Sam Bass

by Bryan Woolley

  “No,” Barnes said, “but I got something I want to say in front of everybody.” He come over to my side of the fire. “Boys, I want you to know I think Jim’s all right. I’m glad Frank kept us from killing him. He’s the man we need. But blast him, I just couldn’t fix him all right before. I’m proud to say now that he’s my friend.” He shook my hand.

  “I’m your friend, too,” I said.

  Mary Matson

  I sees him way up aside the hill. I can’t tell nothing about him, he’s so far off. Just this man and this hoss coming down the hill out of the cedars, that’s all I knows. But he gets down off the hill and comes into the road, and I sees the hoss is a sorrel, the way the sun shines off him, and the man, I think he’s old, he slump in the saddle so. I’s walking in the road, toting a batch of laundry on my shoulder, going home, and the man, he’s riding at me on that sorrel. When he gets close I sees he ain’t old, he just slump that way. He’s got dust all over his clothes, like he travels far. He rides on past me and smiles at me, and I smiles back. Then he turns that hoss and comes back and stops him in front of me so I got to stop, too.

  “What’s your name?” he says.

  “Mary. Mary Matson.”

  “You sure is pretty, Mary,” he says. “Where you live?”

  I points to my house on the edge of the colored town, and he says, “The one with the oaks back behind?”

  “Yessuh,” I says. “That’s the one.” “Who lives with you?” he says.

  “Nobody.”

  “Ain’t got no daddy or mama?”

  “Nawsuh. They’s dead.”

  “Ain’t got no man?”

  “Nawsuh. None that lives with me.”

  “What you carrying?”

  “Laundry. That’s what I does.”

  All this time he leans on his saddle horn, smiling down at me, and I’s smiling back at him. Pretty smile and pretty man, I’s thinking. Dark. Got some Injun or colored blood in him. Easy to talk to. I don’t mind.

  “How old is you?” he says.

  “Sixteen. Seventeen. Don’t know for sure.”

  “How come you live by yourself?”

  “Daddy, he die.”

  The hoss, he sneezes and shakes his head, but the man don’t pay no mind. “I’s wanting to stay here a few days,” he says. “I’s looking for a place to live.”

  I points my thumb over my shoulder, down the road. “White folks lives down there. They got a hotel down there.”

  “Don’t want to live down there,” he says. “I wants to live here.”

  “Ain’t no place here,” I says. “Just colored houses.”

  “You got a house. Why don’t I stay there? Pay you fifty cents a day and give you more when I leaves.”

  “I just got one bed,” I says. He smiles real big then. “That’s fine with me.”

  I giggles and don’t say nothing.

  “Come on,” he says. “It’s all right, ain’t it?”

  “I don’t mind.”

  Then he says, “Oh, I got three men with me.”

  “Lord, I can’t put up no four men!” I says.

  “You can cook for four men, can’t you? Biscuits and greens and things?”

  “Sure, but I can’t take them in the house.”

  “They can sleep in the trees back behind. That’s all right, ain’t it?”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “We’ll come around dark, then.”

  He turns the hoss, but I says, “Hey, mistuh, you got a name?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “It’s Samuel.”

  Samuel gives me a wave and lopes that red hoss back up the road. Pretty hoss, pretty man, I’s thinking.

  After dark I hears them riding past the house and into the trees. In a while I hears them walking back, talking low, their spurs jangling. They knocks on the door, and I opens, and Samuel’s standing there, still smiling. “Supper ready, Mary?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I says, and they comes in. One of them, a big, redheaded man, he sniffs and says, “Nigger house, all right.” The other two don’t say nothing. One of them’s small and dark like Samuel, but heavier. I figures he’s maybe Samuel’s brother. The other one’s tall and skinny. He’s got yellow curls all over his head, and he smiles like Samuel, but I knows he ain’t nobody’s brother.

  They sits at the table, and I dishes up the food for them. They don’t talk much while they eats. Mostly about the food, and they likes it. But I can tell Samuel’s the boss, and they shows respect for the curly-headed kid, too. The other dark one just looks at his plate and don’t say much at all. The big redhead moves his eyes around the room all the time and looks at the others’ faces a lot. There’s something about them eyes. They looks scared. Maybe they don’t like looking at a nigger house.

