by Raisor, Gary
Once Amos had taken the first step, the second was easier, the third easier still.
The stranger in the mask was not to be feared, he was a friend, Amos could see that now. Amos wondered why he hadn't seen it right off. Just a few more steps and everything would be all right. Amos put his right foot in front of his left foot and his new friend smiled in encouragement. Yes, he smiled. Warm. Friendly. Amos could see the white teeth gleaming beneath the mask.
"That's good, Amos. Come on, come on," the soft voice coaxed. "I've got what you want right here." The arms were open wide, beckoning to him. In one of the hands was the glittering light that would solve all of Amos's problems. He watched it moving back and forth, fascinated, unable to take his eyes off the silvery flame.
Amos took another step and almost fell. "My leg hurts," he said, and his voice sounded like that of a small, lost child to his own ears.
"It's okay, take your time. We've got plenty of time. Plenty of time."
Amos moved closer.
The dogs sat on their haunches, watching, their tongues lolling.
Amos was only a couple of feet away from the man in the mask when he heard the crack. The sound was distant, not connected to anything. At first Amos thought he had stepped on a dead branch.
The sound came again.
One of the Ridgebacks yelped, then went silent.
Someone was shooting, that's what the sound was. Someone was shooting. Amos looked at the dog as it fell into a boneless heap, its brains splattering the stone fence.
Another shot.
Another dog fell.
Just like knocking over ducks in a shooting gallery, Amos thought as his steps slowed and the world began edging back into focus. Two down. One more to go and the shooter would. Win a prize. The light in the denim-clad figure's hand was no longer a glittering prize that would solve all Amos's problems. It slowly resolved itself into a knife that would take Amos's life.
The man on the fence was no longer friendly, instead he seemed suddenly angry. He gripped the knife by the blade, and Amos knew the knife was about to be thrown. Amos wanted to move, he really did. He just couldn't.
The hand with the knife went back, poised, and the smile was back, teeth glinting bone white.
Another flat crack came from behind Amos.
A hole appeared in the stained chambray shirt, right in the center of the chest. A small puff of dust flew up from where the bullet struck. Another where it exited. The breeze dispersed both. The figure rocked back but didn't fall. No prize here, no prize here. The hand with the knife drew back again, slow but determined. A second hole appeared about an inch below the first. Two more puffs of dust. This time there was a small grunt, as though the man on the fence had been punched, and he went over backward, landing hard on the ground in the darkness. He lay there in a shapeless heap on his back. The head was the only part of the figure in the light and the white teeth caught the moonlight in a vacant smile.
Amos wanted to turn to see who was doing all the shooting, but he was too damned tired to care. He leaned against the fence and waited for his benefactor to announce himself. The smell of soured Jack Daniel's reached Amos before the frightened voice did.
"Is he dead, Amos?"
"I think so."
"Christ all mighty, Amos," Lefty said, "I ain't never shot anybody. I had to do it. He was going to kill you."
Amos could only nod.
"Do you know who he is?"
"I don't have the faintest idea, Lefty," Amos said. He watched his old friend walk closer. Lefty's face was the color of spoiled milk and he looked like he was about to faint.
"What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?" Amos asked.
"Looking for you. I needed a drink."
"How'd you know where I was?"
Lefty laughed, a pale imitation of his normal laugh. "Shit, you don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out where you go on a Saturday night. Especially when you get a snoot full. You always head straight for Chester's place and run off all his horses."
Lefty was still drunk and the 30-30 in his one good hand looked out of place. "I ain't never killed a man before," he repeated, almost on the verge of tears, "not even when they cut off my hand."
"It's okay, Lefty, I don't think you killed him."
Lefty looked at the figure sprawled on the ground. His voice was completely devoid of humor. "He looks pretty dead to me."
"I think he was dead before you ever shot him."
"Amos, I think you've lost your mind," Lefty said. "What makes you say something like that?"
Amos pulled Lefty closer to the fence, pointing at the dead man. "Look at him. You notice anything missing?"
