A Gift From Crick

by John McNally

  ‘Don’t do it or you’ll wake up dead,’ said Mooney, his voice rasping like a rusty wheel.

  The farmer stopped immediately and stood still. He wore a washed out threadbare blue shirt, the armpits dark with sweat, and a battered hat that looked like it had been trampled in a buffalo stampede and lank hair that shone with sweat. His neck was ringed with dirt and his skin so dark he looked like he had spent time smouldering on a bonfire.

  ‘Take it easy, partner,’ the farmer said. ‘I don’t got nothing worth stealing.’

  ‘I can see that for myself,’ said Mooney, pointing his rifle at the man’s skinny chest. ‘All I want is for you to bust this chain with that axe of yours.’ He held up his arm and shook the manacles. ‘Try anything and you got yourself a heap of trouble.’

  ‘Step down then, boys,’ the farmer said and he held the axe shaft across his shoulder. His voice cracked as he spoke, it sounded as though someone had their hands wrapped around his throat.

  ‘My voice is a bit out of practice,’ he said through a cough. ‘I don’t see many folk so there’s only the dog to talk to and we ain’t speaking to each other at the moment.’ A dog yelped somewhere out back.

  Mooney said, ‘I figure you’ve left your pancakes on the stove too long, you’re plumb crazy, mister. I got a notion that dog has more sense than you.’

  ‘He reckons he does and that’s why we ain’t talking.’

  Carter and Mooney dismounted and Mooney said, ‘You got something to eat?’

  ‘Bean mush and I think some chitlins from last week, it’s just about better than nothing I reckon.’

  ‘For God’s sake, will you just cut this goddamn chain?’

  The farmer nodded towards the stump chopping block, Mooney and Carter knelt on either side of it and stretched the chain across the scarred wood. Mooney still held the rifle one handed and covered the farmer. The farmer stepped up to the block, spat on both hands and rubbed them together, his callouses making a dry clicking sound. He lifted the axe above his head.

  Mooney stared up at him and said, ‘Jesus H Christ, you smell like an old saddle blanket that’s been ridden on a soreback horse for hundreds of miles in August.’ He lifted the rifle higher. ‘Cut the chain straight down the middle,’ he said, ‘or I’ll put a bullet in your guts.’

  The farmer rolled his shoulders, looked away to hide a sly smile and then he turned back and swung the axe. The blade hit the chain and sliced through it. As the blade hit the stump, the farmer dragged the axe back up and across and smacked the flat of the axe head against Mooney’s skull. As Mooney toppled over, the farmer reversed the swing and brought the axe blade back across the other way to chop into Carter’s head or shoulders. Carter had already rolled away and the momentum from the sweep of the axe swing threw the farmer off balance and he stumbled on to his knees. Carter jumped to his feet, lashed out a foot and his boot caught the farmer on the shoulder and the axe spun away. He saw that Mooney still held the carbine and was trying to get up. Carter knew he had to get to the woods, the trees offered safety, and the only thing the gun in Mooney’s hand offered was death. Carter grabbed the half-conscious farmer by the scruff of his neck and dragged him away from Mooney.

  Carter backed away then turned on his heels and ran down the slope, the manacle still on his wrist, the cut chain whipped down his leg as he ran. He dragged the groggy farmer with him. He ran for the mule, threw the farmer across its back, grabbed a handful of mane and cracked his palm across the mule’s bony rump and the mule took off down the slope, bouncing the farmer along. As Carter reached the woods, he heard Mooney’s rifle boom and a bullet spanged off a rock behind them but they disappeared into the darkness of the trees, the shadows covered and shielded them. The smell of the heat, fern, pine and leaf mould coated them like a blanket.

  Carter stood in a heavy clump of trees and looked back at the farm. The sunlight through the leaves made a shifting pattern on his face, he turned and led the farmer and his mule deeper into the trees and as they moved forward, the shadows thickened and darkened around them.

  CHAPTER 13

  Mooney looked down the slope but there was no sign of Carter. He did not feel too concerned, he thought that Carter would come looking for him again or he was yellow and had run off, either way he’d deal with him. He touched the side of his head and felt an egg-like lump where the axe had caught him. His head throbbed like a Paiute war drum. He winced at the heat and the glare from the bright sky, and he hunched his head into his big shoulders and moved towards the cabin.

