by Chuck Dixon
He nudged the dozing boy behind the wheel.
“Que, jefe?” Lupo said.
“Helados,” Chistoso said and pointed at the truck.
“What flavor?”
“Whatever they have.”
Lupo climbed from the car and joined the line at the truck.
On the dash, the cell phone buzzed.
Chistoso put it to his ear. A voice he did not know was speaking.
“Un momento,” he said. He handed the phone back to Carlos who listened a while. Chistoso turned the rearview mirror to watch Carlos listen.
“It is the man Merle Hogue who says they have one of the yanqui who took the money. He says the yanqui has told them all he knows. There was another who helped him. They will find him for us,” Carlos said.
“What of the yanqui who told them this?” Chistoso said. His eyes were on Carlos’ reflection in the mirror. Carlos repeated the question in English. He met Chistoso’s eyes in the glass and shook his head.
“Tell the man I want the other yanqui alive. I insist on it,” Chistoso said.
“As soon as they find him, jefe. They promise. He will be yours,” Carlos said after repeating the question and receiving the answer.
Lupo returned with a cone for each of them. They sat in the car eating ice cream. The cold confection chilled Chistoso’s tongue but little more. The sweetness of the treat was something he could only experience in memory. Another sensation the Colombians had robbed from him.
Gunny Leffertz said:
“You kill the man or he kills you. Ain’t no half-stepping.”
42
Dragonflies hummed over the tops of the grass. Drops of dew shone like diamonds in the mid-morning sun.
From within the house came the baying of hounds.
The car crunched to a stop in front of the house — an El Camino. It was lovingly restored. Jet black with metal flake finish. Custom wheels and fat tires. A real redneck war machine.
Men got out either side of the cab. White guys. Boots, jeans, madras print shirts pressed to a razor edge. They looked like catalog models pretending to be telephone linemen.
One walked toward Uncle Fern’s front porch. The other remained behind to slide a pump shotgun from a sleeve mounted on the seat back. The one walking to the house slid a stainless steel revolver from under his shirt.
The shotgun man turned to scan the landscape too late to see Levon step from the shadows of the barn. Levon was hunched forward, walking fast, his .45 in a two-handed grip.
The shotgun man threw the stock of the Remington to his shoulder. Levon’s first shot punched a hole in the Camino’s door. The shotgun man flinched left. The second round took him in the chest below his armpit. He spun to slam into the fender. His grip weakened on the shotgun. He watched it fall into a spray of his own blood. The third shot lifted him up on his toes. He didn’t feel it. The back of his skull was gone, spinning away into the grass like a pie plate.
The second man ran for the cover of the porch, ducking low. The dogs in the house were going mad. He held the revolver away from him, firing blind shots straight-armed. A slug passed him within inches to tear into the shrubs with a brittle snap. He reached the bottom steps of the porch and the cover of the railings when the door of the house exploded open. The big dogs raced for him, howling with fury — all but one. The ridgeback moved in low to get a mouthful of the gunman's thigh just below the crotch.
He stumbled backward, flailing down the steps, legs tangled with the bodies of the dogs. A terrible pain shot up from where the ridgeback worked its teeth deeper into his flesh, twisting its head for better purchase.
His animal shriek was cut short by a blast of twin thunder.
Fern stood braced in the open screen door. A twelve gauge, both barrels smoking, in his fists.
The gunman lay in the dust. A generous chunk of one shoulder and most of his head turned to gleaming gristle. The hounds, alarmed by the noise and scent of human blood, tore away into the trees, wailing in terror. Only the ridgeback remained, standing over the fallen man. Snout clotted red, tongue lolling in a canine smile.
“Sure hope they weren’t just stopping for directions,” Fern shouted to be heard over the ringing in his ears.
Levon paused by the headless man to dig through the man's pockets. In one pocket he found a ring of car keys. He came up with a smartphone in another and tabbed it to life. There was a fresh text on the screen from RMATHERS.
any luck
at the brn
u meet us here
He tabbed a reply and sent a message back under the name LONEGRANGER.
nthng here
heading yr way
He wiped the blood from the phone onto his jeans and stuck it in his shirt pocket.
