“Shut up, Charley. We ain’t dead yet. I got a plan that’ll maybe get us some more money. I’m still workin’ on the details, but by the time we get over to Art West’s place, I’ll have it figured out. Let’s get goin’; I wanna be there before it gets too late.”
J.D. got up on his horse and rode the animal out of the woods. Charley pulled his horse by the reins out into the sun. He climbed into the saddle and followed J.D. up the road toward Art’s farm.
* * *
Art’s corn and wheat fields were in good shape; he’d spent most of yesterday walking the rows and clearing away what few weeds had found a home in the dark dirt. The garden he tended while Mollie healed was also progressing. The sweet corn, snap bean, okra and potato leaves grew larger every day, and the wire fence he’d built around the garden was keeping the rabbits away. He’d even caught a rabbit in one of his traps, and they’d enjoyed it for last night’s supper. Yesterday had been a good day, and despite his worries about Wes, he had slept well.
Today wasn’t going as well. After milking the cow and feeding the hogs and chickens, he and Clarence went out to the tobacco field and found weeds in most of the rows. The pesky plants weren’t taking over, but there were far too many of them for him and his son to clear out by themselves.
“Can we get ’em all, Pa?” With a confident smile, Clarence looked up at his father.
Art stood at the end of one of the worst rows, his hands shoved down in the pockets of his overalls and the brim of his hat drooped over the irritated look on his face. He walked to his right and checked out the next few rows. Taking the same pose and frown as his pa, Clarence followed him, looking at the weeds.
“I wish we could, son, but I think we’re gonna need some help. You an’ me an’ Thressie could probably get a lot of ’em, but we’d have to be out here every day from sunup to sundown. Even then we’d be doin’ it for a month and then have to start all over to get the ones growin’ up behind us.” He shook his head slowly and then moved further along to the right toward the tree line and found those rows were the same. “Yep, son, we’re gonna need some help.” I just can’t get a break, he thought.
Art looked down at his son and smiled when he noticed the boy’s posture and the innocence that showed through the frown he’d forced on his face. “But standin’ here talkin’ about weeds don’t get ’em out of the ground. So, here’s what we’re gonna do. Let’s go back to the barn and get us a couple of hoes and a pail of drinkin’ water. Then we’ll get on back out here and see how many of them weeds we can kill before supper. That’ll help me figure out how much help we’re gonna need. What do you think, son? Does that sound like a good plan?”
Clarence’s face wrinkled in a childish frown as he turned from looking at the weeds toward his pa. “I think that’s a good plan, Pa.”
Art reached down for Clarence’s hand and took it in his own. A feeling of pride and comfort nearly brought him to tears as they headed back to the barn, kicking the dirt clods at the edge of the field. Some of the dust clung to their sweaty arms, but without a breeze, most of it just settled back down on the ground. Art thought about how the rain had been welcome a few days ago, how it had drenched the plants with its healing moisture. He knew, though, that it had also watered the weeds that were invading the field.
On the way back to the house, Art’s attention was drawn to the road when he saw two riders heading toward the farm. It’s J.D. and Charley, he thought.
“You go on up to the house and see if you can help your ma,” he said to Clarence. “I gotta do somethin’.”
“Okay, Pa,” he said and ran off across the barnyard.
As usual, J.D. was riding in front and Charley lagged behind him. The closer they got to him the easier it was to see their faces. Even shadowed by his black felt hat, J.D.’s dark, unshaven face broadcast his smugness, his arrogance. J.D. always made Art feel uncomfortable, but Art got along with Charley and often wondered how two men whose personalities were so different had become partners. As they approached, Art could see that Charley looked troubled, maybe even afraid. His face was gloomy and sallow, and his sunken, bloodshot eyes made Art think about a dead man he’d once seen. These two are Night Riders, and I don’t want ’em anywhere near my family.
They stopped their horses a few yards short of where he stood. When J.D. spoke, Art could tell that he was keeping his arrogance in check. His feigned courtesy was so out of character that if Art wasn’t so afraid of him, he might have laughed; but he didn’t.