  He stepped up on to the veranda, the wood rotten and porous, flaking and grey with age. The weathered wooden door yawned open, he pushed it with his fingertips and the hinges gave a parched creak. He went inside, the air had a dense musty reek like an old soup of sweat, dirt, food and tobacco that rose to meet him in a sticky layer. The stench covered his face like a wet cloth and he felt as though someone had stuck their fingers down his throat. He stopped, rolled a cigarette, dragged a match across a wooden post and took the smoke deep into his lungs, held it there and then let it roll out slowly through his nose. Holding the cigarette in his lips, he looked around with the smoke hanging in the air like a veil around his face.

  The dry floor planks were powdered with dust and he heard his weight creak on the boards as he moved. He crossed to the smoke blackened fireplace and took a minute to look around. He crushed the last of the cigarette in his fingers, opened his hand and let the draught from the open door wisp the pieces away.

  He knelt down to open an old wooden box that lay on the hearth and under some papers and letters, he found a decent looking Colt Dragoon with plenty of powder, caps and lead ball that all looked in good order. Mooney carried the box to the table. An old letter headed Army of the United States caught his eye and he took it out, flattened it with the palm of his hand and saw a certificate of merit from the Mexican war for action in Sante Fe awarded to Private Garret Baird. Mooney glanced up and looked through the open door and down the empty hillside.

  ‘You must have had some salt at one time, Baird, but I reckon you found out you hadn’t left Hell behind you. It came a calling again today.’

  He crumpled the paper and threw it into the empty fireplace. He sat with the gun barrel pointing upwards and rubbed the gun over with a small cloth. He turned the cylinder with his fingers one chamber at a time, loading them with the gunpowder, adding the ball and working the lever to get them in tight before sealing them with fat. He turned the Colt and pushed in the percussion caps with his thumb and finally spun the cylinder and watched the caps tick by. He loaded all six chambers and locked the cylinder on the safety catch. He laid the gun flat on the table, looked across and saw the crusted mush in a blackened pan on the stove. He ate from the pan, using his hand like a shovel. He saw the chitlins piled in a mouldy heap – they lay in enough fat to grease a wagon axle – and decided he wasn’t that hungry.

  He belched, jammed the gun down the waistband of his trousers and said to the empty cabin, ‘Not a bad couple of days all in all. I’ll have a few hours of sleep and then it’s time to collect my gold and get gone.’

  Down the valley, Carter ran as best he could by the side of the swaybacked mule. The mule’s heavy laboured breathing whistled like the wind in a clogged chimney. He held the farmer belly down across the mule’s withers.

  I’ll keep going, he thought, Mooney still has the horse and I’ll reckon on him having at least the carbine. I can ignore him for a while and make my way back to his last camp. I’m sure the gold’s there so that’s where Mooney’s going. Bet on it. That means if I wait he’ll come to me and I can ambush him when he shows up. Let’s hope those vigilantes have moved on. I’ll have to be careful though, they still think I was with Mooney and I don’t want to bump into them again, not without Mooney’s dead body anyway.

  The farmer stirred and Carter pulled the mule up and slid the man on to the ground. He knelt beside him.

  ‘Are you feeling good enough to walk?’ he
said. ‘The feller you clocked on the head with the axe will like as whale the life out of you if he gets hold of you.’

  The farmer sat up and shook his head.

  ‘I’ll be fine, just give me a minute.’ He looked at Carter. ‘How in tarnation did I get here?’

  ‘Well, when you hit him and tried to part my hair with your axe, I kicked you to quieten you down but I pulled you out of there. If I left you then Mooney would kill you for the hell of it.’

  ‘I’m Garret Baird. Listen, I’m sorry I swung at you with the axe but the way I saw it, the two of you looked set on killing me. That Mooney has a face from hell.’

  ‘He’s got the face he deserves, I reckon,’ said Carter, ‘and I don’t blame you for what you did. Out here you got nobody to rely on but yourself. I’d have done the same. I’m Edwin Carter, Eddie to my friends.’

  They shook hands. Carter studied Baird, he had a worn face with leathery skin cobwebbed with wrinkles but his voice had changed since they left the cabin. Now Baird talked in a quick voice out of the side of his mouth and he seemed more alert.

