he got to his feet. “I take it you didn’t see what just done come crawling and howling out of the swamp then King Slope?” Slope fixed him with a beady glare. “That foggy, crawling whispering thing. That thing that your boys have been hearing on the levee as it tried to tell them who it was and what it wanted. What it had to say was mighty interesting. Yes sir, interesting indeed.” Bass looked out over the camp. He looked back at Slope. “Was Sugar Goody a bad man, King Slope? I seem to recall hearing his name on down the way and as maybe that he’d done him some badness. True badness. Something about shooting him a white fellow from on down past Monk’s Corner over a three dollar hand of poker. Course, these days three dollars is a whole lot of money, but still…it ain’t no call to go shooting nobody is it? Seems
to me a man like that wouldn’t take kindly to being locked up out here in the heat and the stink. Did he try and escape? Did he go into the swamp?”

  Slope was frowning now, his brows knitted together like a storm cloud. Bass nodded as if Slope’s face said it all. “Course, he couldn’t have gone far, not out there. Not even some bad fool like Sugar Goody was supposed to be. So maybe he was smart enough to get him a message out, have somebody waiting on him along the Old Swamp Road. And smart enough to think you wouldn’t find out. And we all know how you cotton to pride like that here don’t we? Maybe you beat out where he was hiding from Rueben Parks that poor little boy cause you knew don’t nothing stay secret in someplace like this, and you knew he couldn’t keep his mouth shut once you set to on him. And then you done rode out there in the swamp on your horses and with your dogs and maybe them two fellows beside you there and you rode old Sugar Goody down and had the hounds tear him up and then you left him to the swamp. Bet you didn’t even bury him, King Slope.”

  “Should I of? Would you have?” Slope growled. Bass shook his head and looked up at the night sky. From the bunkhouse a shrill screaming rose, higher and higher and higher, spiralling towards the cold stars. Rueben Parks. Slope whirled, his eyes wide.

  “What’s that old saying… ‘Bury me sweet, bury me deep, or God or the Devil willing, I’ll get to my feet.’ ” Bass continued.

  “Talk some sense!” Slope snarled, his hand on his gun. Bass smirked and gestured out at the camp.

  “I am, King Slope, if you’d but listen. This is my business and I know whereof I speak. Sugar Goody, God or the Devil willing, got hisself up and he came walking that lonely road out of the swamp and he set to on them dogs. And then the next time he roused himself he set about cracking the bones of them poor horses the way they stomped him into the ground. And right now…right now he’s dealing with that poor boy you done beat to find out where Sugar Goody was hiding. He’s moving up the chain and I wouldn’t wonder that he’s saving you for last, King Slope. He’ll come every night until he gets whoever put him in the swamp.” Bass walked away from the levee, stopping in front of Slope. “I’d like my three hundred dollars.”