Lefty reluctantly looked. "There's no—he's not—"
"Bleeding," Amos finished. "Live people bleed, dead ones don't."
Lefty considered the implications of that statement. "If he was already dead, then why did he fall when I shot him?"
"I don't know."
Lefty crawled over the fence and gingerly pulled the mask off the still figure. "I think I know this man. It's Billy Two Hats."
"He hasn't been around here in a long time."
Lefty placed a hand on the throat of the dead man. "I don't get a pulse, but he's still warm." The small Apache went over and checked Martin Strickland. Lefty looked at Amos, holding up a bloody hand. "We got two dead men here. What are we going to do?"
Grunting in pain, Amos slowly crawled over the fence, knelt down, and began moving the loose stones to one side. "We could do the law-abiding thing; we could go to the sheriff. But I doubt he's going to buy any of this walking-dead-man stuff. He's been itching to lock me up for years. Thinks I'm crazy. This would be just the excuse he's been looking for."
Lefty knelt down and began moving stones, too. He looked at Amos, his expression quizzical. "Why are we putting these stones in a pile?"
"This is a graveyard, isn't it?" Amos said. "What do you do in a graveyard?"
"You bury people," Lefty answered.
Chapter 11
Jake's parking lot was jammed full when Bobby Roberts nosed his Caddy into a narrow, oil-stained spot. The reason the spot was narrow was because there was another Caddy taking up about a space and a half. The car was like Bobby's except it was red and had dusty Texas plates on it.
"Look at that, would you, boys?" Bobby said. "Damned Texans don't know how to park. They think they can just come in here and take over. Somebody needs to teach them a few manners." He got out and casually smashed a taillight on the red car with his boot.
Kevin leaned close and peered into the backseat of the dust-covered Caddy window. Lying on the seat was a cue-stick case. "Looks like we got us a shooter here. You think Jake is importing some out-of-state talent?"
"Could be." Bobby stared thoughtfully at the red Caddy and his anger disappeared as quickly as it had come. "If Jesse don't show, I still might make a few bucks tonight."
He smashed the other taillight.
"You wouldn't take advantage of out-of-state guests, would you, Bobby?" Nash asked with mock concern. "After all, they're gonna need their money for car repairs."
"No, I wouldn't." Bobby paused. "Oh, man, I been looking all over for one of these." Wonderingly, he stroked the side-view mirror of the other car. He looked around to see if anyone was watching him trash the Caddy. They weren't, so he kicked the mirror off and tossed it into the floorboard of his own car. "Public service," he explained. "Someone backs out, I don't want them running over broken glass and getting a flat tire."
"You're a prince," Kevin said. "The mayor should drive out here and give you a commendation."
"He would," Bobby agreed, "except he can't drive anywhere." Bobby flashed his crazy grin at them as he gave the tires on his own car a kick. "You boys never did say what you think about my new set of Goodyears."
"You stole the mayor's tires?" Kevin's jaw dropped. "The mayor?"
Bobby nodded. "Right there in his driveway. I even got the spare.
"
"He parks his car right by the bedroom window," Kevin said, impressed despite himself. "How did you manage to get his tires without him hearing anything?"
"The mayor was kinda busy that night." Bobby winked. "His wife went over to Springerville to visit her mother a couple of days ago, and I guess the mayor was putting in a little overtime. His secretary, Ellie Gardner, was taking some oral dictation in the bedroom."
"She was giving him a blow job? No shit?" Kevin asked, suspicious that Bobby was putting him on. He examined Bobby's face for signs of deceit. "You're lying," Kevin decided. "I don't want to hear any more." He got a few feet closer to Jake's before turning back. "How do you know?"
"Cause I heard him promise he wouldn't come in her mouth."
Kevin thought that over, his eyes growing large behind his glasses. "Did he?" Kevin stuttered, "I mean, did he come in her mouth?"
"The mayor ain't never kept a promise in his life. So what do you think?"
"I think he just lost another vote." Kevin laughed. They started toward the bar.
