Sunset and Sawdust

by Joe R. Lansdale

  “My leg. Goddamn it! It’s gone, Bull. It’s gone.”

  Bull knelt down, said, “Sunset, she’s gonna be going through that back door. She’s gonna need right smart help. You gonna have to wait.”

  “Oh, Jesus, it hurts. Go on. Do it, Bull.”

  And as Bull went away from him, Lee jerked off his belt and stuck it in his mouth and bit down, trying not to scream again.

  Bull went up and didn’t knock. Knocking was out. He went at the door with his foot and hit it hard and it flapped back like a nag’s tongue. He went in and it was dark in there as the door swung back in place, and there was nothing to see, but suddenly he felt something, something hot and at his spine, low down, and it took him a piece of a second to realize there was a knife sliding into him from behind.

  Clyde hit the door with his body, but it was a good door, and it knocked Clyde back and almost made him fall down the stairs.

  “Damn,” Clyde said, and he went at it again.

  This time the door frame gave, but not completely, and Clyde hit it again, and Sunset hit it with him, and it went back, throwing splinters, and they went in, pushing the door closed to keep out the rush of grasshoppers.

  Bull swung his shotgun butt back and around and caught something. The pressure on the knife went away. But the knife stayed with him, and he thought: Goddamn, taken from behind, that’s not right, not me, I’m always ready, but goddamn, I feel it, a knife in my back, tight as a bull’s dick in a chicken’s ass.

  Now he turned toward his attacker and was grabbed by the front of his legs, and he knew, there in the dark, he had hit someone with the shotgun stock, knocked them down and they had hold of his legs and he was going to fall on the knife.

  Bull twisted his body as he went down, tried to hit on his side, and did. Mostly. But the hilt of the knife caught some of it, and he felt it go in, like John Henry driving a railroad spike. Inside of him was all the fire of the world, then someone . . . or something . . . was crawling up him like a cockroach. And now with his eyes adjusted, light from outside coming in through the edges of the door where it had not quite closed, the light of morning filtered through the bodies of millions of locusts, he saw a black face, a head wearing a bowler hat. Then powerful hands were at his throat. He tried to bring the shotgun around, but the cockroach slapped at it so hard it was knocked from his hands, and the cockroach dropped all its body weight on him (one big roach) and it drove him down and onto the hilt of the knife and he let out a scream and there were black dots swimming in front of him and the light from the doorway went dim, then he was back, but not fully, seeing everything now as if through a piece of gauze. He tried to reach out and grab the cockroach by the throat, but all he did was knock the bowler hat off. He grabbed at the man’s head, trying to push him back. His thumb ran over something there. A scar. And now he was going weak, and he could feel something warm beneath him, his blood, running all over the floor, and he felt as if it were a great pond and he was falling back into it. He slipped his thumb around and caught the big roach in the eye, and the man twisted away, but it wasn’t good enough. Then the big man, the giant roach, wide as him, was pushing down again, making that knife really work. The face came close and Bull could see the man’s teeth as he opened his mouth and laid it over his own, began to suck, and he thought: This, this will make me mind my own goddamn business from here on out. Then he felt a wave of laughter, but couldn’t laugh. From now on. Yeah. I will mind my business. I won’t have any more business, mine or anybody else’s. And with the last of his will, Bull clamped down on Two’s bottom lip with his teeth and bit so hard he could feel his back molars crack.

  Two leaped back and Bull reached at his belt, pulled his pistol and fired. The pistol kicked and flew out of Bull’s weak hand, but the shot hit Two in the stomach.

  Two stood up.

  Bull thought: Goddamn, and I thought I was tough. He had lifted his head a bit, but now he let it lie down, closed his eyes, thought: What’s gonna come is gonna come, cause I’m done.

  Two put one hand on his stomach, stepped over Bull, toward the door, shoved it open. Insects hummed into the room. He stepped out on the stairway landing, and closed the door behind him, did it softly, like there was nothing the matter with him. He saw Lee on the top steps, his leg twisted up under him as if it were rubber, a belt in his mouth.

  “We’ve been shot,” Two said.

