A Congregation of Jackals

by S. Craig Zahler

  “I plan on having a good time,” Dicky announced. He looked at Godfrey. “I will get us some girls.”

  “Be respectful,” Lingham admonished the New Yorker.

  “That is part of the strategy.”

  The doors grew large in front of them; the piano music sounded like restive children stomping out block chords with their feet.

  Oswell looked at Lingham and said, “It’s been a long time since I saw you dance.”

  “Can you still do that fancy backward stepping?” Godfrey asked.

  “Better than before. We have lots of socials in Trailspur and I go to all I can. That’s where I met Beatrice.”

  Dicky asked, “She was beguiled by your footwork?”

  “She liked it.”

  Godfrey grabbed the brass knob and pulled the door wide. Oswell winced as the volume of the celebration roared into his ears; he was not used to crowds. Faces turned to look at the new arrivals. Several people shouted out the name James. The quartet entered the vast enclosure; hands went up to solicit the groom-to-be. He waved back amicably.

  The warmth and humidity of the dance hall enveloped Oswell; his boots thudded upon the newly burnished wood, another instrument added to the convivial atmosphere of chatter, stomping, laughter and clapping. The Trailspur citizens’ fondness for bright colors was evidenced by the purple, green, red and yellow clothing they wore.

  Oswell surveyed the individuals that comprised the crowd. Excepting the dozen folks Lingham had introduced him to earlier that day, the guests, who already amounted to nearly two hundred people, were all strangers to the rancher. Regardless, men who rode with Quinlan—men like the twins and the toddler and the sort of fellow he used to be himself—did not settle well in an environment such as this.

  He did not notice anybody that caused him concern; when he looked at Godfrey and Dicky, the pair appeared similarly at ease with the throng.

  “Seems okay,” Godfrey said.

  A moment later, a very large bald man in a bright yellow suit and matching top hat stormed across the floor to Lingham, clasped the tall man’s right hand with both of his, and shook it as if he were trying to pump water from the ground.

  “Big Abe,” Lingham said. “These are the fellas I used to cowboy with. This is Oswell, his brother Godfrey, and that’s Dicky from New York.”

  The proprietor clapped his hands to each man, said “I’m Big Abe,” and tried to pump more water.

  The piano player, a tiny old woman with big-knuckled hands, shifted the tempo and mode of her playing, punishing the keys into giving her what she required. Oswell guessed that the woman had ninety years behind her, if not more.

  “That’s Wilfreda. She’s a treasure in this town,” Big Abe informed Oswell.

  “She can play very well.”

  “You haven’t seen a thing—she’s toying with us right now, inveigling us.”

  Her left hand simmering with a sinister bass line, Wilfreda raised her right hand over her head and slammed it violently to the keys. Formerly inert feet began to tap the floor, seduced by the vibrations.

  Wilfreda turned to look over her left shoulder, pure white hair beneath her flat, crescent-shaped hat. Beneath colorless eyebrows that looked like caterpillars, her narrow eyes assessed the crowd with a gaze that to Oswell appeared malefic. She grinned while her left hand percolated an ever-changing rhythm that the dancers tried to conform to. Wilfreda turned back to her piano keys and plunged headlong into a robust waltz, peppering it with odd accents that elicited yelps from less coordinated dancers and people with sensitive eardrums.

  Big Abe said, “She says that her playing is what keeps death away from her. Scares him off.”

  “She’s something,” Oswell replied.

  “I recommend the rum punch,” Big Abe said. “I made it myself.”

  Lingham inquired, “Beatrice don’t mind you putting out rum punch?”

  “Both options are available. The fruit punch is in a bucket under the table if somebody wants some. The rum punch is on the table in that huge glass bowl with all the fruit in it.”

  “Okay.”

  Big Abe departed to the table upon which the punchbowl, ladles, cups, candied apples, sweet corn cakes, seed cakes and funnel cakes lay.

  Wilfreda picked up the pace of her playing, her head slowly turning away from the keys to survey the movement of the crowd.

  “She looks like a witch,” Godfrey said to Oswell.

  “I wouldn’t cross her,” he responded.

