Reaper's Run - Plague Wars Series Book 1

by David VanDyke

  ***

  Jimmy took one last look around the loft and barn before sprinting back to the house to rejoin his family. He saw that Jane had her Ruger .22 across her lap, hidden a bit by the porch rail. Two quart jars of white lightning sat on the dinner table, along with a plate of yesterday’s persimmon cookies and a big bowl of apples.

  Pa had his Remington under his arm, standing on the porch steps, and he could see Ma had her Smith and Wesson .38 long barrel visibly tucked into her waistband. For a God-fearing woman she was a dead shot with that thing, he knew. Jimmy retrieved his pride and joy, a .308 Browning lever-action rifle, from inside the front door. With a magazine that held ten of the heavy rounds, he knew he could knock down an equal number of targets in quick succession.

  Around the last bend came a truck, and not a mere pickup; he saw a flatbed two-ton fitted with slatted sides, a dozen men packed into it. All of them wore the deep-blue Unionist shirts with black armbands, those points-down red tridents emblazoned upon them. As soon as the truck stopped in a cloud of dust, the men jumped out, one of them with chevrons yelling orders as if they were all in the Army. He took three men with him and headed for the barn without asking permission. Klutz ran over to them, capering and barking with delight to have visitors.

  Jimmy could see they carried a variety of weapons comparable to his family’s – shotguns, rifles, handguns. He recognized several from the meetings he had attended, especially their leader, who hopped out of the passenger seat. That one wore the double bars of a captain, though the last time he saw the man he had been a sergeant recently discharged from the National Guard. Guess he gave hisself a promotion, he chuckled to himself.

  “Harry Whitcomb,” Jimmy said as the man walked forward hitching up his pants. “How you doin’ ol’ son?” He tucked his rifle in under his arm, but knew he could have it up and aimed in a flash.

  Harry’s belly fell down over his waist despite being no more than thirty, and two .45 automatics depended from his gun belt, one on each side. He hooked his thumbs just inside the holsters with his palms resting on the closed flaps in implied threat.

  “Don’t how-you-doin’ me, Jimmy. This here ain’t a social call.”

  “I kin see that, Mister Whitcomb,” called Big Jim from the porch step. “What cause you got bringin’ all these armed fellers onto my land? Might wonder whether you’d done forgotten ’bout the arrangement me an’ yer pa have.”

  “Now settle down, Big Jim. This here’s just precautionary, you might say.”

  “P’cautionary about what?” Big Jim reached over a casual left hand to pick up a quart jar. Popping the top, he took a sip and smiled. “Drink?”

  Harry licked his lips and shook his head. “We got orders to search the place.”

  Big Jim shrugged and put the jar back down on the table. “Yer loss.”

  “Whose orders?” Jimmy demanded, his temperature rising at the highhanded treatment of his father. Pa had called Harry “Mister” and the man had come back with “Big Jim,” as if Pa warn’t twelve years older and a respected man in these parts.

  “Unionist party orders. We gotta check every place for Sickos and traitors hidin’ out.”

  “Well, son,” Big Jim said with a frown – no more “Mister” – “your men kin check the farm all they want, long as they don’t mess with nothin’. Then you kin come inside and check the house. Then, since there ain’t nobody here that don’t belong, once you do that you can all have a nice drink and some cookies and be on your way.”

  “I’ll check in my own way and in my own time, thank you,” Harry blustered.

  A moment later he found himself frozen, staring at the wrong end of Big Jim’s 12-guage from a range of about six inches. Jimmy had never seen his pa move that fast. He raised his own rifle, jacking a round into the chamber with an audible clack, and aimed at the nearest of the bully-boys. Beside him, he sensed Jane and Sarah doing the same.

  “You best tell your friends to keep them hands away from them firearms if’n you don’t want your brains spattered all over that truck o’ yours, Captain Whitcomb.” The way Pa said it made the word a sneer. “And ever’ one’ a us kin pick the eye out of a fly at fifty yards. I’ll bet you dollars to damnation ever’ one’ a y’all is down with a bullet in him before any o’ my family is even winged.” Stone-cold menace dripped from Pa’s every word, and a shiver ran down Jimmy’s spine.

