Death in the Black Patch

by Wilson, Bruce;

  “After we eat some of your ma’s good cookin’, I’ll head on out there and help ’em chop weeds. And since you’ve been standin’ watch all mornin’, I want you to have some fun this afternoon. How’s that sound?” Clarence smiled at his pa and said he thought it was a good idea. Art lifted his son and threw him over his shoulder. Then he carried the laughing, squirming boy into the house.

  * * *

  J.D. leaned on his hoe, a nasty smirk on his face as he watched Art and his boy. “You bastard,” he muttered, and yanked his hat from his head, looking around for Charley. He spotted him working a row near the far end of the field, chopping at the weeds, creating clouds of dust that caked in the dark rings of sweat on his work shirt. Damned fool’s workin’ too hard for the little bit of money that farmer pays us, he thought. And I need a drink.

  He dropped his hoe and walked between the plants, crossing the rows they’d already finished to where the horses grazed in the grass. He found his jug under their coats next to a tree and took a quick, bitter sip. The sun was heating up the late morning sky, and the shade should have felt good, but J.D. found little pleasure in it. He just wanted to sit in the grass and sip from his jug. He would have let Charley do all the work, but he saw West come out onto the porch. Damn farmer never lets us rest, he thought as he put his jug away and went back to work.

  Art grabbed another hoe and walked across the yard. He joined the two farmhands in the tobacco field, handed each of them a ham sandwich and said, “Go ahead and take a couple minutes to eat. I’ll get started down at the first row ’cause I wanna be done with this by dark.” He walked away and started chopping at the near side of the field, clearing one row for every two of theirs.

  They worked another three hours and finished the entire field. The warm morning air had given way to an intense heat as the day headed toward dusk.

  After taking a drink of water from his pail, Art gave it to Charley and then reached into his overall pocket, pulled out some coins and handed them to J.D.

  “Here’s your money,” he said. “I’m glad you finished today.” He waited a minute and then added, “I won’t be needin’ your help anytime soon.”

  J.D. counted the money in his open hand and looked up at Art. Charley thanked Art for the money, noticed J.D.’s frown, and walked toward the horses.

  “Are you sayin’ you ain’t gonna use us no more?” asked J.D.

  “That’s what I’m sayin’. If you need to find more work, you’ll have to look someplace else.” Art tried to keep his voice calm, afraid that if he spoke too harshly, J.D. and Charley might convince the Night Riders to raid his farm. “I just don’t need any more help right now, that’s all.”

  J.D. watched Charley mount his horse and said, “I guess we’ll be movin’ on then.” He put the money in his pocket and glared at Art. “There’s somethin’ I been wantin’ to tell you, and now that you don’t need us, I guess I can say it ’cause it don’t matter what you think.” A menacing grin broke out on his ruddy face. “Your cousin is a dead man, or he might as well be, ’cause the Night Riders are gonna hit him next week. They know what he’s plannin’ to do with his crop, and they know that too many folks’ll wanna do what he does. So he’s gonna get hit.” He paused to let the news sink in, his face now red and his eyes burning in their sockets. “Now, you can warn him if you want, but if he’s waitin’ for us when we get there, we’ll know you told him, and we’ll come after you and your family. Get it?”

  The threat made Art’s blood turn to ice and his heart hammer in his chest. He was afraid of J.D., but he refused to show it. He inhaled slowly and spoke, his words strong. “You’ve got one minute to get off my farm and out of my sight, and if you and your friends do anythin’ to my cousin or any of his family, then I’ll be comin’ after you first. Do you understand what I’m tellin’ you J.D.?”

  J.D. was surprised by the farmer’s resolve, but he had never backed down from a fight. “You think I’m afraid of you? Why, you ain’t tough enough to kick me off this farm.” He started to reach for the gun in his pocket, but paused to measure the effect of his words. When he opened his mouth to speak again, Art slipped the pistol from his own pocket, keeping it at his side.

  “You got anythin’ more to say, you better say it from your horse, ’cause your minute has about run out.”

