by Ronald Kelly
"How's work, Clayburn?"
Biggs shook his head. "Scarce. There's just so many odds and ends a man can do in this county.
"I know what you mean," Dusty agreed. A veil of gloom shaded his robust face. "I just ain't making it selling milk and eggs to the folks in town. Been thinking of going over to Clarksville, maybe Nashville, and finding steady work of some sort."
"The work is up north," put in Buster, who was no better off than his friends. "Detroit, Chicago, Philadelphia. I hear they're always looking for able-bodied men who ain't afraid of hard work. Offering fair wages, too."
"Too damned far for a steady paycheck, I'd say," said Clay.
They all sat there for a long moment, in silence, the only sounds coming from the iron stove and Woody Sadler. After a while, Andy Grissom spoke up, pausing first to send a spritz of tobacco juice into a brass cuspidor nearby. "Boys, hog killing time is coming up, and I've got seven to be butchered. I'm gonna need a hand in doing it, so I'd be obliged if you three could help me out. Afraid I can't offer you cash money, but I'll give you all the pork you can carry."
"We'd sure appreciate that, Andy," replied Clay, his eyes grateful. Buster and Dusty echoed the sentiment.
The copper cow bell over the front door jangled with the entrance of two new customers. The men at the stove nodded in quiet greeting, although none of them were overly familiar with the pair. Woody Sadler glanced up as he scratched another item off the grocery list. "Well, if it ain't Hanson and Darnell. What have you boys been up to lately? Haven't seen hide nor hair of you two in a good long while."
"We've been up to Kentucky helping some kin of mine with a little personal business," answered the bigger of the two men.
"The shotgun shells still on that top shelf over yonder?" inquired the other, as lanky as a vineless beanpole. "We're gonna get in some squirrel hunting this evening."
Woody turned back to his work. "Yep. Top shelf, far aisle."
As they headed down the aisle for the ammunition shelf, the hefty fellow in the plaid wool coat and hunting cap brushed past the little girl who had her attention glued to a china doll in a blue calico dress. Cindy would have paid the two no mind, except that something strange happened—something that she could not fully explain at first.
A peculiar feeling washed over her, an abrupt sensation of cold contempt and fear combined. She stared up at the big man, a noticeable shiver running throughout her thin body.
"What's the matter, girl?" remarked Hanson. "Did a possum walk over your grave just now?"
The men continued on, the skinny one cackling loudly as if his partner had cracked a good one. The sounds of their voices as they discussed the correct load for squirrel echoed dully in her ears. She backed away from them and down the aisle toward the door. "Pappy," she called. "I'm going back out to the truck."
Clay took a drag on his cigarette. "I'll be out directly, pumpkin." He gave her a quick wink, then returned to a conversation concerning the coming deer season.
Cynthia Ann let the door slam behind her, then ran to the passenger side of her father's pickup truck. She sat on the running board, her arms crossed and her eyes staring absently at flattened bottle caps on the hard-packed earth. She tried to shake the awful feeling that had gripped her in the store, but was unsuccessful. The broad, ugly face of the big man lingered in her mind's eye: the sandy blond crewcut, the nose that had been twice broken, and those eyes . . . those cold, gray eyes as cunning and humorless as those of a wolf. She had seen something bad in those eyes, heard something evil in that gravelly voice. Exactly why she felt that way, Cindy Ann could not understand. It was not something she could easily put her finger on, just something that she knew about the man.
The slap of the screen door and the heavy clump of boots on the porch steps roused the child from her thoughts. She sat perfectly still on the running board, hoping the two would not notice her as they passed. But Hanson caught her out of the corner of his eye and, nudging his friend, just could not resist walking over to tease the nine-year-old.
"Now, I hope I didn't go and scare you none back there in the store," he rumbled loudly, stooping to her level. "Surely wouldn't want you to fear me, girl. It's plumb bad luck to have a red-haired woman peeved at you, you know."
"Yeah," put in the one called Darnell. "You oughta know, as many redheads that have jilted you."