  After they eats, all of them rolls cigarettes, and they smokes and puts the ashes in their plates. They don’t say nothing while they’s smoking, but when they finishes, Samuel says, “Let’s go outside,” and they goes.

  I cleans up the dishes and puts my irons on the stove and gets to work. I been ironing for a long time when I hears the spurs and the door opens and Samuel comes in. He walks right over behind me and puts his arms around my waist and kisses me aside my neck. I don’t move, and he says, “Kiss me, Mary.” So I puts down my iron and turns around and puts my arms around his neck and kisses him. Then he pulls me close and kisses me again, real hard. “Come to bed, Mary,” he says, and I don’t mind. My innards is saying I wants him.

  He turns back the sheet and sits down aside the bed and pulls off his boots while I’s putting my laundry in the basket. He strips down naked and lays back on the bed and sighs. I’s looking at him out the corner of my eye while I’s working, and I sees he’s whiter than I thought, and that scares me. I starts slowing down my work, but he says, “Come on, Mary,” so I takes off my head rag and lays it on the ironing board and goes to blow out the lamp. “Don’t,” he says. “Not yet.” So I leaves the lamp alone and starts undressing. He watches me, and when I’s naked I starts for the lamp again, but he says, “Not yet. Just stand there a minute.” So I stands there in the middle of the floor, and he looks and looks at me. “Turn around, Mary,” he says, so I turns around, and when I’s turned all the way around, he smiles. “Blow it out,” he says.

  I crawls into bed, and he puts his arms around me and holds me tight. His hands touches me all over, and I likes it, and I pushes myself as close against him as I can. He kisses me on the mouth and aside the neck and on the titty, and it feels good. I ain’t never felt so. Then he climbs on me and has his way, and pretty soon he’s got me moaning.

  When we’s finished, he rolls over and says, “You like that, Mary?”

  “Oh, yeah, I likes that.”

  “You ever did it with a white man before?”

  “No. But my mama did, back in slave days. She tell me white men is mean.”

  “You think that, why you doing it with me?”

  “I figure you for part colored. Or Injun. You ain’t all white.”

  He laughs at that. “Injun, maybe, but no colored,” he says. “I’s a Yankee. They don’t do it with coloreds up there.”

  “Where a Yankee?”

  “Indiana.”

  “Mistuh Lincoln’s state?”

  “No. Next door to it.”

  “You in his army?”

  “No, but my brother was. He got killed.”

  “I was borned in the war, while all the white men was away. My daddy told me. He was slave. Mama, too.”

  “You want to do it again?”

  “Yes,” I says. And we does it again, and another time after that. By the time Samuel goes to sleep, my bed’s smelling of our juices and sweat, but I don’t mind. I likes the smell.

  I don’t go to sleep when Samuel does. I’s laying on my back, looking at that ceiling, pleasuring in the sweet, lazy, wore-out feeling that Samuel give me and listening to his breathing. After while, though, he starts talking. I thinks he’s talking to me, but I
can’t hear what he’s saying, so I says, “What, Samuel?” He maybe can hear me, because he talks again, like he’s talking to me, but I can tell now he’s still asleep. The only word I understands is “hoss.” So I just turns over and goes to sleep myself.

  At daylight the birds wakes me up, and I gets out of bed and makes coffee and brings him a cup. He’s awake, and he smiles while he watches me bring it to him. I sits aside the bed and drinks my coffee with him, and when he finishes he takes my cup out of my hand, too, and sets them on the floor. He grabs my arm and pulls me down on the bed with him.

  “Your friends will be wanting breakfast,” I says.

  “Let them wait,” he says.

  “You sure is a needful man,” I says.

  For the next three days a couple of them would saddle up their hosses and ride down toward the new town from time to time. Sometimes it would be Samuel and the goldheaded kid, sometimes the scared-looking redhead and the other dark man. They’d stay maybe an hour and then show up again and unsaddle the hosses and tie them in the grass down by Brushy Creek. That’s all they does. Rest of the time, they just lays around under the trees back there till I comes and tells them their vittles is ready. They comes to the house to eat, but don’t say hardly nothing at the table. And sometime after dark, Samuel comes in and makes me stop my ironing and takes me to bed.

