I stood eye to eye with the rogue, opening my coat to show him Frenchy’s knife and the pistol at my belt. I did not offer them up. He reached for the knife. I snatched it up to his throat the same time I felt a sharp point poking into me. I glanced down to see him holding a blade at my belly. We held each other’s fate for a few more seconds then he started laughing, his steel-blue eyes tearing up. The whole camp began to laugh, including Billy.
“Ya come here armed boy, ya best be ready to kill someone. Else ya might get killed yerself.”
I eased Frenchy’s knife back into my belt as my would-be assailant tucked his safely away. “Name’s John Murrell,” he said and bowed. “Welcome to the Devil’s Punch Bowl, sir.”
I offered my hand and we shook, his grip cold and hard. Thank you was all I could muster.
“Game starts with the moon risin’ through them trees yonder way.” He hooked a thumb over his right shoulder, east toward two huge oaks lit by firelight. “Come on in,” he said and beckoned us to follow him up to the building. The closer we got, the more I realized that it was indeed a church.
I glanced at Billy. “Hell of a place for a card game.”
“Aye, mate, I’ve heard the best,” he said with a gleam in his eye, and we walked on into the church.
Outside, the singing resumed, as if the men were a choir, their voices raised in harmony to Heaven. Inside, the church was deathly quiet. I shuddered as I walked through the weather-beaten black doors. The few churches I had been in had many long rows of pews laid out across the floor to seat the congregation. This one lay bare except for a lone, round table in the center of the room with four plain wooden chairs circled around, the kind Fontenelle would sit in during dinner on the Diana. Eight pillars stood, holding up a broken, vaulted ceiling, with the only light coming from candles strung off hooks on each pillar. Dark patches of the evening sky shown through the holes in the ceiling. On the far back wall, behind the black pulpit, there hung a white cross. Or the clean, white paint where a cross once hung. The smell of mildew creep filled the sanctuary.
“Missionaries built it. Thought they would turn the savage beasts to Jesus. The savages were too smart fer that!” Murrell offered. “Look out yonder at them men singin’. My clan. Why they’re all mostly nigger an’ Injun, mixed blood. If ya get close ’nough to smell ’em . . .” He whistled. A young, dark-skinned girl joined us. “You can kill ’em, I suppose. ’Course, they sing my songs beautiful, don’t they, Mr. Creed?”
I did not know at all what the man was speaking of, but I still answered. “Yes, sir, they sing beautiful. I’ve heard this tune before but don’t know its name.”
“ ‘Rock of Ages,’ Mr. Creed. You heard a’ ‘Rock of Ages’?” Murrell’s sunken eyes shimmered.
“I sang that as a young boy sitting next to me mom, with me brother,” Billy said under his breath.
Murrell kissed the girl hard on the lips and smacked her backside, her plain white dress no more than a mere slip to see through. “Bring us some supper. Our friends must be mighty hungry. And a new bottle.” He smiled as he watched her disappear back into the shadows, beyond the candlelight.
The singing stopped in mid-verse, as if something had struck down all the men at once. Harold appeared at the double doors. “The moon, sir. She’s ’tween the trees.”
“Ah, yes.” Murrell approached the doors with a slow, deliberate walk and stepped outside. “William Wilkey,” he stated loudly to his men. “You have been called, son.”
I grabbed Billy’s coat, pulled him close, and whispered, “What have you brought us into, mate? This ain’t just a god-damn card game!”
“Stay calm, Zeb, don’t rile him up. He gets mighty testy when he gets riled up.”
“So you know him, then? I thought you two were strangers. He seems not to know you.” Murrell was still outside but I continued to whisper, though it was as if the walls of his church heard each of my words and felt my beginning panic. “We should leave, now. Somehow, knowin’ you, you riled him up in the past an’ I ain’t stickin’ ’round to find out how much!”
I let him go as Murrell walked back into the sanctuary. Following behind him was the man I almost shot in the forest. Outside, the singing recommenced with another hymn I was not familiar with.
“Gentlemen, this here is Mr. Wilkey. His friends call him William,” Murrell announced, “ain’t that right?” Wilkey glared at me and nodded, then lowered his head.
