Death in the Black Patch

by Wilson, Bruce;

  * * *

  Wes willed his heavy eyelids open as he stood in the open door of his barn. The rain and wind had let up a bit, but the cloudy sky blocked out the moonlight. He yawned deeply and tried again to keep his eyes open, but he couldn’t. Struggling to stay awake, he slid to his knees and leaned against the door. He thought he saw a red glow across the road in the trees just as he passed out.

  Chapter 22

  Sunday Morning, May 20

  Even though the thunderstorms were moving off to the east, the storm in Wes’s head raged out of control, blowing with such force that he knew it would all end soon; it had to. After only a few hours of dreamless sleep, he’d been jolted awake by the pounding thought of what to do. The money Jones had offered was very tempting. If he took the deal, he could buy a horse and provide much more for his family, and that would make him feel like a man. On the surface, the bank offer seemed solid as well. But no one had seen anything in writing to ensure the farmers, and he was not going to trust that group of men at the meeting. Finally, as the last peal of thunder faded away, Wes reached a decision about his tobacco. The painful tension of the past weeks seemed to flow from his body like wind through a knothole. His shoulders sagged, his cheeks softened and his once-racing thoughts slowed down as he closed his eyes and fell asleep on a pile of hay.

  When he woke up, he felt calm, as if surrounded by a peaceful cloud. He didn’t know what would happen next because of his decision, but he felt ready to face whatever lay ahead. When he heard the cow rustling in her stall, he picked up the pail and opened the gate. Pulling on her udders, he leaned his head into her side and relaxed as the pail filled. When he finished, he carried the pail to the porch and sat on the bench. From the doorway, Anthie stared at his pa.

  “Let me have it, Pa,” he said, taking the pail from Wes and silently returning to the kitchen. Why is he milkin’ the cow? Nothin’ makes sense anymore when it comes to Pa.

  After he’d washed up, Wes sat on the bench. He gazed at the glow of the rising sun on the dwindling clouds and leaned back against the wall. For now, even though he felt the heat of Art’s lies, a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders, and all the other worries would have to wait. Yet he knew he still needed to get at the root of the lies and find out the truth about the Night Riders. Can’t do anythin’ about that until church, he thought. Almost surprised by his own calmness, he relaxed and watched a few birds fly into the yard as Rufus crawled out from under the house.

  Zora had waited up for Wes all night. She’d checked on him a few times, but he never came in from the barn. Taking the milk pail from Anthie, she looked out the kitchen window onto the porch and could just see Wes’s stretched-out legs. She pulled a big mug down from the shelf and filled it with coffee, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and carried the cup out to the porch. She approached him cautiously, and he turned toward her as she pulled the door closed.

  “I thought you might like some of this.” He took the mug in his hands, feeling the heat of it, and realized that it had been a long time since he’d felt anything other than confusion and anger.

  Wes scooted over to make room for Zora on the bench and patted the empty spot at his side. She sat down quickly, not wanting to miss the opportunity to be close. He shook his head when she asked if he was cold, yet she could feel the chill coming off his arm as he draped it around her shoulder. He turned to her, and she looked into his blue eyes and saw that much of the redness was gone. His face was softer, more relaxed, and she could see that something was different. Zora felt a fluttering in her chest and a tenderness toward Wes that had been absent for over a week. The hard feelings she’d carried began to fade like fog drifting away in the morning sun. She wanted to cry with joy; instead, she turned her face into his chest, reveling in the smell of him. They stayed that way on the bench for a while, silently watching the sunrise. Then, as the first rays of the sun peeked over the trees and flooded the porch with light, he said, “I’ve made up my mind about the crop.”

  * * *

  On the way to church that morning, Zora drank in the warmth of the sun and of her husband’s strength as she gazed down the long, muddy road ahead. The azure sky, unblemished by clouds, was clear, the fresh air warm and damp. A riot of birds, glad to be away from the cover of trees, flew across the road over the soggy fields and the damp, velvet-like grass at the edge of the fields. In the back of the wagon, Mary Lula told the younger children a Bible story, the one about Noah and the flood, while Connie and Anthie sat quietly at the rear of the wagon, their feet hanging just above the gooey road.