  More people entered the dance hall; the floor thudded in time with Wilfreda’s passionate machinations. The hall grew warmer.

  The crowd parted to reveal Beatrice, her arm around the elbow of an older man in a brown and orange plaid suit; he had receded silver hair, a big mustache, sharp eyes and a belly jutting from his otherwise solid frame. He walked with a limp and wore a gun on his right hip.

  “Is that the sheriff?” Oswell asked Lingham quietly.

  “That’s him.”

  Beatrice, her curly blonde hair pulled into a lime ribbon, wore a dress as green as Lingham’s suit and a smile that barely fit upon her luminous face. She was a pretty woman and in her happiness, stunning, Oswell thought. The sheriff motioned for her to run to her fiancé, which she did instantly; she threw her arms around Lingham’s neck and kissed him on the mouth with such love that Oswell felt a bittersweet empathy twist his guts.

  Lingham scooped her up into his arms and asked, “Did you have any of the rum punch?”

  “No! I promise. I had the one with fruit in it.”

  “That’s the rum punch,” Lingham said, laughing.

  Oswell saw his brother turn away; Godfrey and Katherine had been like that before she left him.

  The sheriff stopped in front of Oswell, Godfrey and Dicky and openly appraised them.

  Lingham strode beside the lawman and said, “T.W., this is Oswell, his brother Godfrey and Dicky from New York.”

  T.W. extended his right hand, shook Oswell’s and said, “It’s a pleasure to finally meet some of James’s friends. What’s your last name?”

  Oswell had not at all expected to be asked this question, and he sensed Godfrey and Dicky grow tense beside him; he said, “Danford,” figuring that there was a very good chance Beatrice already knew his last name from the wedding list. Regardless, it was clear that T.W. was a perspicacious man who could ferret out a lie.

  “Thank you for traveling across the country to join in the celebration, Oswell Danford. James’s past remains a bit of mystery to me.”

  “Lingham is a good man. And from what I’ve seen, he’s matched or bested in every way by your very fine daughter. I like the sight of them together.”

  “Thank you,” T.W. said with a smile that covered over something unfriendly and made Oswell uncomfortable. The sheriff turned to Godfrey and clasped his hand. “You are Godfrey Danford then? His brother?”

  “I am. Though since I’ve got two years on him, I like to consider him my possession, not the other way around.” Again, T.W. smiled in a manner that hid more than it showed.

  The sheriff turned to Dicky and said, “What kind of name is Dicky for an adult?”

  “The humorous kind.”

  “What’s your real name?”

  “Richard Sterling.” Oswell was relieved that Dicky did not lie.

  T.W. shook the New Yorker’s hand and said, “Thank you for coming out to join our celebration, Richard Sterling. How does Trailspur compare to New York?”

  “There is no comparison.”

  “I agree on that score,” T.W. said, subtly winning the exchange.

  The sheriff took a step back and assessed the men as if they were newly arrived beeves to be priced for slaughter.

  He said, “Have some of the funnel cake—my cousin made it, and his recipe is better than anyone else’s. It’s got nuts and cinnamon and little bits of candied ginger in it.”

  “I was eyeing the funnel cake,” Godfrey remarked.

  Wilfreda struck te
n keys as if they were evil siblings, and an enormous harmony enveloped the crowd. Like a weary climber attempting steep stairs, the ancient woman pulsed a lugubrious rhythm on her ivory. The air grew heavy and warm.

  An attractive ash-blonde woman approximately Oswell’s age, wearing a shapely (arguably immodest) lavender dress, called out from the crowd, “T.W.”

  The sheriff turned to look at the woman and said, “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  Lingham remarked, “The Widow Evertson seems to want your company. She’s sure dressed up for it.”

  Beatrice laughed, looked at Lingham and said, “He replaced me before I even left the house.”

  “No I didn’t,” T.W. said defensively. “She just wants some company is all.”

  Wilfreda’s left hand trudged up a hill of keys while her right digits wove a delicate melody that never ended in the correct place. The crowd swayed, enthralled.

  The widow arrived, grabbed T.W.’s right arm and said, “I’ll show you how to waltz.”

