penny for a worm
The new day had dawned an adjustment to his ways. No longer would he see the South as a big watering hole for the locusts of the air, but a place where one might dry out from the cold. The air had shifted with the winds that blew against the railcar along the Southern Mississippi Railroad, and he had finally arrived at the Vicksburg depot, housed between the city and the wharf. The railcars extended along its length, emptying and reloading as was the deed, and its cargo consisting of both humans and wares.
The town was bustling with everyone in its path along the wide street where the storefronts hedged against the slanted sheds that covered the walkways. The ground was churned up by the plodding of horses hooves, and for a day so rich with promise stood a street sign above an entrance that read, “Money Bought & Sold”.
It was a place of going in and coming out, where Tillman’s saddles and harness manufactory faced the corner lane. After a hot meal and a warm bath he would venture about the stores for some staples, before crossing the river into Louisiana.
Where the steamboats were thick about the wharf, so were the bawdy houses, gambling halls and saloons. It was still too early for them to be open, and perhaps it was for the best. He would need to catch his way across the miles that were spotted with bogs and bayous, and some sober information would come in handy; that and the need to remain steady.
A yellow wooden sided restaurant with broad black shutters was filled with enterprising individuals, as well as horsemen and town’sfolk about their days tasks. It wasn’t until he stepped inside that he felt like a fugitive on display.
The waitress was hot around the ankles with nettings that bunched at her feet and a skirt that almost touched the floor. Her stomach was plump and round so that her breast rested on them like a layered perch. Her waistband was covered by an apron that had been swiped wet with grease, and her hair a mesh of matting, gray and fine so that the pins showed where she tacked the threads in place.
“What’ll it be?” she tossed a napkin onto the table, along with a fork and spoon.
“Whatever the morning special is will do me well,” he replied with an optimistic smile that gleaned others in his direction. Some of the faces were perplexed, filled with complacency and dread, conjuring the months to come. There was talk about a man named Farragut, and a Union campaign that had its sites on the city, after it had ran its course through Baton Rouge. There was as much opposition about it as was the intrusion of way-wards to the town. With so much confusion there were families taking to the far reaches of the countryside, with others feeling safer being nestled beneath the view of the county Courthouse, which sat on a ridge, the cities highest point, where cobblestones had been placed along the streets to steady the wagons from shifting with a horse’s gate. It was an intimidating overlook that wouldn’t make it an easy target with so many hilltops and waterways in between.
There were others who said the enemy would be crushed, and they were aiming to do it on any level that it existed, even though battle still loomed in the distance.
The plump lady stared at him for a moment, but not long enough to consider him too much. “There’s confederate camps and skirmishes along the river no matter the direction you take,” she said as though a warning would be appreciated.
“That’s all right,” he replied. “I’ll just be passing through..,” he paused, “with a side order of bacon if you please.”
Three men at a nearby table caroused with a laugh, overhearing the conversation.
The waitress plopped a ceramic cup down and poured from the vat of coffee, indifferent to the many things she had seen.
“Like I was saying, people in the backwoods don’t take too kindly to strangers,” she gave an additional warning.
Daniel turned to the men and caught wind of their reaction, and then placed a stack of coins in her hand.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll be sure to steer clear of both.”
Then one of the men, a squatty fellow with a long face and sagging jowls, began to boast about a pair they had sent down river, tarred and feathered for offending their doctor friend, having died a few days later after boils had developed from the summer heat.
Daniel sat and listened without objection until he had finished his meal, barely voicing a word that wasn’t required. Afterwards, he felt his share of being watched, while he gathered up the wares needed for the journey from the corner merchant, which included a small buggy and a red quarter horse.
Some of the homes were prominent, adorning the hillsides like decorations atop a Christmas tree, with official looking columns and verandas that crowned the upper floors. Other people that were not so fortunate, seemed to only prosper in the warm season, toiling with the land that was hard enough from the winters chill to lend some temporary rest from their worries and strife.
