Death in the Black Patch

by Wilson, Bruce;

  Art felt lightheaded, almost sick. He knew that Wes had been talking to Jones, but he never believed that his cousin would make a deal. But now, listening to Wes defend Jones and with his own knowledge of the planned raid, Art was positive that Wes had already sold his tobacco to the Trust and was keeping it from him. The hard truth of these thoughts made him take a step back from Wes. Several of the men began talking among themselves, but Art didn’t join in. He was watching Wes and thinking back to what both he and Mark had done a week ago. He remembered covering for Wes in front of the fellas from the Association. Wes was lyin’ to us the whole time.

  A roar of laughter from the far corner of the church lot drew everyone’s attention, and most of the men wandered over to see what was going on. Wes held back, anxiously wanting to talk with Art, but his cousin seemed to avoid him as he joined the others in their trek toward the laughter. Wes followed Art, wandering along behind the crowd toward the edge of the field. Maybe I can get him alone now, and we can get this out in the open. His face hardened as he thought, I can’t trust him no more.

  * * *

  Leaving her shoes under the pew, Zora rose from her spot and walked slowly up the aisle toward the platform. She took a seat in the chair placed in front of a pan of warm water, but she couldn’t focus. On the other side of the pan, the preacher was kneeling, facing her, quietly praying to himself. As he had done several dozen times in the past hour, he spoke of humility and service while he quietly rubbed her bare feet with the water and then dried them with a towel. All the while, Zora prayed—not for the preacher or the deacons, not for the church, not even for herself. Just as the preacher set her dry feet on the floor, a feeling of urgency overwhelmed her. The sermon and the foot washing had brought her no comfort, and she sensed that something terrible was going on outside. She was afraid and couldn’t hold back the tears as they flowed from her eyes and rained down her cheeks. She stood and walked to the window and looked for both Anthie and Wes. She spotted her husband just as he put the whiskey jug to his lips.

  * * *

  Anthie was right about one thing: someone had brought a jug of liquor. From his hiding place, he watched as it was passed around among some men he didn’t know. The talking and laughter grew louder with each swig of the whiskey.

  In a matter of minutes, the crowd had grown to several dozen, and a few more jugs appeared. Anthie watched intensely as Art and his pa joined in the drinking. He glanced over in the direction of the church and saw that the door was still closed. Must still be washin’ feet, he thought. They’ll be done soon enough, and this drinkin’ will be over. He turned back to the men and watched his pa take a long drink out of someone’s jug and then hand it to Art. Anthie lifted his hat off the limb, turned away from the hiding place and headed over to the wagon. He makes me sick. He’s nothin’ but a drunk. I wish he wasn’t my pa.

  While the drinking and laughter continued, Wes stayed close to his cousin, all the while hoping to get Art drunk enough that he could get him to admit his deceit. But Art still wasn’t paying attention to Wes, ignoring him as he listened to the jokes and drank the liquor. The jug came to Wes again, and he took another drink, the amber liquid burning his throat. He welcomed the fire in his belly. You’ve ignored me long enough, he thought as he turned and moved toward his cousin.

  Art was seething. Wes not only lied to me, he lied to his own brother. We could be in real trouble with the Association because we stood up for him. These thoughts boiled in his chest as he moved to the middle of the crowd where a fight had erupted.

  Two of the farmers were shoving each other around. There was a lot of swinging and swearing as each fighter tried to gain an advantage. The brawl might have gone on longer, but the sheriff pushed his way through the bystanders and pulled the men apart just as the doors of the church burst open and dozens of children ran out of the building and into the field. Most of them ran directly to where the men circled the fight. Not far behind the children came the women. At first, they tried to gather up the youngsters, but when they saw that the men had been drinking and some had been fighting, they let the children go and tried to gather up their husbands. Had the sheriff not been there to stop the fight, the two farmers might have killed each other. As it turned out, they both needed medical attention, and the crowd of men—now joined by women and children—laughed as he loaded them in his wagon and headed off to Lynnville to find a doctor and to lock them up.