  The mud-muted sounds of the mule pulling the wagon and the soothing sound of Mary Lula’s voice calmed Wes, but in some silent corner of his mind, the names Art and Charley had found root and were gaining strength. How could he keep this from me, pounded in his head over and over. His heart ached for peace with his cousin, but his mind told him he might never find it again. They’d been close forever, but now the gulf between them was growing wider and deeper.

  Even though they’d arrived early, the muddy churchyard was already crowded with horses and buggies. Some of the wagons were lined up to drop off families at the church porch.

  “Wes, you don’t need to drop us off,” said Zora. “We can walk from the field.”

  “No need for you and the girls to get muddy,” he said, trying to block the chatter in his head. “I’ll take you up there and then try to find a place for the wagon on the grass out back.” He clucked at the mule and slapped the reins as the wagon in front moved up. Clearly distracted, Wes looked around the growing crowd, trying to see if Art had shown up. What’ll he say when I ask about Charley?

  “I’ll stay with you, Pa,” said John Stanley as he stood behind Wes. “I don’t mind walkin’ in the mud.”

  “Oh no you won’t, young man,” Zora said softly. You’re comin’ inside with me. I want you sittin’ right next to me when I thank the Lord for takin’ care of you after you got hurt.”

  “But, Ma, I’m better now.”

  “That’s true, and you’re gonna stay better without gettin’ muddy,” she laughed. “I don’t want you slippin’ and fallin’ and bumpin’ your head again. It’s only been a week or so, and I’d like you to stay clean for a little while today.”

  Wes drove up to the porch, set the brake and jumped to the ground. He walked around to Zora’s side of the wagon, where Anthie was already standing by his ma’s side.

  “I’ll help you, Ma,” said Anthie, reaching up to help her down.

  “I’ll do it,” said Wes, pushing himself in front of Anthie, forcing his son to take a step back.

  Anthie moved out of the way, slipping in the mud. He glared at the back of his pa’s head for a moment. Then he turned and stalked away. Without looking back, Anthie wound his way between some wagons and disappeared into the woods at the edge of the churchyard. He ain’t nothin’ but a mean ol’ selfish son of a bitch, he thought as he stopped and leaned back against a tree. He couldn’t hold back the hot tears that streamed down his cheeks.

  Unaware of Anthie’s reaction, Wes set Zora on the porch and went around to the back of the wagon to help Connie finish unloading the rest of the family. Both Mary Lula and Zora had seen the look on Anthie’s face and knew that he wouldn’t be coming into the service. Zora didn’t know why Wes cut Anthie off or why the boy had taken it so hard, but it troubled her deeply that the two of them were still fighting.

  Wes climbed onto the wagon, reached under the seat and picked up his pistol. Slipping it into his pocket, he drove around to the field behind the church and stopped near the back tree line. He’d just set the brake and slid down from the seat when Art walked up behind him.

  “Mornin’, Wes,” he said.

  Surprised and unprepared, Wes turned and looked into the smiling face of his cousin. At the sight of him, Wes felt the heat of his anger spreading over his entire body. How can he stand
there smilin’, he thought, when he’s keepin’ the truth from me? Wes forced a smile, but the mask felt thin. He walked around to the front of the mule, trying to collect his thoughts, to get control of the situation. Art followed him and put a hobble on his horse. Then he stood waiting as Wes fussed with the mule’s bridle.

  “You goin’ inside this mornin’?” asked Art.

  Walking around the wagon, Wes tried again to put some distance between them, but Art followed closely. “Didn’t plan on it,” he finally said. “I got a lot to think about. Besides, I ain’t interested in gettin’ my feet washed by that yappy ol’ preacher.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.” Art said and then changed the subject. “How’d you do with the storm?”

  “Got some wheat down and a bit of floodin’, but we’ll be okay.” Wes was forcing the words out, aching to have some time to deal with the jumbled mess going on in his head.

  The air seemed heavy, the conversation flat as Art continued. “I got some damage too. Pretty much the same as you did. I’m gonna be busy for a while drainin’ off the water, but I’ll get it done.” Keenly aware of Wes’s coldness, he added, “There’s gonna be a lot of work for me and my boy since I let J.D. and Charley go.”