So far the struggle warranted little concern, outside the reaches of town where he had only passed as many as could be counted on one hand, with his thumbs gripped securely around the reins. When the sun had finally melted into the bayou, as sapphire swells glowed with the orange hues, he had the warmth of a campfire, where the country stretched for miles along the wet patches of open earth. The sounds were those of a horse’s breath, and the stir of owls and creatures with eyes that lit up the reeds, like the stars that were obscured by the oblong puffs that glided dimly above him. He laid on the damp ground, the sky of little comfort, covered in a widow’s blanket with the immense feel of loneliness. The near emptied bottle was his companion, and so he slipped the time-piece from his pocket, trying to catch a glimpse of its black hands that ticked slowly in the flickering light, judging the distance gained until he fell asleep.
The morning came early, like the hounds that sniffed the grass and bellowed as they splashed across the marsh to the narrow lane. At once he jerked from a miserable sleep and sat up, confused. It was an unsettling way to face the dawn, like a pelicans mouth gaping for a fish when there was none, understanding all too well, that it was him on the opposite end of the line; the lure of scented bait in the swarms of marshy air.
Suddenly there were voices, and leather hats upon saddles where the light fleshed out their faces. Gleaming also were the shiny black barrels of rifles, and vests with slots full of paper cartridges, where sporting was their craft. And it appeared with bearded kerchiefs, as though readied to lynch for a hanging, that he had banked on some else’s land.
“Get up!” the voice cracked as the horses skidded two feet before him and stopped, blowing hard from their nostrils, and making his own horse shift.
“Easy now,” replied Daniel with his hands up, stumbling to stand as the dogs went to tear at his pants. He tried kicking them off, but they relentlessly chewed at his calves, bearing into his skin until one of the men shot a round upward.
The bluish and black spotted hounds backed off with the burst, but were growling with the taste still wet on their tongues.
Daniel’s right leg was stinging and he could feel the blood pooling around the shim of his boot.
The man that had fired the shot lowered his barrel towards the mare’s front legs, but still pointing.
“How do, stranger? Don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” the words lapped like fluid gibberish, in a quick flat dialect that Daniel barely understood.
He made the effort to be peaceable, despite his unfair advantage. “The name’s Stone,” he said with a wavering voice, suddenly feeling without cause and deliberating any possible reaction.
“Well, Stone,” the man replied. His eyes were dark narrow slits, and his face was sunken beneath his cheekbones that were covered by a beard and mustache that blended as one.
“This here is Birch,” he leaned his head sideways to motion to the stubby armed man still taking aim. Then he added, “And I’m Po,” he smirked, as he swung a leg over the horse and dismounted.
Daniel turned to glance at his own horse that was still hitched to
the one seatter wagon that was halfway stuck in the mud. The horse was nervous and its eyelids flicked at the flies and the dogs.
Daniel nodded and gestured a hand forward, but there was no welcomed response. “Just needed a rest from the road,” he replied. “I’ll be on my way now.”
Po walked over to the wagon and looked at the small crates inside.
“Nothing but supplies really,” Daniel suggested, wishing he hadn’t left his rifle on the seat.
Po discerned the situation without disturbing its contents, and braced his foot against the wagon wheel that was bogged down in the grassy strip of mud.
“Looks like we’ve got ourselves in a bind,” he added as he turned to Birch, who was now at ease on his own horse, with his rifle still facing forward.
Birch laughed as he scratched his neck with his free hand and sneered to expose some brown tangled teeth.
“Sure do,” he overstated his case, with a grin too broad for any feel of reassurance.
“Oh that,” said Daniel. “It’ll come loose. Say, you fella’s don’t know where I could get a hot meal, do you? It’s been a couple of days since I’ve had as much.”
Po considered him as he paced back and forth a few times, and then put his hand to his forehead. “Yep. Do know what it’s like to be hungry. Know what it’s like to eat grubs, too.”
Birch laughed as though in agreement. “Don’t reckon he’s ever tasted the likes, do ya?”
Po urged him on, “Oh hell, I don’t know. Might as well ask the sonofabitch, cause I don’t believe we brought any fixin’s with us. Lest’ you have some I don’t know about. Do you have some fixin’s up there, Birch?”
Birch laughed again in a mimicking manner. “Nope, Po. I don’t have no fixin’s. Bet he’d pay us for what we find, though. I could probably scrounge up a worm or two. Think he’d give us a penny for a worm?”