  “Stand down, boys, stand down,” Harry said, his voice squeaking. Those who held long guns made sure to point them at the ground; those with handguns holstered them, some with dropped jaws and nervous hands. Whitcomb himself showed a stain on his crotch that spread slowly down his trouser leg.

  Big Jim continued, “Now each one’ a you boys is gonna walk over and put them weapons down in the truck bed, then go over there by the pear tree where I kin see y’all. And you,” he called loudly, “with the three men in the barn. The first shot and your boss is dead, y’hear? Come on outta there and nobody’s gonna get hurt.”

  “Do it!” screamed Harry over his shoulder. His face ran with sweat.

  Reluctantly the sergeant and the three men walked from the barn toward the house, to drop off their guns at the truck and stand over with the disarmed mob. Klutz, apparently sensing the tension, ran over to stand at Big Jim’s side.

  “Jimmy, get Harry’s pistols,” Big Jim ordered, so the younger man plucked them from the holsters, carefully staying out of his father’s line of fire or background. “Toss ’em in the truck bed there.”

  Once Jimmy had done that, Big Jim tucked the shotgun back under his arm, barrel pointed half-down. Then he put his left arm around the shaking Harry Whitcomb and walked him gently over to sit down at the porch table. He then slid the jar of hundred-proof over to the man and ordered, “Drink. You look like you could use a jolt.”

  Harry reached for the jar with both hands and took a gulp, then another, his eyes never leaving Big Jim’s. “Thanks,” he rasped, moving as little as possible, like a mouse under the gaze of a snake.

  “Now you see? No need for trouble here. We’re all friends, all local folks. We know how to work things out without comin’ onto one another’s land and scarin’ each other’s family. Why, I reckon your ma’d be plumb frightened out of her wits if a dozen boys come up on her little place with guns, don’t you think?” Big Jim’s eyes bored into Harry’s until shame joined fear on his face. “I don’t care what kinda p’litical party y’all are with now, that don’t do away with common courtesy, now does it?”

  Harry shook his head miserably, looking more like a bashful little boy all the time.

  “Take another drink there, Harry. Now, I ain’t gonna hold this against ya. I ain’t even gonna tell your pa or, heaven forefend, your ma, ‘zackly how you jes’ acted. We’re jes’ gonna all have a nice drink and some cookies and forget this ever happened, ain’t we?” Big Jim patted Harry’s shoulder like he was his own son. Jimmy kept his eyes and rifle on the mob, but he couldn’t help a grin stealing onto his face.

  “All right, Mister McConley. I ’pologize for comin’ up here like I did.” He took a deep breath and seemed to regain some composure. “But I still would like to take a quick look inside – just so’s I can rightly say I did it, you understand.”

  “O’ course, Harry, o’ course you can. Tell your boys to come on over and have a swig and a cookie while you and I take a look inside.” Big Jim guided Harry up out of his chair, his large calloused hand never leaving the man’s shoulder, and on into the little farmhouse. “Look here; there’s Owen. You seen Owen before, ain’t ya? See, if’n them Sickos was around, if’n we’d got that disease, Owen’d be all different now, don’t ya think?”

  “Sure, Mister McConley, you got the right of it.” Harry stared at Owen, who grunted and waved a twisted hand.

  “Go ahead, Harry. Take a look in all the rooms, even the closets. You want a gander in the root cellar?”

  “No sir, no, won’t be no need for that, Mister McConley,” Harry hastened t
o assure Big Jim. “Just had to truthfully say we checked, you understand.”

  “O’ course, Harry. Oh, look at that.” Big Jim prodded a wooden box packed with straw. “There’s a case full’ a corn squeezins. I bet if you spread that around a bit, your boys’d forget all about this little…” Big Jim seemed to search for a word, “this little misstep on your part, as your mama’s cousin the sheriff might say.”

  “Oh, yes sir,” Harry said eagerly, picking up the heavy box. It clinked as he hefted it, and the man unconsciously licked his lips.

  “Jes’ don’t forget to bring one jar home for your folks,” Big Jim added as he followed Harry back out onto the front porch again.

  By now the first two jars had almost been emptied, and every man had a couple of cookies or an apple, or both, in his hands, bashfully munching away under the stern gaze of the McConley matriarch. One of the men was actually trying to start a conversation with Jane, who seemed to be struggling not to smile. When Harry showed them the box full of moonshine, they gave a cheer, and the mood changed in a moment from uncertain to festive.

