John Wesley had forgotten the pain, remembered the beating itself as some kind of trophy; he had neither heard nor learned the lesson.
Now he watched his father’s stern face as the lines drew deeper and the eyes darkened. Without a word, Hardin kicked his spurs into his animal’s flanks and set off at a gallop towards the smoke, John Wesley, excitement rising in his throat, following on behind as close as he could.
~*~
The preacher ordered his son to stay back some thirty yards from the smoking ruins, dismounting himself and walking slowly forward, pistol drawn and cocked. The stink of charred wood was tainted by the slightly sweet smell of what Hardin recognized all too readily as flesh. As he kicked his way through the debris, he discovered that his wife’s bullet-ridden brother had been left, or thrown, close against the rear wall. One arm was badly burned and the skin at one side of his face was so scorched that it had begun to blacken and crack, breaking off like brittle, blistering paint.
The woman was face-down inside the corral, her skirt still high above her head and flapping, blood-spattered, in the breeze. Hardin knelt beside her and covered her legs, the invocation to a wrathful God loud enough on his lips for his son to hear and echo.
It was John Wesley who found his young cousin, Vinnie. Drawn by the soft cries of a small animal, he ignored his father’s warning and followed the sounds to where the cat stood alongside Vinnie’s head, lapping with delicate taste the blood that was drying in a cracked line that ran across the dry ground from the boy’s smashed skull.
At least, reasoned Hardin later, that was better than his son discovering the girl where she had been hurled. Akimbo amongst the stumps of vegetables in her father’s garden, March’s stained and soiled body stared eyeless into the sun, a single feather caught between her arm and the recently turned earth.
They buried them behind the burned-out buildings, working without words, father and son, the hate simmering inside each of them only to be released by the preacher when he roared his funeral oration to a congregation of one.
For John Wesley Hardin, the rage was to find release three years later.
Chapter Two
Winter 1868
‘Cold enough to freeze your balls off, ain’t it, boy?’
John Wesley grinned across at his uncle and slapped his hands hard against the front of his plaid coat, shaking down a ripple of frost. ‘Sure is, Uncle Aaron. That an ’more.’
‘Get us back to the house, we’ll hunker down front of the fire with a shot of corn mash ... how’s that sound?’
‘Pretty good,’ John Wesley laughed.
Aaron settled his ham-like hand on his nephew’s shoulder and gripped tight. He ran a mite wild at times, but for all that he was a good enough kid. Hell, kid! Already he weren’t more than a couple of inches less than himself and he had good muscle on his limbs. Never run to fat, though, too much energy working itself off. Even when he weren’t moving nothin’ else his eyes were on the move an’ times he chewed away at the inside of his mouth like his pa did.
‘Don’t imagine you get too much whiskey come your way, do you, John? That brother of mine bein’ a man of the cloth an’ all.’
John Wesley shook his head. ‘Pa takes a nip sometimes. If he leaves the bottle around, I’ll sneak a swallow or two when he ain’t lookin’.’
‘Huh! Never let him catch you, boy, or he’ll whip your ass from here to the Promised Land.’
John Wesley nodded. ‘One time he did just that. Come in the house an’ I was standing there with this bottle in my hand. Pulled it away and tried to get it round behind my back. Shakin’ so much at him bein’ there so sudden, like the devil himself or somethin’. I was throwin’ whiskey all over the floor.’
Aaron laughed and slapped his belly. ‘What in the Lord’s name did your pa say about that?’
Told me it was a sin to waste good liquor that ways. Then he held out his hand for the bottle, took a snap at it an’ reached for the belt back of the door.’
‘I bet he whipped you good,’ laughed Aaron.
John Wesley shook his head from side to side, smiling at what distance had changed to an almost pleasant memory. ‘He beat me till my ass was bluer’n my ma’s blueberry pie.’
Aaron chortled fit to bust. ‘Bluer’n blueberry pie, that’s good, John. That’s good.’
The excited breath of both of them stood out clear on the cold air.