“Good afternoon, Mr. West.”
Art acknowledged him with a nod of his head.
“We were wonderin’ if you might have a few days’ work for us to do. We ain’t been here since late last week and thought maybe you could use our help, your missus bein’ sick and all.”
“It might be that I could use your help, but you don’t need to concern yourself with my wife or any of my family.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. West. I meant no disrespect. But we’d surely like to get some work today. We’re sort of in a bind and need some money.”
J.D.’s words were cordial, but the truth of his feelings, the agony of having to beg, showed in his wrinkled brow and clenched jaw. Art knew that he was dealing with a dangerous man, but he needed help with the weeds in the tobacco, and these fellas could solve that problem.
Art watched Charley fidgeting in his saddle, wiping his face with an old rag.
“We might even be willin’ to tell you somethin’ important about your family if you’d hire us for the day,” said J.D.
Art looked from J.D. to Charley and saw him wince at the words. Charley coughed and wiped his face again.
“I’m not interested in hearin’ anythin’ you got to say about my family right now, but if you wanna work, I’ll pay you.” He glared at J.D., using every bit of control he had not to reach into his pocket and pull out the pistol he’d been carrying since he and Wes had met last week. “So, do you wanna work or not?”
J.D. hesitated for a moment, not wanting to seem desperate, and said they’d take the work. Art told them he’d pay them for the rest of the day and the next if they could clear the tobacco field of weeds. There was no handshaking on the deal; the two hired hands just rode on to the barn to pick up the tools. Art followed them down the lane and watched them as they headed out to the field. At least that chore will be done, he thought, and I can be done with those two for good.
Art waited until he was sure they were working and then walked toward the house, wondering if he should tell Wes the truth about them before the meeting.
* * *
John Stanley looked back over his shoulder at Irene as she followed him off the porch and into the yard. Laughing and whooping like an Indian, he ran around to the far side of the pump, keeping his eyes on her and the broomstick she clutched in her hand. Screeching his name, she jumped off the porch, waving the stick like a saber, and chased him around the well.
“You’re mean, John Stanley, you’re—” She pulled up short of the pump and dropped the stick.
“What’s the matter? Are you scared of me? Come and get me, c’mon.” He stopped his taunting when she didn’t move. “What’s wrong with you, Irene?”
She looked at her brother and then pointed at the man sitting on a tall horse at the head of the lane. John Stanley stared at her for a moment and then turned toward the road. In the bright afternoon sun, the bay glowed red and stood rigid, like the soldier statues in Mayfield. John Stanley didn’t recognize the rider at all. The man wore a funny-looking round hat that made his head look like a newel post on a stair rail. When he saw that the rider was wearing a suit not at all like his own tattered overalls, he realized it was the man who’d given him the coin, the tobacco buyer Mr. Jones.
“Go in the house and find out where Pa is,” he said to his sister. When she didn’t move right away, he said it again, and she turned and dashed int
o the house. John Stanley ran toward Jones and stopped a few feet short of the horse.
“Mr. Jones,” he said, gasping for air, “I think you oughta wait right there. I ain’t sure my pa wants to see you.”
“Well good afternoon to you too, young Mr. Wilson.” Looking down at the slight boy from the saddle of the tall horse gave Jones a sense of power. “Although you seem quite sure of what your pa might want, I’m certain that he’ll want to talk to me.” He waited a moment while the boy panted. “Perhaps when you’ve recovered your breath, you could walk back to the house and get him. I’ll even wait here, as you’ve suggested.”
Looking at Jones’s face, John Stanley saw the same falseness in the man’s eyes he’d seen the week before. He didn’t trust Jones and was pretty sure his pa didn’t either. He nodded at the man, turned and raced back to the house. Irene had just stepped off the porch, headed for the barn.
“Ma says he’s sleepin’ in the barn. If he is, I don’t wanna have to wake him up.”