  ‘You’ve changed some,’ said Carter, watching Baird’s face. ‘Back there you acted like you couldn’t teach a hen to cluck.’

  Baird looked at him then his gaze slipped away.

  ‘I try not to show too much sense in front of strangers that are chained together and pointing a gun at me, especially when one of them looks like he was born and bred in hell, if you get my drift. Mind you, I ain’t saying it’s easy out here; loneliness ain’t something that I can get used to. Sometimes it’s like looking at the world from underwater. I cain’t hear nothing and when the heat bounces off the skyline, the land’s hazy and empty.’

  Carter sensed that Baird was a fragile man who might snap if someone pushed him too far. His face had an unhealthy shine and hardness as if it was made out of glass and might shatter at any time. He glanced at Baird, who sat with his eyes fixed on him, waiting. Carter shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I reckon you’re right there, friend, sometimes being alone feels good but other times this big land can crush you when you’re on your own too much, especially if you’ve lost someone.’ He looked at Baird but Baird avoided his eyes. ‘I guess you can go back to the cabin in a couple of hours. Mooney will have moved on by then. Or you can come with me. We can just ride on a piece, I know which way Mooney will be heading and I aim to be there. He killed my partner and I’ve got to square things off with him, after that he won’t bother you no more.’

  ‘I’ll come with you, Eddie,’ Baird said immediately. ‘That mule’s game enough but he don’t have much left in him, we’ll have to take turns riding.’

  They set off with the frail Baird moving like a man walking into a strong headwind.

  Later they crossed the Illinois River, the banks lined solid with trees, everything cool and quiet in the thick shade. The mule struggled out of the water, straining for air as though his chest was wrapped in chains and his lungs made from wet paper. He snorted and tossed his head then, as his hoofs scraped on the wet stones by the cut bank, the mule stumbled and Carter rolled off him into the shallows. He stood, unhurt, with his clothes drenched through and moulded to his body, his hat brim pulled down and stringed with water cascading across his face. Baird hauled on the mule’s reins, trying to get it to its feet.

  Carter wiped his arm across his eyes and shook his head.

  ‘Drop your gun,’ said a quiet voice and the casualness in the tone made it all the more threatening.

  Carter glanced up from under the sagging brim of his hat and saw a man he did not recognize, although he knew the type. A nameless man with blank hard eyes, a grim thin mouth and a holster low on the hip, the sort of face that had been hired to kill people for hundreds of years. He stood on a path speckled with sunlight.

  ‘I won’t say it again,’ said the gunslinger. He drew a pace closer, his red-rimmed eyes locked on Carter and his thin face darkened by a two day stubble.

  Carter held his arms out and said, ‘We’re both unarmed, no guns.’

  ‘Hear me good on this, you two boys come out of the water and walk up the path, don’t stop or look back. I’ll be five paces behind you so there’s no point trying anything. You’ve more chance of catching a weasel asleep than jumping me. We’ll come back for that mule, maybe if we get hungry. Don’t talk, no darn questions, there’s a feller through the trees waiting for you.’

  They walked up the grade through the woods and emerged into a sunlight clearing where Horace Crick, the owner of the assay office in Sailors Diggings, and another man sat on horses waiting for them.

  Crick did not look good, the thought of losing the money still weighed heavily on him, he looked like a man nursing a permanent hangover. His big sweaty face had an oily sheen on his forehead and cheeks and a raw looking rash on his throat. He seemed a shiny podgy wreck of man.

  ‘Yes, he’s one of them, I thought it was him crossing the river,’ he said. He sat on a roan horse with a scattergun tucked under his arm although he did not look as though he knew how to handle it. He stared at Carter and added, ‘I knowed you’d be back. You’re here to collect my gold, aren’t you? Where in tarnation did you bury it? It’s well hidden, I’ll give you that, we looked everywhere hereabouts. Look, I’m a reasonable man, listen good, the only folk here work for me. I don’t give a goddamn cuss how many townsfolk you killed. Give me my gold and we’ll let you be. You have my word on that.’

  Carter felt the danger that surrounded him like a hand on his throat. The two men with Crick looked like sinister dark shadows on a lonely night ride and he knew that Crick’s word meant absolutely nothing. He tried to look calm, he stood with a particular stillness and he spoke in a soft voice so that they all listened.