  Lee lifted his shotgun and let off a round. It hit Two and knocked him back and Two slammed against the railing and the boards cracked and went away and he went through, fell the long drop to the ground. Using one hand, Lee flicked another load into the shotgun, crawled over to look down, the belt clamped in his mouth like a hawk with a snake.

  Two wasn’t there.

  Lee wheeled as best he could, the pain in his leg making his vision waver, saw from his new vantage point that Two was up and walking down there, staggering up against Sunset’s car, holding his bowler in his hand. He opened the door, put on his bowler, got in behind the wheel.

  Lee worked at getting turned better, so he could get off another shot. He could feel the bone in his leg jamming against the inside of his skin. He heard the car start. He got turned around, but the doing of it was so painful, he spat out the belt, screamed, blacked out for a moment.

  When he came to, he had dropped the shotgun to the ground below, and the car was driving off with Two at the wheel. Lee ducked his head, passed out.

  Just inside the back door, Sunset and Clyde heard Bull’s pistol bark, then the shotgun blast. Sunset’s whole body was shaking. She said, “Go left, I’ll go right.”

  “I’ll go where the shot was,” Clyde said.

  “I’m the constable, you’re the deputy. You do as I say.”

  Clyde nodded, went left, down the long room. As he passed the windows, the light from them wavered and heaved with the blocking and unblocking of the morning sun by waves of grasshoppers.

  When he got to the end of the hall there was a door there, and he went through it, the back of his neck feeling as if someone had laid an ice-cold towel there.

  Sunset went right, and as she came to the end of the short wall, there was enough light from the windows she could see Bull lying there, not moving, and she could see to the left of that a shelf, and on the shelf all manner of things, but among them a silver platter next to a kerosene lantern, and in that platter, which was tilted slightly, she could see a shape coming down the hall, on the other side of the wall. Even seen in the platter, from that distance and with the bad light, she knew it was McBride. He was wearing what at first she thought was a dress, then decided was an apron. Clyde moved through the dining room with its chandelier and well-set table, and there was plenty of light in there, but it was a funny kind of light, like he was looking at it from the inside of an egg yoke. Clyde slipped along, listening. He heard the floor creak.

  Clyde stopped.

  The blond whore stumbled into view, out from an open doorway in the back. She was half dressed.

  “Don’t shoot,” she said. “He’s behind the wall. He don’t want a shoot-out.”

  “Who?” Clyde said.

  “Hillbilly.”

  “You sent a woman out, Hillbilly?”

  “You ain’t got no cause to shoot her,” Hillbilly said from behind the wall. “You’d have come right in on me and I didn’t want her shot.”

  “He don’t care about me,” said the whore. “He’s just buying time . . . Hillbilly, it’s one of those men whipped your ass.”

  Clyde motioned her over to him. “Get behind me,” he said, then to Hillbilly, “Throw out your gun.”

  “Ain’t got one.”

  The blonde shook her head.

  Clyde nodded.

  “I ain’t wanting to get killed over all this,” Hillbilly said.

  “You go on out the back way,” Clyde said to the whore.

  “McBride, he went through that door there, down the hall,” she said.

  “Go on out the back way,” Cly
de said again. “And thanks.”

  She went away and Clyde said, “I know you got a gun, Hillbilly. Throw it out.”

  “Naw. I do that, you might shoot me.”

  “I’m gonna shoot you for sure, you don’t.”

  “Let me think on it.”

  Clyde slid forward, stood near the wall, Hillbilly on the other side.

  “Last chance,” Clyde said.

  “Or what?” Hillbilly said. “I watch myself pretty good. You come get me.”

  Clyde lifted the shotgun and pointed at the wall, where he thought he heard Hillbilly, and fired, pumped another round into the chamber, dropped low, waited.

  “Goddamn,” Hillbilly said.

  Clyde slid around to the doorway, staying low, poked his head and gun around on the other side. Hillbilly lay on his back, a pistol nearby. He wasn’t hurt bad, but the shot had surprised him and he had been peppered with pellets. A piece of the wall, a splinter, had gone back and into Hillbilly’s shoulder.

  “You ain’t bad off,” Clyde said, picking up Hillbilly’s pistol, sticking it in his belt.