“You’re going to have to get the backhoe out again, Fern,” Levon said. He stepped away across the gravel to trot into the house.
“Suppose that’s best,” Fern said.
The smartphone trilled. Levon read the reply.
Suprize 4 u wen u gt here
“We still have family in Murfreesboro?” Levon called as he stepped from the house, Fern’s Winchester lever action under his arm. A box of shells in his hand.
“Cousin Wendell and his wife.”
“You better go see them a while,” Levon said. He tossed the rifle and shells onto the seat of the El Camino.
“Suppose that’s best, too,” Fern said.
Levon gunned the El Camino to life. A one-eighty spin sprayed dust and stone and he was gone down the driveway in a cloud of blue exhaust.
"Get away from there, feller," Fern said. He waved the ridgeback off the corpse. Flies were already gathering, greenbacks shimmering.
The dog loped into the cool shadows under the porch to lick its paws clean.
43
Sandy backed out of a stall with a forkful of straw and droppings. She became aware she wasn’t alone. A shadow fell across the floor by the wheelbarrow nearly filled with muck. She didn’t hear anyone come in over the music from the radio resting on a shelf outside the tack room.
A man with a sunburnt red face. Creepy pale eyes. Butterfly bandages set in a row on his forehead. Tasha, a buckskin mare, shared Sandy’s surprise. She stomped and huffed in her stall at the man’s arrival.
“You alone here?” he said.
“My mom’s out riding. She’ll be back soon,” Sandy said.
“She alone?” The man reached out to snap the radio off.
“She’s with a friend of ours.”
“That big guy?” The man tried a smile. It was unnaturally white in his ruddy, peeling face.
“No. Someone else.” Sandy tightened her grip on the handle of the fork. Her eyes moved past him. Two more men were out in the sunlight standing by a muscle car.
“He been around?”
“Who?”
“Levon Cade. I heard he comes around here sometimes.”
“I haven’t seen him. Not in a while,” Sandy lied.
“Someone told me he’s got the hots for your mom.”
Sandy took an involuntary step back.
“She pretty like you? I’ll bet she is. Apple don’t fall far, does it?” He matched her step, closing the gap between them.
“Maybe you can come back later. She’s out for a long ride. Might be the rest of the day.” Sandy stepped away again. The handle of the rake rattled against the boards of the stall. She let out a breath when the cell on the man’s belt buzzed.
He plucked it off his belt, read the screen and frowned. She thought about trying to get by him, make it to the house. One of the men outside said something and the other laughed. The sunburnt man’s brows knitted down over dove gray eyes as he focused on the screen. Rough hands awkward as he keyed a reply. He hooked the phone back on his belt and turned his eyes to Sandy.
“You like to ride? This horse yours?” he said. His thumb jerked at Tasha’s stall.
“My horse is out in the field. This one’s inside ’cause she’s get
ting ready to foal.”
“That so? You ride too. Bet you look pretty when you ride. Nothing prettier than a pretty girl up on a horse,” he said. He stepped closer to come to rest, leaning a shoulder against a stall post. Only an arm’s length from her.
She fought to keep her hands still on the fork handle. The tines began to hum with the force of her grip.
"I don't want to hurt you, see? I want you to like me. Because I like you. I think we can get along just fine," he said. His voice had dropped to a whisper. A smile quivered at the corners of his lips. His eyes studied her with a cold gaze, a serpent's gaze. She felt as though she was stripped naked.
“I told you. My mom’s not here. And Mr. Cade’s not here. Maybe you can come back some other time.”
The man pushed off the post. His smile went crooked. He reached behind his back. His hand came out with a shiny steel gun in his fist. He aimed it over the stall door and fired point blank at the mare.