  When Zora saw the large group of men and heard the noise of the fight, she was afraid. Scanning the crowd, she looked for Anthie but saw only Wes standing with Art well away from the action. She headed in his direction, hoping that he knew where Anthie might be, but when she saw her son sitting on the back of the wagon, away from the fight, she relaxed. Turning in mid-stride, she walked toward him, glad that he was safe.

  As Zora approached the rear of the wagon, Anthie didn’t look up until she spoke to him. “Are you all right, son?”

  “No, Ma. I wanna go home.”

  “I’ll go get your pa and the others. You get the wagon ready. I don’t wanna stay around this trouble any longer than we have to.” Putting her hand on his leg, she patted him and smiled, then turned and walked back to the other end of the field.

  “Okay, Ma, I’ll meet you over by the church,” he said as she walked away. He went around to get the mule ready. Then he climbed up onto the bench seat, clucked to the mule and drove the rig toward the empty church building. Mary Lula and the three youngsters were still on the porch. Anthie couldn’t see Connie, but suspected that his brother was somewhere in the crowd of people milling around at the edge of the field. He thought about leaving the wagon near the porch and heading home on foot, but decided that would only upset his ma more than she already was. Better just sit here and wait for her. Pa’s gonna be in real trouble with her, so he won’t have time to pick on me. Anthie pulled the brake on the wagon and jumped down so he could help the others into the wagon box. He didn’t respond when John Stanley asked him about the fight, nor when Mary Lula put her hand on his cheek and turned his face to hers. He gently brushed her hand away and sat down on the back of the wagon away from everyone.

  Chapter 23

  Sunday, Afternoon May 20

  Wes reined the mule to a stop on the east side of Mark’s store. After setting the brake, he looked back and told Connie to get a bucket of water for the mule and sent Anthie to get his Uncle Mark. Both boys slid down from the wagon and headed off. A quiet Art got out of the wagon, glad the bumpy ride was finally over. He wasn’t feeling well because of the liquor, and he was still upset about Wes and Jones. John Stanley had already untied Art’s horse from the back of the wagon and stood proudly waiting.

  “Thanks for lettin’ me ride your horse, Cousin Art,” said the boy. “That was fun. I’m gonna have me a horse just like this someday.”

  “You’re welcome, young man,” Art said. He coiled the reins and started to pull himself up into the saddle when Wes’s words stopped him.

  “Wait, Art. We need to talk with Mark.”

  “I gotta get back home to Mollie and the kids,” he grumbled. “Can’t this wait ’til tomorrow or Tuesday?”

  “We need to clear up some things,” Wes said, struggling to keep his voice calm. “It shouldn’t take too long.” You can’t ignore me anymore, he thought.

  Even though he didn’t want to get into a difficult conversation with Wes, Art finally agreed. He stepped back to the ground and tied the reins to the wooden pillar holding up the store’s roof.

  “Thanks,” Wes said. “Give me a minute to get my family headed home.” He turned to Zora, put his arm around her shoulder, pulled her close to him and leaned in to whisper in her ear. Holding her cheek close to his, he said, “Everythin’s gonna be all right, Zora. Everythin’.”

  Her hair had come undone, and the loose strands tickled his nose as he spoke. Zora reached up to Wes’s hand where it lay on her face
. She patted it gently and turned to him. Despite the smell of whiskey on his lips, she smiled and kissed him gently. Her heart raced with love for Wes.

  “Thank you, Wes.”

  Her reverie was interrupted when Mark came out of the house.

  “What’re you all doin’ in town on Sunday afternoon?” Mark said as he walked up to the wagon. Gertrude waddled along behind him, breathing heavily as she tried to keep up with her husband. She walked around to the side of the wagon to speak to Zora just as Wes got down from the seat. Mark shook Wes’s hand and reached into the back of the wagon to pat Ruthie on her cheek and rub Irene’s head. “And how are you two sweet girls? I ain’t seen you in a while. You keep gettin’ bigger all the time.” The girls giggled and tugged on their uncle’s ears. He let out a familiar howl, and they giggled some more.

  “How about me, Uncle Mark? Ain’t I gettin’ big too?”