‘Blacker,’ said John Wesley, aiming to go one better, ‘blacker than the face of one these niggers you got workin’ your fields.’
Aaron couldn’t speak for shaking; his mouth was open and dark, his eyes running with tears that started to freeze up before they ran off his face. He clung to his nephew for support, controlling himself slowly. When eventually he could speak, he pulled John Wesley close and said: ‘Them as killed your kin three year back, you known them for niggers, don’t you?’
‘Pa, he—’
‘Black trash, sure as I stand here!’
‘We never
‘Who else d’you think would do a thing like that?’ Aaron swung the youth round to face him, his breath ripe in John Wesley’s face. ‘Who else but niggers’d rape an’ burn the way they done? What d’you think? What?’
John Wesley pulled himself free, stepped away, turned, a hand scooping hair back from his eyes and high across his forehead. ‘Guess you got to be right.’
‘Right?’ boomed Aaron. ‘Sure as all Hell I’m right. Didn’t your pa tell you that? Didn’t he tell you the truth of that, boy?’
John Wesley nodded. ‘He allowed some of ’em was likely niggers—’
‘Some! Likely! He ain’t seein’ things square an’ true, that’s for sure. He been starin’ in that damned Bible of his till nothin’ comes out right no more.’
‘The way we heard it, Uncle Henry got to cussin’ this feller in town. Northerner, but he was white. Ran loose with a bunch of fellers black an’ white. They
But Aaron moved away from him, wide-eyed, both hands pushed out with their fingers spread. ‘Hold on, now. You hold on one little minute, now. Let’s be clear what you’re sayin’ here. Are you, are you accountin’ that them folk of yours got what was comin’ to ’em? That Henry deserved all that ... all that filth on account of he gave some piece of carpetbaggin’ trash a piece of his mind? Is ... is that what you’re sayin’?’
‘No, Uncle Aaron, course I ain’t.’
‘That’s all right then. Because if I thought you was—’
‘What I was sayin’ was that we, Pa an’ me, we don’t reckon the folks as did this was all black.’
Aaron stuck his finger close to his nephew’s face and back of it, his own face, reddened and flushed, showed sweat despite the cold. ‘They was runnin’ with niggers, weren’t they?’
‘Sure, I—’
‘Ridin’ with ’em?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Likely livin’ with ’em. Like they was the same, like they was equal?’
‘Likely.’
‘There y’are then. Live with a nigger, treat him as equal, you gets like ’em. They contaminate you. Deep down. Deep inside. Oh, on the surface you may look the same, you may look white, but you ain’t. No, indeed. You ain’t. Not any more, no. You’re black. You’re a nigger. And that... that’s what did this to your kin. That’s what raped that little cousin of yours an’ her ma. Raped an’ killed and burnt like animals on account of that’s what they had become.’
He grasped John Wesley hard by both arms, fingers pressing deep through his own gloves and the thickness of the youth’s coat.
‘You see that, don’t you, boy?’
John Wesley nodded, tight-lipped, trying not to react to the pain that was beginning to make itself felt in the muscles of his upper arms.
‘You see that?’
‘Sure.’
‘You sure?’
‘I said it, I see.’
‘Okay. All right.’ Aaron nodded once, breathing heavily. He loosed his grip and stepped away,
holding the young man still with his eyes. ‘Long as you know ... niggers done it. You got that?’
John Wesley sighed. ‘Sure. Niggers done it.’
Aaron’s face broke into a smile, his mouth opened to a harsh laugh. He turned John Wesley towards the house, an arm across his shoulders. ‘Let’s get that drink.’
~*~
The following morning Aaron took one of the wagons out to the eastern quarter and left John Wesley to tend to the high barn with Little Billy for a companion. Billy was Aaron’s son and so John Wesley’s cousin. A year younger than John Wesley, he was gangling, uncoordinated and none too bright. The pair of them got on well enough, without ever being real friends. Like most youths of their age, they were forever trying to best one another, whether at riding, running, climbing or fighting.