Hanson gave his partner a withering glare that shut him up instantly. He turned his attention back to Cindy. "You're a cute little heifer, all fire-red hair and freckles. And that nose . . . why, I believe I'll just steal that for myself." And, with that, he brought his massive hand close to her face, then drew it away with a snap.
"Gotcha!" He laughed, his thumb protruding between the index and middle finger, giving the illusion of a captured nose.
Cindy could only stare in sudden horror, so much so that she swallowed her dwindling jawbreakers in one gulp. But it was not the childish prank that disturbed her. Rather, it was the man's voice grating in the far reaches of her subconscious. Gotcha . . . it reverberated over and over again, until finally another image accompanied the word: a murky figure of a man in the driving rain, the brittle click of a shotgun's hammer being cocked and a skeletal grin unseen in the darkness.
Gotcha . . . Johnny!
The child gasped in sudden shock, her eyes widening, her face growing starkly pale. In terror, her head craned back and hit the cool surface of the truck door with a rattling thud.
"Now look what you did, Bully," said the lanky one. "You done gone and frightened the young'un."
Hanson roared with laughter, opening his massive paw to expose his reddened thumb. "I was just funning you… see?"
Cindy could only stare at the big man. Her lips quivered as she looked Bully in his cold gray eyes. "You're the one," she breathed. "You're the one who done it."
"Done what, little missy?" He chuckled at the girl's startled expression.
"You're ... the one ... who killed ... Johnny."
Bully's laughter choked off into silence. He craned his beefy neck around to regard his sidekick. Claude stood there with the frightened eyes of a rabbit, looking as if he had seen a ghost. "Let's get the hell outta here, Bully!"
"Hush up," the big man growled. Then, with softer eyes, he turned back to the girl. "What kinda foolishness are you talking, girl? You know we ain't the ones who done that terrible thing."
"Yes, you did," said Cindy, the flame of defiance suddenly flaring in those hazel green eyes. "You killed them all in that old tobacco barn, then buried them there. You both had a hand in it!"
Bully and Claude stood there in stunned silence, not knowing exactly what to think or do. Darnell watched his buddy closely, for he knew Bully well. The big man had a bad temper, not the hot-headed impulsive kind, but the scheming slow-fused type. He could see that temper burning now behind those small gray eyes. Claude waited breathlessly for Hanson's reaction to the girl's accusation. You never could tell with Bully. The big man might laugh it off as a joke or suddenly reach out and snap the youngster's neck like it was nothing more than a stick of dry kindling.
Whatever Bully had in mind, it was lost to the sudden slam of the mercantile door as Clay Biggs crossed the porch with his meager purchase.
"Come on, Bully!" hissed Claude, digging his fingernails into his pal's broad shoulder. "Let's get outta here!"
Bully nodded, but remained face to face with Cindy for a final, lingering moment. An evil hatefulness exuded from the man as his eyes bored deeply into her own. "You tell your folks — you tell anyone—and I'll surely kill you."
Then the two were gone, walking swiftly past the double gas pumps to a primer gray truck which sat parked under a towering oak. Cindy watched as Bully gave her one last threatening glare. Then he stashed the box of shells under the truck seat and, climbing inside, headed the vehicle north toward town, churning a billow of dust and gravel in its wake.
"Let's get on home, Cindy," Clay said from around the front fender. Numbly,
the child obeyed her father and climbed into the truck. She sat there quietly as her father set the groceries in the back and fumbled for his keys.
On the short drive home, Clay eyed his daughter with concern. Her bubbling happiness had faded into silent despair during their visit to Woody's store. He figured he knew what it was; the fancy china doll on the toy shelf. Surrounded by cast-iron fire engines and ball and jack sets, the doll was the only thing that mattered to Cindy during their weekly visits. Clay knew that she wanted Santa to bring it on Christmas morning, but the doll was just too expensive for the farmer's budget that year. He would even have trouble scraping up enough for the traditional orange and candy stick that blessed each child's stocking on that holiest of winter days.
But he suddenly realized that that was not what bothered her when Cindy abruptly broke down and cried. Clay pulled the truck to the side of the road and leaned over the seat, resting one work-calloused hand on the child's quivering shoulder. "What's wrong, baby?"