  Charley kicked his horse in the flanks and raced to the road, not waiting for J.D. Walking quickly toward his horse, J.D. thought: One of these days I’ll find a way to make you sorry you ever pulled that gun on me. He didn’t look back as he followed Charley down the road.

  Art watched them until they rode out of sight beyond the trees, and then he began trembling. The small reserve of strength he’d drawn on to face-down J.D. rushed out of him like a flash flood. He felt his stomach churn and fought back the urge to vomit. Art slipped the gun back into his pocket and bent over, spitting the rusty taste of fear into the dirt at his feet.

  When he finally caught his breath, he stood up straight and walked like a drunk across the ground toward the house. I gotta tell Wes, he thought, but not today. That Night Rider bastard said next week, so I got at least ’til Sunday. He took a drink straight from the bucket at the pump and then dunked his head into the water. He kept it under, holding his breath and hoping to drown his fear of J.D. and the Night Riders. When his lungs could wait no longer, he stood up, the water streaming down his face and from his hair, drenching his sweat-stained shirt. He sucked in great gulps of air and felt tears pouring from his eyes, mixing with the cold water. That was close. I could’ve killed him. But that wouldn’t have helped Wes or me.

  * * *

  A rind of moon cast a dim blue glow on the porch as Wes stood guard late Thursday. The night breeze felt good on his skin, but did little to cool the furnace that was burning in his head.

  He knew what the risks were if he chose to take the money from Jones or if he decided to join the Association. But why do I need to make a choice? he thought. What happens if I do nothin’ until my crop’s in the dryin’ barn? This seemed to calm him, and he noticed the peaceful sound of the crickets. He relaxed a little and set the shotgun against the wall, breathing slowly, letting the darkness in the shadow of the porch roof cover him like one of his ma’s quilts. Three choices, he thought. He felt good, better than he had in a long time. He closed his eyes for just a moment, but they popped open when he heard footsteps on the kitchen floor.

  Wes sat up straight on the bench and turned toward the sound. He waited and saw Anthie peek through the opening door.

  “Pa,” he said,” I gotta talk to you. I remember the name I heard the Night Riders say last week.”

  Wes rose up, his body rigid and his ears ready to listen.

  “The name was Charley.”

  Chapter 20

  Friday, May 18

  The air was damp and cool, and the light from the barely risen sun was out of focus, blurred by the thin, gray clouds spread across the sky. Wes slept on the porch bench, bundled up in a blanket; the shotgun lay across his legs. Lying on the porch next to him, Rufus appeared lost in another world as he licked at his paws, occasionally lifting his head to watch the birds flitting into the yard and landing softly in the dust.

  The stillness seemed to engulf Wes, to wrap itself around him like another blanket, yet he was not at peace. He’d dreamed that his body was burning up from the inside. Even now, the demons played with his sanity as the thoughts smoldered in his brain, each lick of flame flaring out the name “Charley.” When Anthie had given him the name of the Night Rider, all of his thoughts about choices became dim coals, cast aside into distant corners of his mind. Throughout the night, he’d grappled with the thoughts that Art must have known he’d hired a Night Rider and that Charley was the source of the threat.

  For an instant, when the barn door creaked, he thought his son was one of the raiders and nearly lifted the gun toward him. He caught himsel
f before pulling the trigger, but the incident shocked him. Anthie set the milk pail down and shut the door. I could’ve shot him, Wes thought. The heat inside his head didn’t go away, but his heart slowed down as he took deeper breaths. I gotta get things under control.

  Wes stood up and stepped off the porch, holding the gun by the barrel. He just didn’t feel good. His head throbbed, and his back was sore. The gentle sigh of the breeze washing across his face brought some relief, but it wasn’t enough. He went over to the pump and drank some of the cold water, pouring the rest of it on his head, relishing the iciness of it as it ran down his neck and onto his shoulders. He looked over toward the barn. Then he picked up the gun and walked out to the cornfield. Looking up at the gray, cotton sky, he thought it would probably rain.

