Blackwater

by Abe Dancer

  The post was over six feet long, and thicker than a man’s arm, but at the moment of impact was more responsive than a dentist’s probe. A single desperate exertion released it from the cloying mud and roots, sending it uncontrollably upwards. Jack’s stomach heaved when he sensed Grice’s jawbone being pulverised. Wildly disturbed in the stillness of the damp air, the crunching sound reverberated madly around his head as he instinctively pulled away. Grice’s skull snapped back, his body buckled forward, arching into the tall reeds directly above Jack’s head.

  He thrust again at the falling body, getting a foothold in the thick mud and trodden vegetation around his legs for the plunge into Grice’s stomach. The body crumpled on the post, transforming itself into a lifeless dummy, but still menacing against the deep blue skyline. With one hand still gripping the post, Jack clawed frantically at the bank, his eyes fixed on Grice’s shattered face. But as he drew himself upwards, he watched with dread as a wave of consciousness returned to Grice. He froze as an outstretched arm twisted towards him, closing his eyes as the barrel of the man’s fine, blued-steel Colt pushed into the centre of his forehead.

  Grice pulled the trigger as Jack’s face drifted into agonizing focus. But the livid clarity spun away almost within the same instant.

  At the lethal gunshot, Jack’s arms and legs swept outwards in a single convulsive movement, and through the dazzling explosion he had a vision of Melba Savoy. She was a lightning portrait, her arms outstretched, as he catapulted backwards to the water beneath him.

  Jack’s revulsion at the water returned his senses. He was unharmed, but his body reacted instinctively as the dead weight of Grice’s body crashed against him. The air was driven from his lungs and he slithered sideways, gagging as the water rushed into his nose and mouth. Then he gave a fierce kick, freeing himself for the distance to shove the body away from him.

  ‘You should have rode on,’ he gasped. ‘Should have rode on the first time I beat you.’ Jack suddenly imagined what other wildlife was in the water around and behind him, and he shuddered violently. He made frantic efforts to climb out, looked up and yelled. ‘Help me. Get me out of this goddamn place!’

  There were voices and Jack felt his hands and arms being grabbed. Then there was a hand on his shoulder and he was looking into the face of Melba Savoy.

  ‘Thank you. You and those rabbit bones,’ he said, smiling wearily.

  Nearby, Sheriff Buckmaster was holding a lantern. He stood very still, watching impassively as Melba and Gaston Savoy helped Jack out of the water, easing him through broken trampled reeds and long grass onto the bank. For a long moment, the only noise was the squawking of a distressed wood duck and the rasp of deep breathing. Jack hunkered down, looked towards the sheriff and managed to find a few words to say.

  ‘From now on, Sheriff, you better look and listen a bit more than you have been. The signs were all there to see.’

  ‘Nothin’ like this will happen again, Rogan. Not if you’re not around. Right now, I’ve got felony reports, bodies an’ prisoners to think about. It’s gettin’ late, so if you’ll excuse me.…’

  Jack looked up at the sky, blinking to return more sharpness to his vision. There was a rumbling sound he didn’t at first recognize, then a crashing bellow that seemed to fill the sky like thunder. He shook water from his ears, realized it was thunder, and soon the first fat raindrops struck his upturned face. ‘This is some other time, isn’t it?’ he muttered. ‘Some other place.’

  Two days later, after the rain, Jack was sitting with Melba and her father outside the High Chair Saloon. They had spent most of the morning explaining the affair to Beatrice Marney and Elspeth Tedder.

  ‘What happens when someone else discovers what was goin’ on … when it all comes out?’ Gaston Savoy was asking.

  ‘You all keep quiet and it won’t,’ Jack said. ‘Let them all assume the Department of the Interior is looking after the land. It’s in no one’s interest to let on. And that Chester feller’s not going to spill the beans. Him or Bunce. Wherever they are.’

  ‘What about those who were killed? Someone’s responsible for my husband’s death,’ Elspeth Tedder said.

  ‘And mine,’ Beatrice Marney added.

  ‘Prices have been paid. Some have been higher than others, but to a degree we’re all in there,’ Jack replied. ‘I’m thinking rough justice is probably better than opening a great big can of worms. Milo Buckmaster must give an appreciative nod to that – want to keep it in the family, so to speak.’

  ‘An’ the timber?’ Gaston Savoy asked. ‘How do I deal with that problem?’

  ‘If the railroad’s needing ties let them log some remote corner. Be smart … keep an eye on their movements. Share out the profits. Ask them for something in return, like a new home for those orphans – their orphans. How about new roads across the town? You’ll be able to live a better life. Now you’ve got to know the town and its folk, what’s there to feel inferior about? What do you say?’

  Melba had been quietly watching the last of the raindrops drip from the honeysuckle. ‘I’d say, it’s all right for you,’ she offered. ‘Beaumont, Texas is many miles from here.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Jack started. ‘But with all those investors and their money sloshing in and around Whistler, I’ve been thinking maybe there’s new business for me here in Blackwater. I could build myself up a pension.’

  ‘Opportunities don’t wait, as Pa would say. But what about your family?’

  ‘When your pa gives me back my money, I’ll forward it on … all of it. I’ll tell them I’m okay. That way, at least some of us make a gain.’

  Melba looked to her father, who gave a slow, wise grin.

  ‘I think the man’s right. I guess it’s never too late for any of us to do that,’ he said.