  One day, a Thursday it is, I’s walking down to the trees at noon to tell them dinner’s fixed. I hears them talking, but I don’t think nothing of it. Then I hears Samuel say, “I tell you, they was Rangers! They was dressed like cowboys, but I knowed they was Rangers!”

  “Sam, you’s just jumpy,” the big redhead says. “You’s seeing things that ain’t there.”

  I guess they hears me coming then, because they don’t say nothing else.

  That night while we’s in bed I says to Samuel, “What business you in?”

  “Mules,” he says. “Government mules.”

  “What you do with mules?” I says.

  “I buys and sells them,” he says. “I goes around the country looking for good mules, and when I finds one, I buys him and sells him to the Army. The Army needs lots of mules.”

  “And what does them other men do?” I says.

  “Why, they helps me with the mules,” he says. “Ain’t no man can handle all them mules by hisself. Mules is hard.”

  “How long you going to stay here?” I says.

  “Saturday,” he says. “We’s leaving Saturday.”

  I’s grieved to hear that. I likes Samuel, and I’s getting used to having him in my bed. But I don’t say nothing. Then Samuel, he gets fidgety. Real jumpy, just like the redhead said. And I says, “Samuel, why you acting this way?” And he says, “I don’t know, Mary.”

  Well, next morning that pretty goldhead and the redhead saddles up right after breakfast and heads down to the new town.

  The other little dark one stays down in the trees with the hosses, and Samuel hangs around the house all morning, watching me iron and looking out the window at the graveyard, up towards the hill. The goldhead and the redhead gets back about time for dinner, and Samuel goes to the door. He’s standing in the door, and the redhead comes up to him and says, “We didn’t see no Rangers down there,” and Samuel says, “Hush.”

  After dinner Samuel goes down to the trees with the others, and I don’t see nothing of him for three or four hours. Then I sees all four of them leading their hosses past the window. The door’s open, it’s so hot, and in front Samuel hands the reins of his red hoss over to the goldheaded kid and comes in.

  “Mary, I wants you to have this,” he says, and he gives me a ten-dollar bill.

  “You leaving?” I says.

  “No, we’s just going down to the town for a few supplies,” he says. “I’ll be back.”

  “Why you giving me this money, then?” I says.

  “Well, I just wants you to have it,” he says. And he kisses me aside the neck and goes out and climbs on that red hoss.

  Frank Jackson

  Everyone in the niggertown had taken to the shade. It was so quiet I could hear dogs scratching themselves under the shanty porches and flies buzzing in the dusty bushes beside the road. Heat climbing from the road made the way ahead of us wavy and bright, painful to the eyes. Slow nigger voices drifted through the open doors of the houses. The voices and the creak of our saddles and the soft thud of our horses’ hooves in the dust all seemed separate and distinct and loud. I was sweating under my coat and wished I could take it off without revealing my pistol.

  The new town was as dead as the old. Sun reflected white off the stone of the new buildings and the street. A team of mules stood hipshot in their traces, heads bowed, while a boy unloaded fodder at the livery stable. The boy stood up in the wagon bed and watched us for a moment, then bent to his work again. A man in black stepped into the barbershop down the street. A few horses stood at the hitching rails in front of the stores and offices, all hipshot, all dozing. A wagon loaded with lumber and a cook-stove and a spool of fence wire was in front of the hardware store, and a boy, about ten, I guess, overalled and barefooted, stood beside it holding the lines, a piece of candy sticking out of his mouth like a cigar.

  “Sam,” Jim said. “Why don’t I go back to the old town and check for Rangers there? I’ll meet you after you buy the supplies.”

  “All right,” Sam said, and Jim turned his horse and trotted back the way we had come.