Jake Rainwater had a neon sign above the ramshackle place he laughingly referred to as a nightclub. The sign had been missing the J since '57 as near as anyone could remember. Sporadically AKES would sputter to life and light up the night sky.
"You'd think Jake would get around to fixing that sign," Kevin said. "It couldn't cost that much."
"Jake ain't a man to rush into anything," Bobby said, "especially where money is concerned. Tell you how cheap he is. I heard tell he caught his third wife cheating on him and he decided to shoot her. Well, when he found out how much a gun cost, he wouldn't spend the money. He came home and ran over her with a car."
"Man, that's cheap," Kevin agreed.
Laughter, music, and loud voices floated out to greet them, drawing them ever nearer the bar.
Bobby, Kevin, Nash, and Boyce weaved their way across the darkened gravel parking lot, trying not to fall into any of the bottomless potholes that waited for the unwary. "Better watch your step," Nash warned them. "Last time I was here, it was raining, and I damned near drowned when I fell in one of those." Nash looked at Boyce to back up his story. "I told Jake he ought to have a lifeguard on duty. Ain't that right, Boyce? Am I lying?"
"Absolutely," Boyce replied.
They pushed inside and headed for the bar, yelling out greetings to familiar faces in the crowd. A three-piece country band was mutilating "Rocky Top" in the background while a few hardy souls tried to do the two-step on the crowded dance floor. The overpowering odor of booze, sawdust, cigarette smoke, and sweaty bodies filled the room; it was the usual Saturday night at Jake's.
"I love this dump," Nash said as they worked their way closer to the bar. "It's the only place I know where you can get drunk, get in a fight, and get laid in all the same night."
"I feel more like getting in a fight," Bobby said.
"Laid," the rest chorused.
Jake Rainwater, half-Navajo, half-black, half-crazy, and the closest thing Crowder Flats had to a living legend, was standing behind the huge slab of wood that served as a bar. He was old, grizzled, mean, had been shot three times, married five times, and was still here to talk about it. His hair, what there was of it, was white as snow. The five marriages, not the shootings, he claimed, were what had put the white there.
The first thing a stranger noticed about Jake was his hands; they were the size of hams. Nash swore he'd seen Jake bend a penny with those hands. One thing was for sure, nobody gave the old bartender any trouble.
Jake gazed over at Bobby and his companions, giving them his you'd-better-not-start-any-shit look.
Bobby just grinned. "Evenin', Jake. Give me a Lone Star and try to make it a cold one, will you?" He leaned against the bar and checked out the room.
"How 'bout the rest of you?" Jake asked. His impassive face scanned them, waiting, and the toothpick that always jutted from his mouth stopped its restless flight. Jake wasn't much on small talk.
"The same," Nash and Kevin said.
Jake turned to Boyce, the toothpick still motionless.
"You got any of that light beer back there?" Boyce rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "I think I'd like to try me one of them Bud Lights. I seen it on the TV how women like men who drink that stuff."
Jake stared hard at Boyce and something akin to amusement struggled toward his eyes. Unfortunately it died before it got there. "We don't carry light beer." He pulled the toothpick out of his mouth and examined it to see if there was anything interesting on it before replacing it between his perfect teeth. "We ain't got no white wine, or nothing with them fancy little umbrellas in it neither. You want yourself a faggot drink you gonna have to go someplace else." The toothpick began moving up and down, dancing across his mouth like a fly with one wing while he waited for Boyce to answer.
A red flush crept up from Boyce's neck and headed for his face where it had room to spread out. "Bring me a shot of tequila, then," he said, trying to salvage what was left of his pride. "Make it a double."
"Will that be with lime or without?"
"Without!"
"That's better, son. I was starting to get worried about you." Jake poured the tequila into a shot glass and sat it in front of Boyce. "First thing you know, you're drinking light beer, next thing you know, you're riding side saddle, and you don't even know how it happened. It's good to nip these things in the beginning before they get out of hand." He winked as he put the bottle away.
Boyce grinned but he didn't look like his heart was in it. The shot of tequila sat in front of him, waiting. "Jesus, Nash, I don't know if I can drink this stuff or not. It smells like kerosene."