Apart from riding, on account of the way Little Billy’s body suddenly became controllable as soon as he sat in the saddle, John Wesley had to try hard not to win too easily.
They’d been sorting and cleaning tackle in the barn for no more than an hour when Billy curled a cinch strap over on to a bale of straw and cussed good and loud.
‘What’s eatin’ you?’ asked John Wesley.
‘This work.’
‘What about it?’
‘It’s borin’.’
‘It ain’t hard.’
Little Billy made a face and swung one of his long arms out to one side. ‘I never said it was hard, I said it was borin’. I’m sick to my hind teeth with this blasted barn.’
John Wesley shook his head and grinned.
‘Now what’s eatin’ you?’ Billy snapped at him.
‘Me? Nothin’.’
‘Then take that fool grin off your face.’
John Wesley stood quite still and did exactly as his cousin told him; the only thing was, the look that replaced the grin was one to make Little Billy realize he’d opened his mouth a mite too wide and at least once too often. John Wesley’s eyes narrowed and seemed to darken as the pupils contracted; his mouth began to work, the edge of the lower lip sucked in hard; the skin was tighter, whiter over the cheekbones.
‘Hey, now! I didn’t ... I ... you watch ... there ain’t no call...’
Little Billy stopped trying to talk his way out of trouble and decided to make a run for it. He turned too fast and his left foot skidded on some loose straw and he skittered several yards before tumbling on to one knee.
‘Hey, now!’
Little Billy’s arms swung up as John Wesley closed fast. They blocked the first two blows and deflected a third down on to his shoulder. Through the swirl of fists he could see the look of concentration on his cousin’s face.
‘John!’
But John Wesley was tired of punches that failed to land. He drew back from the crouching youth far enough to swing his boot hard under Little Billy’s ribs. Billy went careening over, clutching his side and gasping for breath. He rolled and drew his legs up into his stomach. Tears sprang from his eyes.
‘You bastard!’ he called, anger fighting through despite himself.
John Wesley kicked him a second time, his boot burying into the midst of the curled mass. A third followed. Then, before Little Billy could scream louder or struggle away, the blows ceased. For several seconds, Billy lay where he was, trying to control his breathing, pressing his bunched hands into the flesh where the boots had landed. He could hear John Wesley’s breathing too, more controlled than his own, but signaling his exertion clearly enough. Billy waited until he was sure the attack was over. He looked over his arm and saw his cousin standing a dozen feet away, staring down at him with pity in his eyes.
Little Billy didn’t want pity – but neither did he want to get beaten again.
‘See now,’ he began, pushing himself painfully to his feet, ‘I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. What I called you an’ all. How could I, John? I mean, us bein’ kin an’ all.’
Unable to stand quite straight, he advanced towards John Wesley gingerly, each step jarring his bruised body.
‘Shake on it, huh?’
Little Billy extended his hand towards John Wesley, wincing a little as he did so.
‘Friends, huh?’ Billy said.
John Wesley moved slowly, his arm sliding towards Billy more like a snake than anything else. Little Billy shuddered but held his ground, the fingers of his outstretched hand shaking perceptibly.
A quick smile flicked over John Wesley’s face. ‘Sure, Billy,’ he said. ‘Friends.’
The handshake was fast, firm. Billy saw the smile back of his cousin’s eyes and responded, almost in spite of himself.
‘That’s it, then,’ sighed Little Billy with relief. ‘We made up.’
‘Yeah,’ said John Wesley, grinning. ‘That’s it.’
He slid his hand clear, turned slickly away, moving towards his left. Midway through his turn, his body broke its movement almost imperceptibly. The direction reversed, faster now, and John Wesley’s right arm flew out, the knuckles at the back of his hand striking the side of Little Billy’s face with a whiplash crack. Billy’s head jolted back hard and a moment later it jerked forward again as John Wesley’s other hand, fisted tight, drove into the pit of his stomach.