  “You sure are, John Stanley. Pretty soon I’ll be lookin’ up at you. Why, you’ll be taller than my store before you know it.” He turned toward Mary Lula and just shook his head, smiling at her until she blushed and turned away.

  “Anthie said you needed to see me, and it sounded important,” said Mark. He waited for Wes to reply and then shook Art’s hand as he came up to where they stood. “It must be important if you fellas couldn’t wait ’til Monday.”

  “Not sure what it’s about, Mark. But Wes says I need to stay.” Art crossed his arms on his chest, frowning.

  Wes paid no attention to Anthie, who returned to the back of the wagon. He waited while Connie finished watering the mule and then called him over to his side. “You take the family home, son. I’ll be along in a couple of hours.”

  “Okay, Pa,” Connie said. “I’ll take care of everythin’.” He climbed into the seat and sat tall next to his mother. Then he looked around to make sure everyone was settled. Satisfied, he flicked the reins on the mule’s back and said, “Come on, mule. Let’s get.” The wagon creaked as the animal pulled against the leather harness and started moving forward. Zora looked at Wes and returned his smile. She waved at Gertrude and looked down the road toward home.

  “Bye, Pa,” yelled John Stanley, waving wildly. “See you soon!” Mary Lula quickly pulled him down into the wagon box, and Wes watched her scold him and Irene punch him in the shoulder. He saw the sullen look on Anthie’s face and waved at his son, but the boy just turned away.

  “Do you think we could sit in the store for a while?” asked Wes. “We need to talk about some things, and I don’t wanna get interrupted by any of the folks who might be walkin’ around town.” He looked over at Art, but his cousin stood silently staring at the ground, thinking, I don’t wanna have this discussion. I just wanna get away from him to do my own thinkin’.

  “Rather than hang around here, I got a better idea,” said Mark. “Let’s take my wagon out for a while. My horse is gettin’ lazy and could use some exercise.” At this, Gertrude put her fists on her hips and glared at Mark.

  “It’s Sunday, Mark.”

  When he didn’t respond to her obvious displeasure, she spun around as nimbly as she could and then trudged off in the direction of the house.

  “That’s the real reason,” he said and watched until she closed the door. “I’ll be in some measure of trouble later, but I don’t care.” He paused and said, “I’ll be right back.”

  Wes and Art faced each other, neither one speaking.

  Mark disappeared around the back of the store and returned in a few minutes leading the horse and wagon. He asked Art to check the harness and ran into the store. Returning quickly with a bundle under his arm, he glanced toward the house. When he saw the curtains close quickly, he laughed and said, “Yep, I’ll be in a heap of trouble tonight.” He put the bundle in the back of the wagon and climbed up into the seat. He waited while Wes and Art got in, and then he flicked the reins along the horse’s back. The animal pulled at the wagon, and the three friends started down the road toward Dresden.

  “What’s in the bundle, Mark?” Art pulled at the layers of cloth and discovered two full jugs of whiskey. Some of his tension faded as he lifted them up. “Why, Cousin Mark, I do believe that you intend to lead us down a path of unrighteousness this Sunday afternoon.”

  “That may be the result, Art. But it’s not my intention. It seems to me, if we got important things to discuss, we might as well be comfortable.” He laughed out loud and snapped the reins again. The horse picked up the pace as they made the first sweeping turn on the southbound road. Wes heard the humor in his brother’s voice, but didn’t share it. The discussion that lay ahead was going to be difficult, and he wasn’t sure if his friendship with Art would survive it.

  * * *

  The sky had turned a dark gray under a gathering blanket of clouds, and the warm air seemed heavy with rain. Mark drove the wagon at a leisurely pace down the road. Each of the men had shed his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his white Sunday shirt as though preparing for a fight. The silver disc of the sun behind the clouds had warmed them, and a goodly portion of the first jug of whiskey was working to do the same. For the first mile, a silence engulfed the cousins, as neither Wes nor Art spoke. The quiet forced Mark to carry the conversation by himself, but all of his tales did nothing to stir them.