Tearful eyes lifted upward. She had to try several times before coherent words could break the force of her weeping. "Those two men… back at the store. They ... they scared me."
A tightness clenched in Clay's narrow chest. He recalled Bully Hanson and Claude Darnell standing near the truck when he came out. "What did they do, pumpkin? What did they say that frightened you so?"
"They said they'd kill me, Pappy ... if I told you."
"Told me what?"
Cindy wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her patched sweater. "They were the ones. They were the ones who killed Johnny."
An electric thrill sparked through Clay's lanky frame, and he sat there for a long moment, unable to speak. He listened as she told him of Bully and Claude's part in the murdering of the three young men. She also told him, after a silence of nearly three months, of the knowledge concealed by Harvey Brewer.
When her tale had been told and her weeping calmed by Clay's soothing words, they continued on their way home. Each one, father and daughter, wrestled with the conflict of their own private thoughts. Cindy's were full of horror and shock at the frightening discovery, while Clay's were forged from a much more primitive emotion.
Cindy sensed the feelings and suddenly knew what he had in mind. "Don't do it, Pappy," she pleaded, tears resurfacing. "Please . . . don't do it."
Clayburn Biggs said nothing. He continued his steady pace down the rutted dirt road, his knuckles white with strain as he clutched the steering wheel, his piercing blue eyes glaring furiously through the dust-speckled windshield, as if searching out some secretive and unsavory destination that lay out of sight on the darkening horizon. A destination that would find Clay ready and willing to do what needed to be done.
Chapter Nineteen
That night after supper, Clay slipped, unnoticed, into his and Maudie's bedroom. Feeling his way through the darkness, he reached the heavy chest of drawers. For a moment he stood there. He listened to the muffled sounds of activity in the rear rooms of the house; the clatter of his wife washing the evening dishes, the laughter of Polly and Sam as they warmed up the radio for that night's listening.
Satisfied that no one would intrude, Clay located the third of five drawers. He rummaged through his meager assemblage of long-handle underwear and woolen socks, until he found what he was looking for. He brought a paper sack out and, sitting on the feather bed, withdrew its contents from the brown paper wrapper.
Moonlight shone through the front window, trickling coldly down the length of blued steel and checkered walnut. The gun was a Colt .45 semi-automatic pistol, one that he had won off Gary Lee Horne in a poker game back during his gambling days. Horne had sneaked it back from Germany after the World War, and he claimed to have killed a dozen Krauts with the sidearm. Knowing the drunkard well, Clay figured of his boast to be pure bull, but he certainly knew a good firearm when he held it in his hand. Pressing the magazine release, the slender clip slid smoothly from the butt. Clay checked the magazine. It was fully loaded with seven rounds of .45-caliber ammunition. He slapped the magazine back into place, worked the slide, and jacked a cartridge into the breech. The action was as smooth as silk, and frankly, he was surprised. After all, the handgun had lain dormant in the underwear drawer for nearly twenty years.
Clayburn breathed in deeply, the muscles of his face and neck tensing at the very thought of what might take place that autumn night. He could still recall his youngest daughter's eyes staring across the table at him during their quiet meal. He had purposely avoided her gaze, for she was the only one there who knew what he intended to do. Cindy knew he would hunt out two men that night, and if he had the chance, gun them down. She also knew, as he did, that his planned vendetta might very well backfire. The consequences of his drastic action could prove fatal. After all, these were cold-blooded murderers he was dealing with.
Driving the disturbing thoughts from his mind, he tucked the .45 into the back of his waistband and slipped on a denim jacket to conceal the bulk of the weapon. "Maudie," he called from the hallway. "I'm going out for a while." He took his hat from the coat rack near the door and started to leave.
His wife's puzzled stare stopped him in his tracks. "Now, where in heaven's name do you think you're off to on a Saturday night?" she demanded, water-soaked hands planted on wide hips. She knew her husband's routine well enough to be suspicious. Since they were first married, Clay had spent his Saturday nights at home. He would eat, then listen to the Grand Ole Opry and, after smoking a leisurely cigarette or two, retire for the evening.
"I'm going to talk to a man about work," he lied.