"Just drink it and shut up."
Boyce tipped up the glass. A second later, a horrified expression spread across his face and he sprayed tequila all over Nash.
Nash just stood there with tequila streaming down his face. He said nothing, made no effort to wipe it away. Several drops of the liquid rolled down his forehead, gathering speed as they reached his nose, launching themselves into space. They looked like tiny kamikaze skiers going to their death as they splatted on the bar.
The spectacle was so fascinating, Boyce was rendered speechless.
"You know what's really amazing about this?" Nash asked.
"No, what?" Boyce responded in a subdued voice.
"That I let myself be seen in public with you."
"Does this mean you want me to move down the bar?"
"I'd like you to move to another state, but a few feet down the bar will do for starters."
Clutching his empty shot glass, Boyce shifted down two barstools. When Nash kept staring at him, he moved down one more.
Jake sauntered over and refilled Boyce's glass. "You put that one away pretty quick. I told myself when I first saw you that you were a tequila drinker. Old Jake can always tell. I'll just leave the bottle."
Boyce gave him a sickly smile.
Nash ran his hand over the dark wood of the bar, staring intently at the surface as though looking for something. "Jake, where's the spot on this bar, you know, the place where Thomas Black Eagle bled when he got killed? Is that it?" Nash touched a swirl that was darker than the rest
"You ask that dumb shit question every time you come in here," Jake said. "It's a couple of feet to your right, over there by Boyce."
Bobby laughed when Boyce moved his drink. "Jake, you're a bigger liar than Nash here ever was. There ain't no bloodstain on the bar. That's just some crock of shit you cooked up to sell drinks."
Jake seemed unoffended by the remark. "Maybe it is." He pulled out another beer, sat it in front of Bobby. "And maybe it ain't." His gaze didn't flinch and Bobby was the first to look away.
"Anything going on in the back?" Bobby asked. He took a drink to cover the fact he couldn't face Jake down.
"There's a couple of shooters back there"
"Anybody I know?"
"No," Jake answered. "I ain't never seen neither one of them before."
"They know what they're doing?"
"You mean, can you hustle them? No, I don't think so. These boys look like they been around."
"Maybe I'll go back there and see for myself."
Jake stared at Bobby with flat, black eyes. "Maybe you'll just sit your ass right there and wait for Jesse Black Eagle to show up. That's who you got a game with."
A small tic caused Bobby's right eye to twitch, but his face remained deceptively calm. "You want to watch how you talk to me, Jake. My old man can put this shithole place out of business with one phone call."
"Maybe he could," Jake admitted, "but then he'd have to find out that his son couldn't cover a bet on a pool game. He'd have to find out that old Jake had to loan the boy some money. I don't think Chester would like that, do you?"
Bobby looked over to see how his friends were reacting to this. They picked up their drinks and drifted over to a table in the corner.
Jake flashed a quicksilver smile that fit him like a prom dress on an old hooker. "We're friends here, ain't we, Bobby boy? There ain't no need to get into all this unpleasantness. We're both here to make ourselves a little piece of change tonight." Jake spread his hands in a gesture of conciliation. "Am I right? Tell you what, to show there's no hard feelings, the next round's on old Jake here."
"I'll play against Jesse," Bobby said, "and I'll let you back me." He looked Jake in the face and this time the younger man didn't turn away. "But after this we're quits, Jake. I mean it." Bobby pulled out some crumpled bills and laid them on the bar. "You ain't buying me a drink. I'm kind of picky about who I let buy me a drink. You understand what I'm saying, Jake?"
The toothpick poised quietly while Jake thought over Bobby's words. He finally nodded. If Jake was upset, it didn't show on his face, but then the same thing could be said when he was happy. He sat the beer down in front of Bobby and picked up the crumpled bills, made them disappear. The toothpick began its dance again. "I was just trying to help you out and that's the thanks I get. You sure wasn't talking to old Jake like this when you needed money to cover your bet."