The report of the gun filled the barn with thunder. The girl’s scream was lost under the high pitched squeal from Tasha. The big animal staggered, then fell hard against the timbers of a stall wall. She dropped down on the ground; her legs gone lifeless beneath her.
Sandy threw the fork aside to launch herself to the mare's stall. Before the man snaked an arm about her neck, she caught a glimpse of Tasha lying on the floor. Hooves kicking feebly in the straw. A pathetic bleating coming from her mouth, the big teeth bared and smeared red. Eyes white all around. The hair down her flanks was streaked with blood from a ragged wound torn in her hide.
The sunburnt man drew Sandy closer until only her toes touched the floor. He whispered in her ear. His hot breath was rancid like sweet feed gone bad at the bottom of a bin.
“See? Like I told you. I don’t want to hurt you. But I will kill every fucking nag on this place if you keep lying to me.” He tightened his grip. She saw white stars shimmering around the edges of her vision.
A voice called from outside. “Roy? Hey, Roy.”
“Yeah?” He loosened his hold. Her boot heels were on the ground again. She was still pressed against the heat of him.
“Granger’s coming.”
“See what he wants,” the sunburnt man said. “Tell him I’ll be out in a minute or so.”
Gunny Leffertz said:
“Never, ever surrender your weapon. Never. Ever.”
44
He floored the El Camino across the lot in front of the stable.
Levon centered the car on the nearest gunman. The bumper took the man across the knees. His head bounced once off the hood, leaving a bloody dent behind. He then vanished under the front of the car. Levon felt the rear left tire lift as it crushed what life was left in the man.
The Camino came to a juddering sideways stop in a thick cloud of red dust. Levon came around the front at a run as the engine died behind him. The Winchester carbine to his shoulder. A big man wearing a wifebeater was backing to the open stable doors. His arms covered in a dense inked tapestry. He had a big bore revolver up, firing wild. One slug crazed the windshield of the Camino. A second kicked up a cyclone of dust ten feet in front of Levon’s boots.
On the run, Levon hit the big man with a heavy slug from the carbine. The man bent double over a .44 magnum round low to the guts. A second shot punched through his chest. A third dropped him, arms splayed, to bang against a door, sending it swinging.
Levon jacked a fresh round into the carbine as he stepped over the big man into the dimness of the stable. A deep cough, a wet sputtering, echoed off the steel roof. In the aisle before him, a red-faced man scuttled sideways. He had Sandy pressed against him in a chokehold. A nickel-plated automatic held hard against her side. The girl gasped for air. Her face darkened with the effort. The toes of her wellies tapped an uneven rhythm on the floor.
Levon kept on his steady stride toward them. The carbine to his shoulder. The man’s head in the half-moon sight.
"Drop the gun, or I'll do her right now." The man's voice was thin, rising to another octave.
“That’s not going to work.” Levon kept on closing.
"It's the best I'm offering." The guy smiled now — a near phosphorescent grin.
“I meant for you,” Levon said.
The round took the man just below the right eye. There was a flower of blood and brains blooming behind him. His arms, inanimate objects now, dropped to release Sandy from his grip. The automatic spun to rest in the dust.
Roy Mathers fell backward to a seated position, head bobbing, to collapse onto his back. One heel dug a furrow in the dirt until the signals coming from the half a brain he had left died away.
Sandy stood, shoulders hunched. She stared at Levon in mute shock. He kept the carbine shouldered to step between her and the dead man. He put two more rounds in Roy’s chest before stepping to the stall door where the mare lay screaming. He leaned over the door to pump two rounds into the animal’s head. It went limp instantly. The stable was silent once more but for a mewling sound from the girl.
Levon stepped to her, putting a hand to her cheek and turning her face to his. She flinched, but he kept his hand there until their eyes met.
“Where’s Jessie and Merry?” he said.
“Up on the high trail. Heading back by now,” she said. It was the voice of a child years her junior. Her eyes swam in her head, pupils dancing.