  The sheriff looked at Oswell and said, “See you fellas around. Stay out of trouble.” He glanced at the valise in Oswell’s hand and then inscrutably at Lingham and was gone.

  “I wish to dance too,” Beatrice said, pulling her fiancé after her father to the raised area of the dance floor.

  Oswell, Godfrey and Dicky stood for a moment watching the celebrants.

  “He knows we’ve been on the wrong side,” Oswell said.

  “He does. Good thing he doesn’t know how to deal with that widow,” Godfrey remarked.

  Big Abe, luminous in his yellow suit and hat, transcended the swaying crowd; he climbed a foot ladder, rising above the revelers like a cyclopean canary.

  The rotund man cupped his hands, set them on either side of his mouth for amplification and yelled out, “Longways dance!”

  Wilfreda picked up the tempo of her playing; the assembly divided into male and female lines, eight rows to accommodate all of the dancers. Oswell saw Lingham skip into position opposite Beatrice.

  “Let’s partner up,” Dicky said, flung an arm around Godfrey’s shoulders and walked the older Danford to a deficient line opposite two pretty young women likely half their age.

  “Two steps front and two steps back,” Big Abe called out. The lines advanced toward each other, halted (a yard still between them) and then retreated whence they came. Wilfreda ran her right hand up the keyboard and played a diminished trill; the notes stabbed Oswell’s eardrums like icicles.

  “Three steps front and six in place,” Big Abe called out. The lines advanced to each other, stopped face-to-face, and marched in place. During the static stepping, a few eager couples pecked or swatted each other, Lingham kissed the top of Beatrice’s head, Dicky introduced himself to a redheaded woman who had not stopped blushing since the moment he had walked opposite her in the dance line and Godfrey waved shyly to the lady with pigtails with whom he danced.

  “Get on back, three steps back,” Big Abe ordered, and the genders retreated from one another. “Clap your hands three times fast.” The assembly brought their hands together thunderously. “Clap your hands three times fast and stomp the wood three times slow.” The assembly clapped sharply and stomped loudly in time with Wilfreda’s tempo. During the final footfall, Oswell heard a shriek outside the dancehall that chilled his blood.

  “Three steps front and step in place.” The genders reunited. Oswell stared at the front doors of the dance hall. He heard another shriek; it was a horse in agony.

  “Take your partner’s right hand and shake it!” Oswell glanced back at his companions. Lingham and Beatrice shook hands, both of them laughing; Dicky claimed the pale fingers of his voluptuous partner and kissed them; Godfrey shook hands with his mousy mate as if he had just sold her a doorknob. “Tell your partner, ‘Howdy!’ ”

  Seven score voices said, “Howdy,” in unison.

  “You sure look nice tonight.”

  “You sure look nice tonight,” the crowd repeated.

  “Why thank you.”

  “Why thank you!”

  “Your comportment is beyond reproach.”

  “Your comportment is beyond reproach!”

  “Now curtsy.” The crowd crossed their feet and bent their knees, each gesture on the downbeats of Wilfreda’s music. “Take three steps back and step in place.” The genders released each other and retreated back to their homogenous lines.

  Oswell walked toward the door of the dance hall, sweat running down his back; his beige shirt and blue jacket clung to his skin. He turned his head to look for the sheriff. The man was far off, wincing as he marched in place opposite the widow. From the valise, Oswell clandestinely withdrew a ten-shooter and tucked it into his belt. He opened the door an inch and looked outside.

  Cool air blew upon his sweat-glazed forehead as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. In the middle of the road he saw two loose horses, each walking in circles. One groaned in agony and collapsed to the dirt, whickering. Oswell put his hand upon his revolver and went outside.

  “Take three steps forward and grab your partner’s hands.” The stampede of the lines converging covered over the sound of him shutting the door.

  Oswell looked north and then south; other than an older couple walking toward the saloon at the end of the avenue, he saw nobody. The rancher approached the horses.

  Big Abe’s stentorian exhortations were audible through the shut door. The pitch of his voice mirrored the lyric when he said, “Hold those hands up so high and drop them down, so darn low. But don’t you dare fall in love. No, no, no—not just yet!”