“He will join us at the round table.” Murrell whistled and the girl appeared carrying a tray of roasted goat meat with wild onions and greens, a bottle and glasses. Where she came from, I did not know. I heard no door open or shut. She arranged the food and drink to seat four at the table, and disappeared back into the shadows beyond the pillars.
“Gentlemen, please sit,” Murrell said and slumped into a chair with his back to the cross. The girl reappeared with an oil lamp and set it on a tall, narrow pedestal in the center of the table. Using a candle from the nearest pillar, she lit the lamp. Light shined down only on the table and chairs. Murrell’s eyes glistened, as if he was about to cry. Yet, his face was calm, almost serene. I wondered why and how the blood ended up on his smock. He waved a hand, offering us each a seat. Wilkey hesitated then sat to his left, Billy to his right. I stood behind the chair opposite Murrell. I could not move. Even my skin screamed to get out of there and back to the boat. I was not so much afraid as I had a sense, a feeling. I did not want to die that night, in a crumbling church, in some god-awful place along the river called the Devil’s Punch Bowl.
“Why do you hesitate?” Murrell’s voice was mesmerizing, with his pitch raising or lowering to suit whomever he was speaking to.
“I ain’t a card player,” I said.
“Then why are you here?”
I gripped the back of the chair. I knew that if I lied, he would see right through me. “I’m here to get us back to our steamboat by daybreak.”
Billy glanced sideways, at Murrell and then me. His face seemed to turn a shade red.
“An’ why do ya think ya might have trouble with doin’ that, sir?”
I could not help but look at Billy. Murrell’s eyes followed mine.
“I don’t know what to say, mate,” Billy said with a sheepish grin. “I can be a bit excitable an’ lose the track of time, if you get my meaning.”
“Gentlemen, there ain’t but one game this evenin’. No matter how long it goes to, is in God’s hand . . .” Murrell chuckled, as if there was a joke to be found in his words. “An’ I’m a itchin’ to play that hand. Now, if you fellers . . .” he rose up from the table, “. . . snaked yer way through my woods an’ still ain’t got the gumption nor faith to play that hand with me, here at this table, well then . . .” He stood and pushed back his chair. The scrape across the wood floor echoed through the sanctuary. “Right, William?” he said, staring down at Wilkey.
“Right, sir.” Wilkey’s face turned as red as Billy’s.
“An’ if two fellers a wanderin’ through my woods come stumblin’ into camp with a rifle at their backs an’ their intentions ain’t true and known beforehand?”
I still stood behind the chair. “Weren’t no rifle at our backs.”
Murrell acted as if he was shocked. “So, either they walked in unnoticed, somehow knowin’ their way, as if they’d been here before. Or . . .” He sat back down but did not pull his chair to the table. “This man,” he nodded his head toward me, “give you the jump an’ is now standin’ in front of me with a loaded pistol at his belt, ready an’ willin’ to assassinate me for my crimes an’ transgressions against society. William, do ya know what society is?”
“No, no, sir,” Wilkey stuttered, “I reckon I don’t.”
“Society is all them folks we rile ’gainst to make a better world, a world fer us . . . fer us . . .” He stopped. “Ah, yes, the word comes to me now, cretins. You’re a cretin against society, William.”
Wilkey wore a confused look on his face.
&nb
sp; “An’ ya let these two society fellers waltz into camp as free an’ easy as can be.”
“I ain’t no assassin,” I stated.
“Then, sir, ya must be a cretin, like us?” Murrell asked. All three men sat staring up at me.
“No, sir, I ain’t.”
“If ya ain’t an assassin from society to come kill me, an’ ya ain’t a cretin like us, what are ya? Who are ya in God’s eyes?”
Deep down, I felt I had answered this question before, in St. Louis, the night Frenchy asked who I was. The same night he so casually let go of the rope and sliced Rudy’s head off.
I then remembered that, as I sat on the half-barrel with his black-eyed daughter staring at me, I never answered Frenchy’s question.
“I am a savage, sir.”
For the first time, I saw surprise on Murrell’s face.
Wilkey slammed his hands on the table. “I shoulda shot yous!”