  Hillbilly took hold of the splinter and pulled it out of his shoulder, took a breath, turned his head toward Clyde. “Guess you can get even now.”

  Sunset heard the shotgun blast to her left, in the rooms beyond. The blonde came through a door stepping lively, saw her, waved at her, went out the back way, into the grasshoppers, closed the battered door.

  Sunset turned, looked back at the wall where McBride was. She could see him in the platter, still easing forward. She slipped backward until she was between the windows, her back against the wall. She let her ass slide to the floor, pulled her knees together, propped the shotgun on them, braced the stock against her shoulder.

  McBride poked his head around the corner, poked it so fast the stupid black wig he was wearing shifted dramatically.

  Sunset cut down on him.

  Most of the shot hit the wall, but stray pellets lit into McBride’s face and he let out a yell, disappeared back behind the barrier.

  Sunset pumped up another load, braced herself again. Thought: He hasn’t figured I can see him in the platter. She could see him leaning against the wall, picking at the pellets in his face.

  “You damn bitch,” he said. “You hit me some.”

  “I was trying to hit you a lot,” Sunset said. “Surrender, and it’ll go better.”

  “Ha.”

  “You always wear an apron?”

  “You messed up my breakfast, bitch. I’m gonna shoot you until you can’t be made out for a person.”

  Sunset was trying to decide what to do, like maybe break and run, because here she was, just sitting, nothing to protect her but hopefully being quicker than McBride, and she was thinking this when McBride stepped out quickly from behind the wall, took hold of the lantern and stepped back.

  She fired.

  But it was too late. Her shot hit the far wall and the silver platter fell, hit on its edge, came rolling toward her, whirled and fell flat.

  Goddamn, Sunset thought. I was looking at him in the platter, and he still beat me to the punch.

  The lantern, lit, appeared on McBride’s arm from behind the wall and was tossed at her. Sunset leaped away. The lantern hit behind her. A burst of flame ran up the wall, ate the wallpaper like cotton candy. Sunset felt its heat, felt her hair crinkle. She rolled away from it as McBride stepped out from behind the wall. He had a double-barrel shotgun, and when he cut loose, Sunset, already rolling, threw herself flat. The shot tore above her. She felt some of it nip at her heels and heard the window behind her blow. Then there was a sound like something growling from beyond the grave.

  Sunset lifted her head, tried to put McBride in her sights, but what she saw was his amazed face. He had broken the gun open, having fired both barrels, was ready to reload, but his expression caused Sunset to turn her head, look over her shoulder.

  The flames on the wall were licking out to taste the air and the grasshoppers flooding in were catching fire. They washed in a burning wave toward McBride.

  McBride dropped the shotgun, covered his face as they hit him, a mass of bugs aflame. His wig burst alight, and he tried to dive to the floor, but the grasshoppers followed him down, were all over him. He rose up screaming, batting at the air, his apron on fire, and Sunset thought: You dumb sonofabitch, just roll. You ain’t on fire, it’s your apron, that stupid wig.

  But he didn’t roll. The wig had become a fool’s cap of fire. He snatched it off his shiny bald head, tossed it and ran. Ran straight at Sunset. Sunset was so amazed, she didn’t shoot, and he kept going, running hard, went right past her and through what was left of the window, flames flapping behind him like a cape, insects on fire, whizzing around his head like a halo. Then the cape of fire dropped through the window and was gone and the air crackled with flames and exploding grasshoppers.

  Clyde appeared to her left. He had Hillbilly with his hands tied behind his back with a twisted pillowcase. Hillbilly looked bloody and bowed, but not too bad off.

  “You okay?” Clyde called.

  “Almost,” she said. “He hurt bad?”

  “Got some pieces in him, mostly wood from the wall. He’ll live.”

  The entire wall behind Sunset was on fire and the fire was spreading. She said, “Out the front.”

  “Is that all of them?” Clyde said. “Did we get them all?”

  “God, I hope so.”

  Sunset stood, slapped flames off her skirt where the kerosene had splattered and caught. Clyde kicked Hillbilly in the ass, said, “Move it, songbird.”