  Standing near the rows of young plants, Wes shivered as the breeze blew across his wet shoulders. He watched Rufus run off toward the edge of the field and disappear into the woods. Wes stretched his back, feeling the bones grind against each other. He heard the dog bark and figured he was chasin’ after a rabbit or a coon. Sometimes I wish I was a dog, he thought. They don’t have to worry about protectin’ their farm, or sellin’ their crop either. And they don’t have to wonder if their cousin’s been lyin’ to ’em about hirin’ a damned Night Rider. This last thought flared like an ember in the wind. Why wouldn’t he tell me? Then the ember turned into a flame. He had to know. What else hasn’t he told me?

  Wes stood, rigid as a fence post, staring at the woods, disconnected from anything but his thoughts. A whisper of cool air brushed his ear, but he fought it off, unwilling to turn from the burning questions. A second soft ripple of wind interrupted his thoughts about Art, reminding him he was losing control. His thoughts were not his own. He sighed deeply and looked up at the gray sky again, searching for the safety of his mask. “I can’t think,” he mumbled. “I wish it would just all go away.”

  He turned back toward the house and noticed the faint ribbon of smoke from the chimney disappearing into the grayness of the morning. He looked toward the east and could barely see the sun, lost as it was in the ever-thickening blanket of clouds. I think I’m ready to face ’em now.

  From the barn, Anthie watched his pa. I’m glad he’s not on the porch. Now I won’t have to talk to him ’cause somethin’s wrong with him, and I’m gonna stay as far away as I can. He walked back to the house, wishing he could become invisible.

  * * *

  Well before mid-morning, Wes had barely recovered from his fiery night. The demon dogs were quiet, but they were still there. He could feel them and knew they were just waiting. As far as his family could tell, he looked as normal as he had on Thursday. He’d teased his younger children at breakfast again and kept his anger and confusion hidden from Zora and the older ones. Connie and Mary Lula seemed unconcerned; they went about their chores as they always had, and Wes appreciated their indifference. He could tell Zora was being cautious with her words and her interactions with him. She spoke little and watched him a lot. But Wes thought that Anthie knew he was covering something. The boy hadn’t looked at him during breakfast, and he’d left the table to start his chores as soon as his plate was clean. Wes felt his son’s doubt and anger and knew he should do something about it. But now, as he stood looking out the kitchen window, he thought, I don’t have time to deal with him. I gotta figure out why Art is lyin’ to me. And I gotta meet with Jones, get the papers from him and keep him the hell away from the farm in case some of the Night Riders are around. And then I gotta…His thoughts finally gave way to weakness while another flaring ember—one of hate and mistrust—loomed somewhere in his head.

  After dinner, Wes headed out to the barn to get the mule. He wanted to find Jones before he got to the farm. I don’t need anyone seein’ him at my place, he thought, especially Zora; and I ain’t ready to talk about this with her yet. But when he led the animal out of the barn, she was standing on the porch.

  “Where you headed?” she said.

  “I need to go into town,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “I wanna talk to Mark about somethin’.” This second lie rattled the chain that was keeping the dogs at bay.

  Zora stared at him, searching his eyes for the truth, and saw only the lines and grooves in his tired, empty face. Wes stood in front of the mule, looking at her through vacant eyes. She started to say something about being careful, but instead just shook her head, turned away and walked into the house.

  Wes pulled himself up onto the mule’s back and rode up the lane. The lies lay heavily on his shoulders, his eyes constantly scanning the horizon. He’d only been riding a short time when he spotted Jones on his bay. Wes stopped, afraid of being seen, and waited for him in the shade of some trees. When Jones drew close, Wes called out, “Over here,” and led him into the glade.

  Wes slid down from the mule’s back and dropped the reins, letting the animal chew at the grass. Jones dismounted his horse. “I was just headed to your place, Mr. Wilson. I didn’t expect to meet you on the road.” He held onto the reins, not sure what Wes intended to do.

  “I wanted to keep our meetin’ private,” Wes said. “People might be watchin’, and there ain’t no need for anyone else to know what we’re doin’.”

  “Okay, Mr. Wilson,” he said, reaching into his pocket, still watching Wes.

  “You said you’d bring the papers today. You got ’em?”