  “Should I be sorry I missed the foot-washin’ up at Cuba church?” he said, glancing back at his brother and cousin, noticing that Wes still looked uneasy.

  Art pulled the cork from the jug, took a quick draught and passed it to Mark. “We didn’t go inside the church,” slurred Art. “All the men had gathered out by the trees, and there was lots of talkin’ and drinkin’ goin’ on, which led to a fight between two fellas. Then church let out, and the whole place was covered with women and children. The sheriff finally broke up the whole mess.” Art rested his elbows on his knees and stared at Wes. He could almost feel the weight of what was bothering him. Whatever it is, he’ll have his say soon enough. He always does.

  Mark laughed out loud and nearly dropped the jug, but caught it just before it slipped off his lap. He pulled back on the reins and stopped the wagon in the middle of the road, then turned around to face the others. “We never have that kind of fun at our church. Hell, we never have any kind of fun at our church. I think if a fight broke out, Gertrude would have a faintin’ spell and I’d have to drag her all the way home. That ain’t somethin’ I’d wanna do.” He smiled and started to hand the jug to Wes again, but his brother wasn’t paying attention. “You’d better hang on to this, Wes. I’m likely to spill it, and then what would we do for a drink?”

  Wes was waiting for his chance to bring up the Night Riders—the only thing he wanted to talk about—and all this chatter only added to the pressure building up inside him. Just tell me about the damn Night Riders, Wes thought. As Mark handed him the jug, Wes glared at Art.

  “We still got this other jug,” said Art. “That should be plenty enough to get us all the way back to town.”

  Art looked at Wes, then said to Mark, “There was also considerable discussion about that fella Jones. Lots of fellas was wonderin’ if he’d made a deal with somebody.” He stared at Wes, but got no reaction and continued, hoping to push his cousin to start talking. “Your brother here seemed to know a lot about him and said maybe he’s just out stirrin’ things up. Ain’t that what you said, Wes?”

  Wes turned to Art and scowled. “All I said was that he’s probably met with a lot of fellas and if anybody made a deal they wouldn’t talk about it.” He lifted the jug and took a swallow. “Besides,” he said, raising his whiskey-choked voice, “if word got out that Jones bought someone’s tobacco, don’t you think the Night Riders would be plannin’ a raid on him?” Art frowned and looked away. The thought that it could happen echoed in Art’s mind, and the unspoken truth bounced around the wagon, waiting to be heard.

  Mark was desperate to keep the peace between his brother and cou
sin. “We better get movin’ before someone comes along and crashes into the back of this wagon.” He snapped the reins and the horse started pulling the rig. Wes wished that his brother would shut up so he could say what he had to say to Art. He looked off to the east, and as they passed the Cook farm—the place where Zora had been raised by her grandparents—he thought about her for a moment, missing her and her quiet love, wishing all of this was over. When the wagon hit a hole in the road, he lost the image of Zora and took another drink from the jug.

  “Either of you fellas wanna go down to Dresden?” said Mark. “If not, I’m gonna turn on the Boydsville Road.” When neither of them responded, Mark took their silence for agreement and continued to the crossroad.

  “You know, Art,” Wes said as he looked around, “this is probably the place where Anthie saw them Night Riders a couple of weeks ago.” He looked up at Mark and added, “Have you heard anythin’ about ’em since last week?”

  Mark shook his head. “There ain’t been any news since the shootin’.”

  Wes glanced at Art and realized that this was the opening he’d been waiting for. “How about you, Art? Have you heard anythin’ about the Night Riders?” Wes watched his cousin’s eyes and face, silently urging him to react, hoping he’d see something that would confirm Art knew his farmhand was a Night Rider.

  Art took a long swallow of the liquor, afraid of the fire in Wes’s eyes. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and pushed the cork into the opening of the jug. I can’t tell him now, he thought, afraid of what might happen. He cleared his throat, turned to his cousin and said, “Why would I know anythin’ about Night Riders, Wes?” The lie came easy, but he saw that Wes didn’t believe him. “Just because I joined the Association don’t mean I know what the Riders are doin’ or who they are.” Suddenly afraid, he folded his arms across his chest and turned away.