Maudie's disbelief was evident in the lines of her face. "You sure now? Nothing ain't wrong, is it?"
Clay forced a grin. "Of course not. You go on and finish your dishes. I'll be back before you know it."
"All right," Maudie replied. She did not return the smile as she turned back to the sink.
Cynthia Ann still sat at her place at the supper table, doodling on an envelope with a stubby lead pencil. She watched as her father opened the door and unfastened the hook on the screen. Desperately, she lashed out with her thoughts, hoping the warning would ring true. Please, Pappy, don't go! Clay froze for a fleeting second, and at first, Cindy thought that maybe she had succeeded. But then he was gone, closing the door behind him in a scraping of warped wood against the doorjamb.
The nine-year-old listened. Her alert ears picked out the slamming of the truck door and the rumble of its engine as the vehicle headed in the direction of town.
The rapid-fire melody of bluegrass music drifted in from the parlor as the Nashville show began on the radio. "Ain't you gonna listen to the Opry, Cindy?" asked her mother.
I must tell her, thought the red-haired girl. Pappy told me not to, but I've just got to, for his own sake. She could imagine attending the funeral of her father, burying him there beside Johnny, wreathed in the grievous weeping of a widow and four surviving youngsters. And, also, she could imagine walking down Coleman's main street one afternoon. Bully Hanson would be standing there in front of Jenson's Drugstore, and when no one else was looking, he would give her a devilish wink, his eyes as cold and gray as the granite of a tombstone. The mere thought horrified Cindy. Was it a sliver of prophecy that had come to her or only her vivid imagination?
She knew that she dared not take any chances. "Mama . . . something terrible is gonna happen tonight."
At the grim tone of the child's voice, Maudie whirled. A china saucer slipped from her soapy hands, shattering on the boards of the kitchen floor. She paid it no mind and hurriedly sat in the chair opposite her daughter. "Does it have anything to do with your father?"
Cindy nodded and, tearfully, recounted the day's harrowing events. She told her of the awful discovery of Johnny's murderers and of Clay's reaction to the news.
"But why didn't you tell me before he left?" asked Maudie.
Cindy shrugged, her freckled cheeks streaked with fresh tears. "He told me not to tell," she finally said. "Bes
ides . . . I figured he wouldn't like me anymore if I said anything."
Quickly, the woman went to the bedroom. A prayer on her lips, Maudie tossed Clay's underwear onto the floor; looking for the gun she knew he kept hidden there. Panic nearly seized her when she found it missing. "Lord in Heaven have mercy!" she exclaimed.
She stood there for a long moment, thinking it over, knowing that with each tick of the clock, Clay was a fraction closer to the ones he sought. "Cindy Ann… do you have any idea where he might be going?"
The nine-year-old closed her eyes and breathed deeply. At first, she sensed nothing. Then the odor of cigarette smoke curled through her nostrils and an unfamiliar taste crossed her tongue… as bitter as medicine, with a burning bite to it. "Mama… what does whiskey taste like?"
Instantly, Maudie knew. "Josh!" she yelled. "Josh, get in here this minute!"
The lanky teenager ambled out of the parlor, followed by Polly and Sam. Josh was slow-witted in some ways, but he was a shrewd judge of character. He could tell with one glance that Maudie was close to hysteria. "What's wrong, Mama?"
"Josh," she began, closing her eyes to calm herself. "I want you to run down to Woody's store as fast as you can. Woody closes early on Saturday night, but you knock on that door till he lets you in. Now listen to me, Josh, and remember what I say. I want you to call Sheriff White and tell him there's gonna be bad trouble over at the Bloody Bucket and that he should get over there as quick as possible. You got that?"
An expression of serious determination could be seen in Josh's normally dreamy eyes. "I'm on my way, Mama. Don't you worry none." He grabbed his hat and coat and was out the door and across the yard in a flash.
Suddenly, Maudie felt herself engulfed in a family hug, flanked on all sides by the frightened faces of Polly, Sam, and Cynthia Ann. She hugged them back with all her might, seeking comfort from their closeness. "You've gotta stop him, Lord," she whispered as warm tears overcame her. "Stop him from what he wants to do and bring him back home where he belongs."