  “I do, sir,” Jones said, handing the papers to Wes. “They’re all in order, of course. I’ve discussed the details with my headquarters, and they are quite pleased that you...” Jones paused, cautious. “May I say they are anxious to conclude an arrangement with you,” he said as Wes lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.

  “Like I said last time, I’m gonna need to look these papers over. I ain’t gonna be ready to sign nothin’ ‘til next week. Is this all there is?” he said, glancing at the two sheets of paper.

  “Yes sir, Mr. Wilson. Our company tries to keep things simple. You’ll see that we’ve committed to buy your entire crop when delivered to our warehouse at the end of the harvest. We’ll pay you nine cents a pound at that time.” Jones paused, a little afraid of what Wilson might do when he heard the next condition. “There is one more thing, however.”

  Wes looked up from the contract and glared at Jones. “What one more thing?”

  “Well, sir, this offer is only good until next Monday, May 21st. If the agreement isn’t signed by that date, then the offer will be rescinded.”

  Wes continued glaring at the man, holding back his anger. He folded the sheets in half and then in half again and shoved them into his pocket. “I’ll let you know on Monday. Will you still be in town then, or will you have to ride in from Mayfield?”

  “Oh, I’m staying in Lynnville this weekend, so I’ll be able to come out here on Monday morning.”

  “No!” yelled Wes. “Don’t do that, I don’t want you anywhere near my farm. I’ll come find you if I decide to sign your papers. If you don’t see me Monday by noon, then you can head back to Mayfield or Lexington or wherever you came from, ’cause that’ll mean I ain’t signin’ anythin’.” Wes waited to see how Jones would react and was surprised at the man’s calmness. Jones started to reply, but Wes kept talking. “One more thing, Mr. Jones. What we talked about last time, about you keepin’ your mouth shut, still holds. If any word of this gets out now or later, even if I sign the papers, I’m comin’ after you. Do you understand that?”

  “I do, Mr. Wilson,” his voice trembling. “I certainly do.”

  The two men stood in the wet, knee-high grass, each waiting for the other to speak. Jones broke the silence. “Of course, if you signed today, we would be very pleased and would of course continue to keep our arrangement confidential. Nevertheless, Monday is the deadline.”

  “It won’t be any sooner than Monday, Jones,” said Wes. He walked over to where the mule was grazing and pulled himself up onto its
back. “If you don’t see me by noon, don’t come lookin’ for me.” With that, he rode out of the glade and headed home.

  * * *

  Anthie walked out of the kitchen onto the porch. The rain had changed from a drifting mist to a steady shower, enshrouding the house and yard in a curtain of water. The sun no longer peeked through the western tree line. If the moon was going to rise tonight, Anthie thought, I wouldn’t be able to see it, let alone any Night Riders on a raid. He rested the barrel of the shotgun in the crook of his arm and walked to the edge of the porch, gazing out into the rain in the direction of the tobacco. “Why would any raiders wanna be out tonight?” he said to himself.

  Pulling the collar of his coat up around his neck, he sat down and stretched his long legs out in front of him. He could hear his sisters talking in the kitchen as they washed up the supper dishes and was glad that he didn’t have to do that chore. But I’d sure trade with ’em if they ever wanted to milk that dumb cow before sunrise, he thought.

  He knew he should stay alert while he was on guard, but with the noise of the rain and the blinding darkness, that was not an easy task. Soon his thoughts turned to Sudie. He hadn’t seen her in a week; he’d dreamed about her when he slept and thought about her when he was awake. But thoughts and dreams couldn’t take the place of holding her hand or seeing the sparkle in her eyes. His heart felt warm, and he thought, Someday I’m gonna marry that girl. Even the clattering of the rain on the roof couldn’t interrupt his musing, but when his pa stepped out onto the porch, the sweet thoughts disappeared.

  “How’s everythin’ out here, son?”

  “There ain’t nothin’ happenin’, Pa. It’s too dark and too wet.” Anthie spoke without emotion, wishing his pa would just go back into the house and leave him alone so he could recover his Sudie dream.