  One steed lay upon the ground, kicking its hooves sideways across the dirt, its intestines strung out like steaming gray rope in all directions, a few loops tangled about one of its legs. The other horse was upright; it dragged its hanging entrails beneath it and whickered. Both of these animals were Lingham’s: the white one was the steed Godfrey had ridden and the brown mare was the one Oswell himself had mounted. The fallen horse quieted; dirt thickened its spilt blood. The walking mare continued up the street; its pink and brown entrails hissed as they dragged across the soil.

  The rancher took the reins of the upright beast and walked it into an alley. The mare’s steps grew less stable as its blood drained out and the length of its strewn guts grew longer and longer, but the female trudged on. He walked it past the offal bins of the butcher and into a small coppice, where he withdrew a large-caliber five-shot revolver from the valise, placed the barrel to its head, thumbed the hammer and fired. The horse sank to its knees, its eyes and mouth open as if to ask a question. Oswell thumbed the hammer and fired again. The horse collapsed.

  Oswell walked seven yards away from the carcass, picked up a stick, pricked the beast’s dirt-encrusted intestines and dragged them back over to the rent torso. The mare’s right hoof was still moving. Oswell knew that the motion was a dying reflex.

  The rancher left the coppice and returned up the alley, kicking dirt over the trail the horse’s guts had scored into the ground. He emerged onto the main avenue and went toward the fallen horse. Two men stood on the other side of the dead steed, limned by the light of the moon; Oswell pointed his five-shooter at them and thumbed the hammer before his heart pulsed another beat.

  “We didn’t do it,” the man on the left said. “We’re marshals.”

  The rancher, his gun still out, approached the duo; they were both in their sixties—one had a cane and the other a strange gaping grin on his face, even though the situation had clearly disturbed him. Oswell surveyed the environs and looked back over his own shoulder in case these two were decoys, but saw nothing. He appraised the marshals a second time and slid his revolver back into his belt, beside the ten-shooter. He trod toward the pair, his eyes and ears alert.

  “This your horse?” the one with the cane asked.

  “Yeah. I went after the guy who did it.”

  “You get him?”

  “We heard shots,” the other one remarked.

&nbs
p; “No.”

  Across the street, two boys had arrived to stare at the dead horse; they chewed taffy. Oswell needed to get this animal off of the street before a throng gathered.

  He took the reins of Dicky’s and Lingham’s horses and walked them over to the fallen animal. He took rope from the back of Lingham’s saddlebag and went to the dead white steed’s upraised hooves.

  “That’s a good idea. Don’t want that pretty bride to come out and see this,” the one with the weird smile said.

  The marshals helped Oswell secure ropes around the legs of the dead horse; they pulled hard to make sure the knots were secure and could bear the weight. Oswell cut and wrapped a separate rope around the animal’s entrails and then tied that coiled, viscous burden to the beast’s harness in order to contain the mess.

  “You see any wood?” Oswell asked the men; the trio looked around the area.

  From within the dance hall, Big Abe said, “Swing your partner round and round.”

  Oswell saw a sign on the adjacent storefront upon which the name VICTOR’S EMPORIUM had been written and then painted over with the word “Closed.” He walked to the five-foot sign, pulled it down from the hooks upon which it hung, set it on the ground, stamped his boot in the middle of it, lifted the right edge and snapped it in half. With the applied shoulders (and cane) of the marshals, Oswell slid the pieces of wood beneath the dead horse, raising it from the ground.

  He took the reins of the living horses and walked them forward; the ropes that tethered them to the fallen animal snapped taut; the dead steed’s white limbs jerked forward; the carcass slid across the ground on its ersatz skis. Oswell guided the horses toward the coppice in which he had disposed of the mare. The marshals walked alongside him.

  The one with the weird smile said, “Should we tell T.W.?”

  “His daughter’s getting married tomorrow. I wouldn’t want to trouble him with this business,” Oswell said.

  “You’re right. You are right. Let’s not mention it,” the one with the cane said. “Smiler doesn’t use his head.”

  “And Smith don’t got no manners.”

  After depositing the carcass into the coppice, Oswell and the marshals went to a water pump and cleaned themselves up. The rancher thanked the duo for their aid, to which they nodded their heads. The three men entered the dance hall.