  At the mention of the farmhands’ names, a fire rose in Wes’s belly. He was speechless, stunned by Art’s news. He mumbled a few senseless words while his thoughts raced. He forced a cough to cover his confusion and then asked, “Why’d you fire ’em?”

  “Clarence is old enough to start doin’ a little more work around the farm, so when I went to pay them two for the work they’d done, I said I didn’t need ’em anymore. Then J.D. started gettin’ all mouthy, swearin’ and threatenin’ like, so I told him to get off my farm.” Art was quiet for a moment. “I had to pull my gun on J.D. to show him I meant business.” Art touched the pistol in his pocket. “Those two are up to somethin’, and it ain’t anythin’ good.” He hoped that would be enough for now, but he knew that Wes would need to hear about the raid planned for his farm as soon as they were away from the church.

  Wes watched Art’s face as he spoke, looking for something, anything that would tell him if his cousin was lying. But Art’s dark eyes seemed only to show real anger at the two men and nothing more. Wes noticed that most of the women and children had gone inside the building and that a small crowd of men was gathering at the edge of the field. “We gotta talk some more about J.D. and Charley, and it can’t wait ’til after church.”

  Art really didn’t want to have the conversation at all. He just wanted to warn Wes about the raid and leave it at that. If he said anything else then Wes would know he’d been holding back information. And that can’t happen, Art thought. It might mean the end of our friendship.

  “You’re right, we do need to talk about them,” said Art, “but I don’t know how much more I can add.”

  That’s another lie, Wes thought. I can’t believe a damn word he says. There’s a whole lot more he can add, and I intend to find out the truth.

  Ask him now, his mind screamed. He looked away, confused, not ready to confront Art. Drawing a breath through his nose, he said, “Why don’t we join them fellas and see what they know. We need to talk more, but not now.” They wandered toward the other edge of the church field. “But we better do more listenin’ than talkin’ ’cause you never know, some of ’em could be Night Riders.”

  At the mention of the raiders, Art felt his guts clenching. As they walked together, he fought to remain calm and keep his emotions under control. That’s all I’m gonna do is listen, he thought. I don’t know what to say anymore. Nothin’ good’s gonna happen if I open my mouth.

  The mid-morning sun was beginning to heat up the damp air as they walked through the grass toward the other men. They heard the singing starting up inside the church, but it was nothing more than background noise to their thoughts. Not a word passed between them as they neared the tree line, and neither of them saw Anthie watching from his hiding spot in the woods.

  * * *

  Inside the clapboard church, Zora was staring into an open hymnal, but, unlike the rest of the crowd, she wasn’t singing. The smile she’d brought into the building had faded. The vacant spaces to her left and right should have been occupied by her husband and son, but both of them were still outside, and she was not happy. She glanced down the pew and caught Mary Lula looking back in her direction. Her daughter wasn’t singing either, and after a moment the girl gently shrugged her shoulders and turned back to the front. Despite the change she’d seen in Wes that morning, Zora knew he would have nothing to do with the foot washing. She remained hopeful. Some things just take time.

  The rumbling of people sitting down in the pews shook Zora from her thoughts, and she sat down with a thump. John Stanley started to giggle, but a light tap on the back of his head from Connie squelched the laughter. Zora glanced over at the window, willing her husband to come inside and be with her, but her senses told her otherwise. Up on the platform, one of the deacons stood behind the pulpit and asked the congregation if there were any prayer requests. A few raised their hands. Zora bowed her head and prayed while the preacher droned on and on. That man is in love with his own voice, she thought. I wonder if the Lord don’t get tired of him sometimes. God’ll take care of all them needs, just like he’ll take care of ours.

  She took a moment to clear her mind of the preacher’s voice and focus on her missing son. I gotta be doin’ more for Anthie, she prayed. I’ve tried talkin’ to him. But he don’t wanna listen to me anymore. He can be a sweet boy sometimes, but right now he just seems to be lookin’ at all the bad things goin’ on, and he acts hurt and mean. I don’t know how to turn him around.