  ‘I done told you already. I am not with the Mooneys. I did not kill anyone in Sailors Diggings and, for the fiftieth goddamn time, I did not steal your gold.’

  His voice sounded hollow in his own ears. He felt the rage well up in a sudden tide, filling his whole body but he fought to stay relaxed.

  Crick was not listening, his voice just hammered on.

  ‘I’ve had enough of the likes of you. I ain’t got no patience to waste on your sort. You need to know that killing folk is my line of work. It’s part of my business and I think I got the market on it around here. I’ll make you talk.’

  He turned, holding on to the pommel and looked at the man sat next to him.

  ‘Packett, do what you’re good at, get to it. Set up a fire and heat up your knife.’

  Hillard Packett was a scrawny little man, all gristle and spit, the skin on his face looked a size too big for his head and hung pouchy and slack on his cheeks and neck. He had cold murderer’s eyes that stared out of deep dark sockets as if he was figuring out how soon you’d beg for mercy.

  He started a small fire, Crick turned back to Carter.

  ‘Who’s your friend?’ he said, nodding at Baird.

  ‘He’s got no part in this,’ said Carter, ‘let him be. Mooney forced him to cut the chain,’ he held up his wrist, ‘and me and him ran for it before Mooney could kill us.’

  ‘It’s true, mister. My name’s Garrett Baird, I live on the other side of the river maybe twenty miles south of here. I don’t rightly know what’s going on here but this feller,’ he pointed at Carter, ‘ain’t no friend of that the other one called Mooney. We both had to make a run for it.’

  Crick took his hat off and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket. He had a few strands of hair flattened with oil across his bald head, which looked polished and slick. He brushed a hand across his sparse hair as if he was checking it was still there then he wiped his palm down his trousers. He ran his thumb and finger down his moustache.

  ‘See, this is what annoys the heck out of me, we get some dumb cracker like our friend Baird here who thinks he can interfere in my business when he don’t know what the hell is going on. Well, let me tell you, Mr Baird, your opinion ain’t worth the breath yo
u drew to make it.’ He turned to Packett who knelt by the fire holding a knife in the flames and said, ‘Are you ready?’

  Packett nodded and his knees cracked as he stood up. He was as gnarled as an old mesquite tree. He stared at Carter with a blank face and a cigarette jammed between his thin lips, his head curled into his thin shoulders. His hooded eyes glittered as he slithered across to Carter. He stopped and lifted the knife in his knobbly hand.

  Crick said, ‘Packett here likes hurting people, you need to know that. I reckon if he puts one of your eyes out you’ll talk. That hot knife will slide through your eyeball like hot butter. Look, I’m a fair man, if you still say you weren’t in with Mooney after we take one eye out then I’ll probably believe you.’

  ‘Now hold on there,’ said Baird, ‘you don’t ought to do something like that. You ain’t human, mister.’

  He took a step towards Crick, whose horse lurched sideways a couple of steps. Crick looked over Baird and Carter and nodded and the gunman behind them stepped forward, whipped his gun hard across the back of Baird’s head and said, ‘He stinks like a scared skunk, pity I cain’t knock the smell out of him as well.’

  Crick pointed his scattergun at Carter and said, ‘On your knees. Mess about and we’ll kill your friend Baird first.’

  Carter would not let that happen and they knew it. He knelt, the gunman wrenched his arm with the handcuff still on it behind his back, the cuff biting into his wrist. He roped Carter’s arms, tied them back and knocked his hat off. Packett put a foot on Carter’s chest and pushed him over. He knelt on Carter’s shoulders and pinned him to the ground. Carter looked up as Packett and his knife moved in.

  Hillard Packett was a strange man. He came from a decent family. His ma was a real nice woman. Hillard and his brother were mischievous when they were boys, they’d like as turn a racoon loose in a church service and such but, heck, most folk have done that. His brother turned out all right, he worked as a barber in Maryville, not the shop on the corner there but the one further down between the hardware store and the bath-house. Why Hillard turned out bad is anyone’s guess. Maybe someone gave him a whaling or laughed at him when he was young and he never got over it. Maybe he just got in with a bad crowd. Maybe he was the bad crowd. No-one knows. But there was nothing in his background that could explain why he turned out wrong, why he cursed the day he was born and took it out on as many folk as he could.