“You and I are going to ride up to meet them. We’re taking whatever horses are left with us so they’ll be safe.”
Her eyes moved to Tasha’s stall. He pressed his fingers in her cheek until she looked at him again.
“You go into the house and change your clothes. Grab some food. Canned stuff. A loaf of bread. And some blankets. Then meet me in the field to help bring the horses in.”
She nodded, eyes on his.
“Look straight at the house. Don’t look anywhere else. You hear me, Sandy?”
She nodded again. More vigorous this time. Her eyes lost some of their glassy look.
“Go on now. That’s a good girl,” he said.
45
Carlos offered to find them a motel where they could wait in comfort. Chistoso did not respond. He only sat in the car listening to a distant Spanish language station. Band music faded in and out under waves of static. The older man would not allow him to change it.
They were parked behind a RaceTrac watching the sun drop behind the top of the pines. Lupo was in the convenience store getting coffee and treats for them. The old man’s sweet tooth was insatiable. Carlos envied Lupo for being allowed to exit the car. He was certain that Lupo was sneaking a cigarette or two out of the old man’s sight. Chistoso would not allow them to smoke in the car and would not allow them to leave the car. Carlos was dying for a cigarette or a snort of coca or anything to relieve the tedium of hours and hours spent either driving back roads or parked for no reason. His back ached, his ass itched, his eyes felt sandy. The old man sat contented as a sphinx while night turned to day and was turning to night once again.
The old man leaned from his seat to turn the radio off.
“Call the man again,” El Chistoso said.
Carlos took the burner from the dash and hit redial.
“Y’ello,” the gringo on the other end said.
Carlos glanced at the viejo who nodded. Carlos sighed.
“The jefe wants to know what is going on,” Carlos said.
“Well, it looks like there might be a snag or two on our end,” the gringo names Merle Hogue said. He drew the words out. He was hesitant. The news was not good.
Carlos waited. He could hear the man’s exhalations. The man was taking long drags on a cigarette.
“I haven’t heard from the boys I sent out. I been calling but there’s no answer.”
Carlos relayed the reply in Spanish. Chistoso blinked.
“The jefe is tired of your excuses. Tired of your fuck ups. He thinks it is time we do what you cannot do.”
“You think you’ll have better luck cleaning
up this shitty mess then you and your amigos are welcome to it.”
“Tell us the name of the man we want. Tell us where to find him.”
“I can tell you where my boy was the last time I spoke to him. You got GPS there?”
“Sí. Text the place to this number. We will find it.”
“Mi clusterfuck es su clusterfuck, buddy,” Merle Hogue said. He broke the connection.
The burner bleated once. The GPS coordinates were in a new text.
“Get more hombres,” El Chistoso said. “Tell them to meet us there.”
Carlos swung the Audi around the front of the RaceTrac to find Lupo standing on the walk in front of the store taking a last pull on a Marlboro. He picked up a coffee carrier and plastic sack and trotted to the Audi.
“I fucking hate you,” Carlos said in English.
Lupo slid into the rear seat. He handed forward the sack of goodies. The old man dug into it with eager hands. Carlos tossed the burner back to the rear seat. Lupo caught it and looked at the screen.
“I know where this is,” Lupo said.
“Good for you. Call the crew. Tell them to get their asses over there and wait for us,” Carlos said.
“Muy bueno,” the old man said. Crumbs of a Little Debbie on his chin.
Gunny Leffertz said:
“If you have to go to ground, go to ground you know.”
46
The shadows were lengthening in the tall pines.
They met Jessie and Merry returning down the longer horse trail on the way back to the stable.
Merry wore a smile that broadened when she saw her father riding to meet them. Jessie knew something was wrong. Levon and Sandy were both mounted and Sandy led the Bromley’s quarter horse, Juice, and the pony, Montana, on a lead rope. A pack bundle of rolled blankets and knapsacks was tied down on Juice’s saddle. Levon had a rifle resting across his pommel. Sandy’s face was drained white, reins shaking in her hands.