  She paused and looked down the row at her children, and her mind eased a bit. All of them except the baby were doing what she’d taught them—sitting quietly, their heads bowed, their eyes closed. Connie sat at the end of the pew, and Zora sighed as she realized that right now he was the man of the family. Ruthie was resting in Mary Lula’s arms, holding the small rag doll Connie had made for her. She’s lucky, Zora thought. She ain’t got nothin’ to worry about like us grown-ups do. She heard the preacher’s voice as he headed toward the end of his prayer. Finished with her own prayer, Zora looked toward the window again, wishing she could help Anthie and Wes. But an uneasy feeling filled her heart.

  The hot sun in the late morning sky glared through the windows on the east side of the room, and some of the older ladies fanned themselves as the air grew warmer. One of the deacons stood and walked to the other side of the room and opened a window. A light breeze wafted across the folks in the pews, and an almost imperceptible sigh drifted along with it. When he was certain he had their attention again, the preacher said, “Pay attention to the reading of God’s holy word.”

  Zora didn’t need to open her Bible. She knew the words told how Jesus had washed his disciples’ feet, humbling himself to them. Zora knew all about pride and how it can destroy; she saw it in Wes and feared it in herself. In the past two weeks, she’d stood up to Wes when he’d been wrong. She’d thought it was important that he realize what he was doing to the family. But in the days following her outbursts, she worried that she’d gone too far and made things worse. Perhaps it was her own pride that had created the tension in her family. She gripped the edges of the book in front of her, not seeing the words, but hoping that their message could be squeezed into her hands and from there into her heart. Then, quietly and tearlessly, she wept.

  * * *

  Anthie stood hidden among the trees and out of the sun, where the air was cooler. His shoes were muddy, and the cuffs of his pants were soiled, but he didn’t care. He felt only a growing anger as he watched his pa and cousin walk over to the men and boys gathered at the edge of the woods. He took off his hat and hooked it on a broken tree limb. Then he wiped his drenched brow with the back of his hand. As he stared through the trees, he found a comfort
able position and listened to the buzzing conversations of the farmers. He knew it wouldn’t be long before a jug of whiskey appeared in the crowd. Someone always brings a jug, he thought, and when Pa takes a drink, I’ll know he ain’t the fine, gentle father everyone thinks he is. He’s nothin’ but a liar and a drunk.

  * * *

  Wes stopped short of the clearing and away from the other men, still wanting to confront Art about the Night Riders, urgently hoping that his cousin would tell the truth. Art kept walking toward the center of the clearing, where most of the men stood around talking about the rain and their crops. He knew that in a crowd Wes couldn’t force him into a discussion that would probably be difficult. Then someone behind them mentioned Jones, and both Art and Wes turned around to listen.

  “I heard that damned tobacco buyer is still in town,” said Slim, a tall, skinny farmer they both knew. Some of the men nodded in assent, but one of them shook his head.

  “That ain’t what I heard,” Albert said, taking his pipe from his mouth and spitting into the grass at his feet. “Word is that Jones already made some deals and headed back to Lexington.” This caught Wes’s attention, and he took a step forward.

  There was some shuffling and mumbling in the group. “So who’d he make a deal with?” Slim asked.

  “I don’t know that, Slim, but that’s what I heard.”

  “Well then, who’d you hear it from?” Slim demanded. “Maybe they know who’s talkin’ to the damned trust buyer.”

  “Listen, Slim, I told you I don’t know who he’s made a deal with. I don’t know that he’s even made a deal. All I know is that I heard that he’s dealin’ and that he left town. That’s all I’m gonna say.”

  Wes waited for the bickering to settle down and said, “Maybe this fella Jones is talkin’ to a lot of folks. Maybe he’s just tryin’ to stir things up.” He paused, thinking carefully about what to say next. “We know he’s been ridin’ around the district for the past few weeks, so he’s likely talked to a lot of fellas. That don’t mean any of ’em have made deals, and even if they have, they ain’t likely to tell anyone, are they? Everybody knows that makin’ a deal with the Trust means they’d likely get raided by the Night Riders.”