  “All right you boys, git on up in that flatbed there and head back on down the mountain,” Big Jim said with an expansive smile, but never letting go of his shotgun. “Our poor ol’ hearts had jes’ about enough excitement for one day.”

  The group turned as one for their vehicle, some mumbling thanks and goodbyes. Jane winked at the one she’d talked to, and he blushed. Everyone else waved as they drove out of sight, forcing good cheer onto their faces all the way.

  Then they all collapsed into chairs. Sarah laid her pistol down on the table and clutched her knees. Jimmy whooped, and then put the rifle safety on, leaning the weapon against the rail. Big Jim set his shotgun back in the corner where it usually stood. Jane unloaded her .22 with practiced fingers, hardly bothering to look at the mechanism, a cold expression on her face that belied her flirting a moment before.

  Owen gave an inarticulate cry from inside, and Klutz wuffed. Jane hastened to roll the boy out onto the porch, which seemed to content him.

  “Sarah darlin’, I believe I’d like a drink. We got another jar somewheres?”

  “Yes, James, we do.” Not even a hint of her usual disapproval colored her voice this time, and when she brought back the jar, she poured a healthy slug into a water glass and drank it down herself. “For medicinal purposes,” she explained, deadpan.

  Big Jim wisely said nothing as he took a gulp, then passed the container to Jimmy.

  “Oh, Lord. Jill!” Jimmy cried suddenly, jumping to his feet.

  “Settle down now, son. Another few minutes in the hide won’t matter. Let’s make sure they don’t talk themselves into tearin’ back up here to have another go at us. I don’t think they will, but shame kin do funny things to a man, once he’s not under the gun anymore.”

  Jimmy sat back down, but fidgeted ceaselessly for long minutes. Finally Big Jim said, “Son, you go take the old pickup down to the end of the drive,” – that was more than three miles, ten minutes at normal speed – “and take a look, make sure they really left. If’n ya see hide nor hair of ’em, you hightail it back. Bail out if’n ya have to, leave the truck. Ain’t nobody gonna catch you on our own land. I’ll see to Jill.”

  “Yes, Pa,” he responded eagerly. Probably just giving me something to do, he thought, but he did not care, and he grabbed his rifle and the ignition key off the hook inside the door and ran for the pickup truck.

  By the time he got back, Jill and Big Jim and Jane and Owen were sitting on the porch. “No sign of ’em,” Jimmy called as he hopped out.

  “Let’s hope they learnt their lesson,” Big Jim rumbled.

  “For now,” Sarah said, bringing out another pitcher of lemonade. “Evil’s got them boys, and no amount of shamin’s gonna make it stick.”

  “Aw, Ma, they ain’t so bad,” Jimmy protested.

  “Not by theirselfs they ain’t, but they’s like a pack of big stupid dogs. They will tear apart whatever their master Satan tells them to, and don’t you forget it, James Aaron McConley Junior.” Sarah shook a wooden spoon at her son for emphasis. “It don’t take much for the Devil to lead the weak-minded and unbelieving into the ways of Hades, and I ain’t talkin’ about a bit o’ fornicatin’. I’m talkin’ about beatin’ and rapin’ and killin’ and burnin’ folks out, you mark my words.”

  “Ma!” Jimmy was appalled at his mother’s diatribe, which made it all the more powerful in his mind.

  Big Jim spoke. “All right now, Sarah dear. That scare they had oughta hold ’em for a while, and I’ll go over tomorrow and talk to Tom Whitcomb. Give him a kindlier version o’ what happened, make sure it don’t happen again. Remind him if’n he wants his corn juice, me and mine got to be left alone.” He nodded to himself as he took out his pipe and pouch.

  “I’m so sorry this happened, Mister McConley,” Jill said.

  “Don’t you ‘Mister McConley’ me, girl. You’re family, just like my own.” He smiled at her and tears came into her eyes. “Wouldn’t anythin’ been different had you been here or not.”

  “But I do have to go as soon as my feet are healed up. Being here puts you all in danger.”

  Sarah put a hand on Jill’s arm. “You stay as long as you need to, and go when you must, Miss Jill.” Klutz’s tail agreed with her.