“I’ll do it,” said John Stanley. “You go on back inside and tell Ma that Mr. Jones is back and she and the others oughta stay inside. Tell her that I’ll get Pa to talk to him.” This time he didn’t have to say any more.
John Stanley walked from the sun-filled yard into the darkness of the barn. He spotted his pa sleeping on a pile of straw against the west wall. Both the cow and the mule acknowledged the boy’s presence with grunts, but he paid them no attention. He crept toward his pa’s makeshift bed and stopped a yard short of him. Wes wasn’t moving, and John Stanley could smell the foul odor that seemed to rise from him like steam. His pa’s face was pale and dirty, and there was blood on his cheeks. At first, John Stanley was worried; he even thought his pa might be dead. If Wes hadn’t snored just then, the boy would probably have groaned and run for his ma.
“Pa,” he whispered. He didn’t want to have to shake him awake; he’d done that only once before, and he still remembered how his butt hurt after he’d been paddled. “Pa,” he said again louder, “Mr. Jones is here, and he wants to talk to you.”
“Huh? What’s that?” Wes opened his gritty eyes and tried to focus on his son.
“I said Mr. Jones is here to see you. I told him to wait out at the road, but he says he wants to talk to you. Please, Pa.”
Wes sat up and leaned back against the barn wall. “Mr. Jones is here?”
“Yeah, Pa. Do you want me to tell him to go away? I can do it, Pa. I don’t like him very much.”
“No, don’t do that, son. It’s okay, I’ll see him, but I need to wake up.” Wes tried to stand up and bumped his elbow against the wall. He winced, but didn’t say anything. He looked around the barn, trying to orient himself. Shaking his head to clear the sleep from his brain, he told his son to go on back to the house. “I’ll go talk to him. I want you to tell your ma to stay in the house.”
“I already told Irene to do that, Pa. Can’t I come out there with you?”
“No, son. You done good, but I need to see him alone. You go on now, and I’ll see you back at the house in a bit.” The mask felt heavy, its agonizing weight dragging him down.
John Stanley was disappointed. Wes could see it in the look on his face and the way his shoulders slumped as he turned and left the barn. Wes loved his son and knew the boy wanted to help, but he didn’t want him to see or hear what might happen to Jones.
Rubbing the sore elbow and favoring his numb, buzzing left leg, Wes limped out of the barn, squinting against the glaring sunlight. He glanced left toward the house and saw Zora standing in the doorway with her hand on John Stanley’s shoulder. When she turned and drew the boy into the house, Wes headed down the lane toward the road.
He watched Jones dismount the bay and brush the dust from his clothes. Wes wasn’t sure what he was going to say or do to Jones. He wondered if he would listen to the man’s annoying words or just beat the hell out of him for lying. I guess I’ll know what I’m gonna do when he opens his mouth, he thought.
By the time he got to the road, Wes had worked the numbness out of his leg. When Jones extended his hand to shake, Wes deliberately ignored the gesture and rubbed his sore elbow instead. Jones deftly kept his hand moving and took off his hat, trying to cover his awkwardness at being ignored.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Wilson. When we spoke last week I promised to visit you again as soon as I returned to town so that we could talk about your tobacco and my company’s offer. I must say that it’s a fine—”
“Shut the hell up!”
Jones stepped back, bumping into his horse, frightened by the strength and anger in Wes’s voice. He felt as if he’d been physically struck and nearly wet himself.
“But sir, I—”
“I said shut the hell up. You need to stop talkin’ and do some listenin’ if you wanna get away from here without havin’ them flappin’ lips of yours turned into some kind of shredded meat.”
Wes moved close to Jones, forcing him against the flanks of his horse. Jones cowered in front of the taller man and nearly gagged at the fetid smell of Wes’s breath. He tried to slide away from the horse, but Wes moved with him, preventing his escape. Wes raised his arms and put his hands against the horse, grabbing onto the saddle and trapping Jones in a frightening, stinking embrace.
“Are you ready to listen?”