“Ya had not the will nor the chance, ya goddamn cretin,” Murrell said softly and from under the table pulled two pistols, cocked one, and pointed it at me. The other pistol he cocked and sha-boom, shot Wilkey in the side of his head.
The concussion shook the foundation of the church and from somewhere above, I heard the panicked flutter of birds’ wings.
Billy sat in shock, his mouth hung open and his face a pale white. I stood staring down Murrell empty-handed, for I had no time or thought to pull my pistol. Wilkey’s head lay face down in his food with blood filling the plate to the brim and spilling over onto the table. No one came rushing to the doors of the church. The young, dark-skinned girl did not emerge from the shadows. But for the hymn still being sung outside, a death silence surrounded us.
I slowly raised my arms above my head and pressed one hand across the other to keep them from shaking.
“What the fuck, mate!” Billy shouted.
“Didn’t like his smell, damn sure didn’t trust him. He allowed an assassin to come here. If I hadn’t shot him when I did, ya woulda shot me, aye, Mr. Creed?”
“Hell man, we came here to play a bloody game of cards, not to kill anyone! Right, Zeb?” Billy could not sit still anymore and pushed back his chair with a scrape.
“Stay right there in yer seat, ya goddamn Brit. This here situation’ll resolve itself very shortly an’ you can go on ’bout yer business. I have no qualms with you.”
Billy stopped squirming.
“Why’d ya kill him?” I asked, trying my best not to let my voice quiver.
“No. You ain’t askin’ the questions, I am. First all, where were ya when he give ya the mark?”
“What mark?”
“Now, sir, don’t play no games.” Murrell sighed. “The cut on yer face, ain’t nobody been cut by Rudy, an’ lived, the son’a’bitch.”
“Goddamn Rudy . . .” I said under my breath.
Murrell leaned nearer. “What you say?”
“I said the bastard’s dead, long after he cut me.”
“Hum, I heard rumors.” He grinned slightly. “By your hand?”
“Yes,” I said, without hesitating.
Billy shook his head fiercely and then glanced to Murrell, maybe to see if he had caught my lie.
“An’ how?”
I smiled. “Cut the bastard’s head clean off.”
“Hum . . .” Murrell nodded. “With what, a sword?”
“I used a guillotine.”
Billy was squirming again, swinging his attention to Murrell then back to me as we talked. Then, he simply sat on his hands, leaned over, and watched the blood seep through the cracks of the table.
“Where in hell, may I ask, did ya find a guillotine?”
“My friend Frenchy, in St. Louis,” I said, trying my best to look him right in the eye.
Murrell lowered his pistol slightly and nodded again. Then a gaping smile creased his face. The corners of his moustache stood straight across his narrow cheeks. At least two of his front teeth were missing.
“So . . .” He snickered. “Yer friends with Frenchy.”
“Yes, sir, good friends.”
“Well, sir, ain’t that somethin’, a friend a’ Frenchy’s.” He raised his pistol and pointed it right at me. “An’ you killed Rudy . . .” His eyes grew moist and he wiped them both with his sleeve. “So, Mr. Creed, I was beginnin’ to trust you. Now I ask ya, how many more lies can there be this night ’fore I kill you, like I did ole William Wilkey here, huh?”
I tried to appear shocked that he would accuse me of not speaking the truth.
Murrell did not let me answer. “Ain’t nobody friends with Frenchy. An’ if ya ain’t his friend, ya goddamn sure ain’t using his guillotine to cut off Rudy Dupree’s head.”
The singing stopped. But for the rustle of a breeze through the openings in the ceiling and the restless night noise of the birds somewhere above our heads, it seemed the entire world was silent. I did not take my eyes off the mad man that sat across the table from me.
Murrell stared at Billy for a few long seconds. Then, as if lit by a spark, some sense of sudden recognition fell upon his face and his eyes teared up. “I know who you are, you’re Billy Frieze!”
Billy sat back in his chair, looked at Murrell, to Wilkey and to the blood creeping its way to his side of the table.
“Don’t believe we’ve ever met before this evening, mate,” Billy stated with newfound confidence.
“Never met personal, but I know who you are.” Murrell’s face was nearly as pale as Billy’s was. Again, he dropped the pistol a little, as if he were thinking what to do.