  We turned left a block and tied our horses in an alley on the north side of the business district. We walked through the narrow space between two buildings, blinking in the shade, then stepped into the main street, blinded again by the sun. We walked abreast down the street for a block, then turned to cross to Henry Koppel’s store on the opposite corner. Sam’s hand brushed his coat back, revealing the butts of his pistols. He pulled the coat closed and buttoned one button. The boy in front of the hardware store wrapped his lines around the brake lever and went inside.

  Koppel’s clerk was alone, sitting on a box behind the counter, fanning himself with a newspaper. He got up when we came through the door. “Hot enough for you?” he asked.

  “Hot enough,” Sam said.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, we need some things,” Sam said, placing his hands on the counter. “Let’s start with the tobacco.”

  “Smoking or chewing?”

  “Smoking. About eight sacks, I guess.”

  As the clerk turned to get the tobacco down from a shelf, two more men came in. One leaned against the wall beside the door and stuck his hands in his pockets. He started whistling. The other walked to the counter where we were, smiling. He nodded at Sam and put his hands on the counter, too. Then his right hand moved and touched Sam’s coat. “Don’t you have a pistol on you?” he asked.

  “Yes!” Sam cried, and he went for his gun. Seab and I did, too, and suddenly we were firing.

  “Don’t, boys! Hold up, boys!” the man screamed. He stumbled backward, clawing at his coat, trying to get to a gun, I guess. Then he fell, his coat open, his white shirt bloody.

  Now the man by the door had a gun in his hand, and we fired. We fired and fired. All sound was lost to me in the roar. My nose itched with the stink of gunpowder. The room was so full of the smoke of our firing that I couldn’t see the man by the door. I ran through the fog toward the daylight and bumped into Sam. He was running, too. The man who had stood by the door was on the floor now. He fired at us again, and I fired at him.

  Sam and I reached the sidewalk, gasping. Sam’s right hand was dangling at his side, dripping blood. Several fingers seemed to be missing. Then Seab dashed through the door, too, and the man who had been on the floor by the door stood up and fired a shot after him.

  The street was full of men, all firing. Three knelt on the sidewalk behind us as we ran, firing and firing. The man in black ran out of the barbershop and fired. A one-armed man stood in front of Koppel’s store now, firing as we ran down the block towa
rd the hardware store. A big man, a badge glinting on his chest, stepped around the corner in front of us and fired. I fired back at him, and he ducked around the corner again. The boy was holding the lines at the lumber-loaded wagon again. The horses were rearing and pulling in their traces, and the boy was scared, but he held onto the lines. A man ran out of the store and grabbed the lines and climbed to the wagon and stood there pulling on the lines, shouting something, and the boy ran into the store.

  We bent low and ran into the street, trying to cross to our horses. Bullets raised puffs of dust all around us, and we fired back at nothing in particular. We made it to the shady passage between the buildings and ran on to the alley, and turned toward our horses. Someone fired a single shot at us from the back of one of the stores, and someone at the livery stable fired several rifle shots, then stopped. I saw his face above the stable fence, looking at his rifle. It was jammed or empty, I guess. Seab fired at him, and he ran away.

  We had almost reached the horses when Sam screamed, “God!” and I knew he was hit again. I turned and saw a tall man silhouetted against the bright street at the end of the alley. I fired at him, and he ducked behind the building. Sam was falling. I grabbed him under the arms and pulled him toward the horses. Seab was untying his horse when he fell, his face gone, like Arkansas’s. He sprawled in the dust, his arms and legs spread like a star.

  I held Sam up with one arm and untied his mare. The man at the end of the alley, the one who killed Seab, I guess, was on his knee, aiming. He fired but missed us. I ignored him and lifted Sam to Jenny’s back and wrapped the fingers of his good hand around the reins. His coat and shirt were bloody. I untied and mounted my own horse, then grabbed Sam’s arm and held it to keep him from falling. “Can you ride?” I shouted, and I thought he nodded. I swatted Jenny on the haunch and held onto Sam’s arm while we rode toward the end of the alley. The man at the other end was firing. A bullet sang off the stone of the building beside us, but we made it to the street, and I turned us right, toward Brushy Creek. I let go of Sam’s arm, but he started weaving, so I grabbed him again.