Daniel put his hands down and adjusted his glasses that were resting crooked on his nose. His hat was still on the ground and his hair was wet with twigs and dried-up grass.
“I’m not looking to cause any trouble,” he replied. “I’m headed west is all, and you two don’t have to bother. I’ll make due on my own.” He turned to walk towards the wagon.
There was a click as the barrel of Po’s rifle dropped open. “No hurry,” he replied as he took his time, packing in a fresh cartridge and then snapping it shut again. “You see, this here is private property. Been in our family for generations.”
Daniel turned back towards him, the palm of his hand now firm against the stock of his own gun. “Then I guess I’d best settle up, before I go.”
Birch cocked his rifle, and Daniel loosened the grip from his own gun. In an instant, Po shoved the end of his rifle hard into his lower back. Daniel fell to the ground, but made it to his feet again and waved his hands as if he didn’t want any more problems.
Po laughed with arrogance as though he might let him off the hook and then considered, “Before you just go riding off, I’ve gotta know something. Just where is it that you’re from and where do ya think you’re goin’?”
Daniel studied their faces and didn’t appreciate the probing, but he tried again to appeal to any sense of reasoning that remained.
“East to west,” he replied, “If it’s all the same. Besides, I said I’d be willing to pay you something for last night.”
Po took immense delight in shoving the end of his gun into his back again, and this time Daniel almost stumbled forward, as Birch got down from his horse.
“He’s from the east and heading west,” he jeered to his counterpart. “Now don’t that tell us a lot about him?”
Daniel tried to straighten his back, but before he could reason a defense, he had been hammered in the back of the head by the butt of the gun.
Absently, he fell to the ground and tried to regain from the shock. He swung at Birch, but was against the ground with his face being mashed in the mud. He struggled to breathe as it plugged his nostrils. Then Daniel pounded his fist into Birch’s right ear and it was streaming blood. Then he thrashed the heel of his boot into Po’s chest and it sent him backwards. Before he could get up again, Birch slammed his head with his rifle again. Daniel staggered for a moment until everything went black. His glasses flew off with the brute force and landed in some nearby reeds, as he landed once again in the mud, but unable to move as blood poured from the gash on the back of his head.
Heavy muttering and breathy words followed, but were barely audible against the earth’s vibrations.
“Do you think he’s dead?” questioned Birch, as he tugged and pulled at his pockets and vests.
“Damn well, better be. But you can shoot him if you want to,” added Po. “Just be sure to get it all. Gators can have what’s left.”
The dogs jumped around and sniffed, barking in excitement, and as the wagon was up-righted their trail followed.
As evening approached, storm clouds moved swiftly across the darkening sky. Shards of lightning streaked about and ignited the air. Rain splashed up from the ground in hard pellets that splashed against the side of his face. When he had mustered enough strength to rise up, his right hand pressed into something round beneath the weight of mud. He grasped his hand around it and opened his palm, the rain washing away the residue of demise. It was the Cutters watch. All else was gone. He strained his eyes to see, and the throbbing in his head was so intense that he was almost nerved to lie back down. The thunder rose and then faded with a sharp crack of lightning that sent a silvery illumination against a bank of grass.
He stood up, his feet now bare and sinking into the muddied mire, and retrieved his glasses. His face was so gritty that he held his face to the sky, letting the rain rinse hard upon his brow and wondering if the winds would whip so that he might be swept away. Then he watched the pellets of ice, springing up from the ground, as the wind seemed to be moving him whether he wanted to go or not. He glanced at his watch and pondered the irony of his dilemma.
“Got a long ways to go and only time to get me there,” he said sarcastically.
Then he crossed the dirt lane that now had streams rushing down its gullies and pocket holes. There was an open field, with waves of grass so high that it swayed prickly and cold against his shoulders. As he pushed his way through, feeling each step that left curiosities beneath his feet, he began to see the roof of a barn take shape in the distance.
“Suppose I’ll be moseyin’ along this field here to see what other nice folks I can meet,” he scoffed to himself again. Then he pushed his efforts towards the light that blinked with the sweeping blows of wind that wailed against him like phantom bats on an outing.
There were mysteries to be uncovered here, but he was void of reason to discover them, lest he be devoured before the night was through.
Ford At Valverde Page 3