Footsteps sounded on the porch.
“You can go,” Murrell said and waved his hand toward the doors.
Billy immediately stood and walked past me. I lowered my arms and started to move away from the table.
“Not you! Not Frenchy’s friend!”
I froze, still facing Murrell. From behind me, I heard Billy step out to the porch and stop. Another man was waiting.
“Harold, make sure our new friend don’t get lost in my woods.” Murrell paused, and with the first hint of fear in his voice said, “An’ Mr. Frieze, please give my best regards to your brother, will ya? An’ any inconvenience I may have given you, sir, well, I do apologize.” He sounded most sincere.
With the fade of his footsteps, Billy was gone.
Murrell squared back up to me, his pistol still aimed at my chest. “Now, sir, if you’d please, come on ’round to the table an’ lay them weapons down, then have a seat. We’ll talk awhile ’bout yer friend Frenchy ’an maybe find how true a savage ya really are.” He grinned again and nodded at the plate sitting in front of me. “Honey, come get our new guest some hot food. After all this jawin’ we’ve done, he’s gotta be hungry.”
The dark-skinned girl came out of the shadows and picked up the plate. She did not even glance at poor ole Wilkey, with his head face down in his food and his own blood.
Murrell leaned forward and gently placed his pistol on the table. “Now, Mr. Creed, go ’head an’ tell me one more good lie, will ya?”
Under my breath, I cursed Billy Frieze, the bastard, and I cursed myself for never being much of a good, goddamn card player.
CHAPTER 17
Honey brought more food and I began to eat. I was not hungry but did not want to show Murrell any more disrespect than I had already shown him. Not because of any respect he deserved, I did not want to be shot for no good reason. The food was surprisingly good. Murrell ate from the same plate set in front of him before he shot Wilkey in the head. Though he seemed not to notice or care, there could have been bits of bone and brains mixed with the goat meat and vegetables. Watching him eat, I almost gagged on my own food.
One by one, Murrell’s men entered the church to stand quietly in the shadows, their collective stench filling the sanctuary. In a few short minutes, the air became stiflingly hot and I found it hard to breath. It was still the two of us at the table, and of course Wilkey. His blood had crept around the base of the lamp and al
ong a wood seam to drip off the edge where Billy sat only a short while before. We ate in silence, as if we were sharing some sense of solemn solitude between us. I dare not show him any panic or true fear that I held inside myself.
With a wave of his hand, two of Murrell’s men came, lifted Wilkey from the chair, and carried him away.
“Tomorrow morning, at dawn, we give him a proper burial. Do you know how we bury a man in the river? Would ya like ta know how we do that, sir?”
I slowly nodded.
“We fill their bellies full a rocks, take ’em to the middle, and slide ’em into the muddy water. They’re gone in an instant.”
“Do you say a prayer for them?” I asked.
He looked offended. “Well ’course we do! We’re all God-fearin’ men here. ’Specially Wilkey, he feared the most.” A few of the men standing behind him chuckled and Murrell spun around with a quick-fired demon look in his eyes. “If any man not ever feared somethin’ in their shit lives ’fore now, step on into the light.”
Not even the rustle of birds’ wings could be heard. The silence hurt my ears. No one stepped forward.
Murrell slowly turned back to me. “Told ya, ain’t nothin’ but cretins.” He took a finger, wiped the plate clean, and stuck it in his mouth. He sucked off the last of the food. “Now, Mr. Creed, we’re goin’ to play a game. Ya don’t like card games, ya might like this one. I ask ya three questions. Two ya tell the truth, an’ one ya lie. I get to guess which is which. If I guess right, I tie you to that chair ya sittin’ in an’ have my men throw ya in the river, right next to poor Wilkey. Except you ain’t sinkin, you float away alive. ’Course ’til that chair turns upside down. An’ well then, lest ya can breathe old muddy water . . .”
“How will you know I speak the truth?”
He laughed with almost a whistle sound, showing again the gap where his teeth used to be. “Mr. Creed, you will tell me when ya speak the truth an’ when ya lie.” With a flick of a finger, he pointed to the untouched bottle. “Honey, come here an’ pour our new friend a drink, will ya?”
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