Spittle shot from Billy’s open mouth, mucus from his nose. He gasped and overbalanced, falling forwards to the ground. Before he got there, John Wesley had reached down and caught him, one hand grasping the back of his shirt, the other tangled in Billy’s unruly hair. He immediately began to swing Billy backwards and forwards, preparing to hurl him into the side wall with its collection of two-tined forks and toothed rakes. Billy’s shouts echoed through the barn.
John Wesley swung and laughed, laughed and swung.
‘No! No! Don’t!’
John Wesley’s laughter grew as Billy’s protests were drowned in a splutter of his own snot and vomit.
One more swing and ...
One more and there was a black standing in the doorway to the barn; he was naked to the waist, despite the bitter cold outside. His right hand gripped a scythe tight across in front of his bare chest.
‘You best let the boy go.’
Astounded, John Wesley opened his hands and Little Billy fell to the barn floor with a thump. Billy whimpered and curled into himself again before starting slowly to crawl away towards the bales of straw.
‘Who the hell d’you think you are?’ asked John Wesley, biting down on his anger, his voice low and cold.
The black looked back at him with a hint too much boldness for John Wesley’s liking. ‘I works for Mister Aaron.’
‘I said, who the hell are you?’
‘I’m Mage.’
‘You’re interferin’ where you ain’t got no business,’ said John Wesley, his voice sharpening, moving himself gradually closer.
Mage tapped the sharp curve of the scythe against the fingers of his left hand. ‘I was lookin’ after Mister Aaron’s boy.’
John Wesley snorted, his face incredulous. ‘Shift your ass out of here!’
‘Not till you let that boy alone.’
Over by the straw bales, Little Billy moaned and sniffed.
John Wesley rushed at the black, watching the vicious-looking scythe closely despite his anger. He saw Mage’s arm begin to curl back and dipped his body into a sideways curve that was set to take him underneath the implement’s swing. He judged it more or less right. The handle end jarred against the top edge of his left shoulder and made him grit his teeth to stop from calling out. The sharpened blade slashed the air several inches above his head and as it passed, John Wesley slammed his fist into Mage’s ribs catching him beneath the heart. The black staggered backwards but by no more than a few paces. The scythe was still in his hand.
John Wesley rubbed at his shoulder automatically, immediately angry with himself for showing even that much sign of weakness. He moved towards Mage, cautiously, slowly now, watching the weapon, watching the man’s face. Back of the pair of them, Little Billy stumbled to his feet and promptly sat back
down on one of the bales, one hand pressed against the side of his face, the other rubbing his stomach.
‘Back off now,’ said Mage. ‘You let me be.’
John Wesley smiled. ‘Scared, nigger? That it? Scared now?’
‘I ain’t scared. Not of you, I ain’t.’
‘Huh! You’re yeller right enough. Under that black skin you’re piss-yeller!’
Mage’s eyes widened and his fingers readjusted round the grip of the scythe; the end of his tongue pushed between his lips as he fought to contain his temper. There was nothing he would like more than to let that scythe have a real fine swing so it cleaved the head of that jumped-up white trash clean from his neck.
But Mage had lived long enough to know the consequences of such an action. And hard as his master was, bigoted as he was, at least he paid a high enough wage for Mage to eat and live half-way decent. At least he allowed him to get on with his work in his own way and his own time, just so long as Mage was occupied doing something from sun-up to sundown.
As for Little Billy over there, he was a good enough kid, considering that he was white. He surely didn’t deserve to have his brains dashed out against no barn wall just ‘cause some uppity bully took a fancy to it.
‘C’mon, you yeller bastard!’ John Wesley taunted him, his anger turning now to a bitter frustration. ‘Set down that thing an’ fight!’
Mage shook his head and began to back off, out through the barn door and into the yard beyond. John Wesley followed hard upon him, his eyes twitching and his teeth biting down against the inside of his mouth.
‘You best go back in there an’ see to that boy,’ said Mage, ‘he might’ve bust somethin’ bad.’
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