  When Sunset got to the doorway, she stopped and bent over Bull. She said, “Bull?”

  “Is he gone?” Bull said.

  “Who?”

  “That big nigger in the bowler?”

  “I don’t see him anywhere.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I’m sorry, Bull.”

  “Don’t let the peckerwoods have my body.”

  “You’re gonna be all right.”

  “Got a knife in my back. My legs, everything from my pickle down, gone cold, won’t move no more. We on fire? I smell smoke.”

  Clyde was there with Hillbilly now. He said, “Yeah. There’s fire, Bull.”

  “Let me burn,” Bull said.

  “You ain’t gonna burn. Clyde, go down and put Hillbilly in the car. There’s rope in the trunk, you need it. Use it to tie his legs to his arms, throw him in the backseat, better yet, the trunk. Come back and help me with Bull—Jesus, where’s Daddy? Bull, can you hear me? Where’s Daddy?”

  But Bull didn’t answer.

  A moment later, Clyde came back in with Hillbilly. “There ain’t no car. Your daddy, he’s hurt.”

  “Hurt?”

  “Yeah. Leg is broke.” Clyde looked down at Bull. He wasn’t moving and his eyes were closed. “Bull?”

  “Bull’s gone,” Sunset said, coughing at the smoke.

  “Yeah, and so is this place,” Hillbilly said.

  The far wall was fire, and the fire, fed by kerosene on the floor, was creeping toward them.

  “Leave him,” Clyde said.

  Sunset thought about that, about how he lived and what he told her, said, “Reckon so.”

  Sunset took Hillbilly down, her shotgun in his back, and Clyde picked up Lee, carried him.

  When they were at the bottom of the steps, Hillbilly said, “I didn’t mean for it to go this way, Sunset.”

  “I have a feeling you don’t never mean for nothing to happen, but it always does.”

  “I’m kind of cursed.”

  “Hell, you are the curse.”

  The flames were licking at the apartment and smoke was pouring out the open door and the drugstore below was starting to catch fire. The flames were so hot and bright, the grasshoppers had finally started to recede. Sunset looked up, saw them like a dark rainbow against the sky, going south, and fast, dimming the sun.

  When Clyde came down the steps carrying Lee like a
baby, Sunset said, “Watch this piece of dung a minute,” and left him with Hillbilly. She went around back, looking for McBride, still cautious, the shotgun at the ready.

  She found McBride face forward against the overhang. There were burn marks on the ground where he had dragged himself. He was a blackened shape now, his hands like claws where he had scooped out some clay as if trying to climb up the overhang to God knows where, or maybe burrow through it.

  They went across the street to the jail, Sunset with her gun at Hillbilly’s back, prodding, and Clyde carrying Lee. They put Hillbilly in the cell with Plug, and Clyde laid Lee on the bunk in the other cell, called up the town doctor, who came and looked at Lee and said he was bad.

  “He’s gonna need a hospital,” the doctor said. “That leg. It might have to come off. I ain’t up for that kind of thing.”

  “I got use for this leg,” Lee said, his face covered in sweat.

  The doctor, who was a short fat man wearing a plaid shirt and pants that looked as if they could use a wash, said, “Yeah, but it might not have any use for you anymore. I’m gonna do my best to set it, but we got to get you over to Tyler. There’s people there better at this kind of thing than me. This ain’t no simple break. This one’s all twisted up.”

  “We’ll get you to the doctor, Daddy,” Sunset said. “He don’t know that’s what will happen for sure.”

  “If I mess with it much, it is,” the doctor said.

  “Can you take him to Tyler?” Sunset said.

  “I can,” said the doctor, “but it’ll cost.”

  “He’s a deputy constable.”

  “He’s your daddy.”

  “And he’s still a deputy constable. You see he gets there. You bill Camp Rapture—better yet, you bill Holiday. And give him something for pain.”

  “For Christ sakes, yes,” Lee said. “Knock me out. Give me some dope. Something.”

  “Daddy,” Sunset said, liking the sound of calling him that better and better, “still believe what you said, about the union of everything in the universe, us and everything in it all being part of one big thing?”