Jones whipped his head from side to side, trying to avoid the smell and the terrible closeness of Wes’s gnarly face. Not wanting to inhale any more of the foul air than necessary and unable to use his suddenly dry throat, he just nodded. Wes held onto the saddle until he was convinced that Jones was not going to run. Jones’s eyes were squeezed closed, and sweat dripped down his face. Wes felt the man trembling and only released him from the trap when he realized that Jones had stopped breathing.
“Look at me, Jones.” Wes stepped back a foot or so. “Open your eyes and look at me.”
Jones peered out the side of his face, looked with one eye and saw that Wes had moved away from him. He turned toward Wes, keenly aware of the dirt and sores on the farmer’s face, the deep furrows in his cheeks. The tight knots of his jaws were more frightening than anything Jones had ever seen. He knew he couldn’t fight the man, and any chance of escaping the trap he was in seemed impossible. In that moment, he had only one concern, and it was not his job or Wilson’s tobacco or even his own pride. He wanted to survive. So he swallowed hard and said, “Please, Mr. Wilson. Let me speak.”
Wes took another step back, giving Jones room enough to move away from his horse. He knew he had his attention, and he wanted him to be afraid. The man was still shaking, and his starched white collar was dark with sweat. Wes leaned in closer to his face, glaring directly into Jones’s eyes.
“I’m doin’ the talkin’ right now. I want you to listen, ’cause I’m gonna ask you a question and I want you to think real hard about your answer.” He didn’t blink or move away until the man nodded his head. Wes backed away from Jones and reached into his pocket and pulled out his pistol. Jones gasped and bumped into the horse. “Don’t worry,” Wes said, “I ain’t gonna use this on you...yet.”
Keeping the weapon in sight, but at his side, Wes looked once more at Jones’s face and asked, “Why did you tell my brother that I’d made a deal to sell you my tobacco?” He watched as the man’s eyes shifted between his face and the gun. Wes could see that Jones was thinking.
Jones stood a little straighter and took a shallow breath. When he finally spoke, his words wheezed out of his fear-squeezed lungs.
“Mr. Wilson, I—” He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. “Mr. Wilson, I must confess that I was encouraged by our conversation that day, and I let my enthusiasm get the better of me. Perhaps I was unwise in sharing the information, but I truly believed that we had an agreement.”
“No we didn’t, and you know it,” Wes said, raising the pistol. Jones watched him, glad that Wilson hadn’t yet
pointed the weapon at him.
“I know it was imprudent of me to break a confidence, and I’m sorry for that. But I was so excited about buying your crop. I wasn’t aware at the time that doing something so...foolish...would mean trouble for you.” Jones began to believe his own lie and pushed on. “If I’ve caused you any difficulties, Mr. Wilson, I’d truly like to make amends.” He kept his eyes focused on Wes’s face, but was keenly aware of the pistol. “Perhaps you’d be interested in hearing what my company has asked me to do.” Wes was silent, so Jones continued.
“I have been authorized to keep the nine cents per pound offer on the table for you alone for at least another week. We’ve already reduced it to seven cents for any new purchases, but my company would still pay you nine cents a pound for your crop.” Jones would be hard-pressed to get his boss to accept the deal, but thought he still might have a chance to convince him if he had a contract in hand.
Jones stopped talking. In the past, he’d have gone on until he’d run out of words. But today, more afraid than he’d ever been, his silence worked in his favor. Wes was intrigued—because the price hadn’t dropped and because Jones had apologized.
“Go on.”
“Again, sir, I apologize for placing you in a difficult spot. It was surely never my intent. But I hope you understand that this offer is intended as reparation for my lack of sensitivity and, more importantly, because my company wants your tobacco.”
Wes slipped the gun into his pocket, and Jones relaxed a bit, watching Wes’s eyes. Wes still didn’t trust Jones and thought he might be lying. But if he could get the offer in writing, even if he didn’t sign the contract until next week, he believed he’d have Jones and the company where he wanted them.
Death in the Black Patch Page 24