The Haweaters

  Amer responds with silence while Porter punches the air between them before storming off. Thank heaven for small mercies. A grim task is surely ahead of them and hot words will only make it harder. Sloan positions himself between his two neighbours as the group picks its way wordlessly through the stumps and the boulders. With every step, Sloan’s trepidation grows ever worse, for it’s clear the devil reigns over this land tonight. If Bryan is alive, he’ll for sure be in one of his drunken rages. That would be challenging enough for God himself to handle, but add Charlie into the mix and all the saints together wouldn’t be able to set things right.

  On the positive, Charlie’s like to be sober, but there’s also a powerful negative. That boy’s temper is far worse than his father’s. Sloan has nearly come to blows with him on several occasions on account of Charlie setting his cattle loose in Sloan’s fields. It may have been unchristian of him to consider striking that tiresome boy, but Sloan can only turn his cheek so many times and he prays that on his final day, St. Peter will find it in his heart to forgive him.

  Sloan turns to Amer. “The Bryans still alive?”

  “So far as I know.”

  “Porter’s boy says otherwise. Are you saying he’s wrong?”

  “I’m saying he’s reporting what the Bryan woman told Porter. Can’t believe a woman on a matter such as this. Too emotional by far.”

  True. Sloan has yet to meet a woman who can tell a story without colouring it with all sorts of unnecessary feelings. Even squirrels do a better job of sticking to the facts. But that doesn’t mean she’s wrong and Sloan is about to point that out when Amer cuts him off. “If Porter truly believed the Bryan men were dead, he wouldn’t have sent his son to fetch you before setting out for their place, now would he? Not realistic to think a grown man would be afraid to approach a homestead because of a woman and her little boy.”

  Amer has a valid point. Neither he nor Porter was willing to head down to Bryan’s alone for fear they might encounter the old man in a violent mood. But it’s what Amer says next that sits awkwardly. “Any doubts about what I’m saying, Laban can confirm the truth of it.”

  How? Sloan looks past Amer to Laban, who has been as quiet as a shadow since arriving at Sloan’s place, so much so that Sloan had forgotten he was with them until Amer’s reminder. “So you were there when this whole thing transpired?”

  Laban looks set to panic. “Yes, sir.”

  Sloan thinks on this. “And you took part in the affray?”

  Laban looks to his father, who makes a gesture Sloan doesn’t know the meaning of. “I did, sir.”

  Sloan mulls this information. He’d been assuming Amer fetched Laban from home after the row had ended. That assumption had been based largely on Laban not having a blessed mark on him, which raises a serious question. “How is it that you were a part of what must’ve been a fearsome battle and yet you received no wounds? Did you not help your father repel his attackers?”

  Laban starts to stammer out a response, only to be interrupted by his father. “Was nothing the boy could to do. All happened too fast. Went to fetch the horses Bryan stole from my field and the old man clubbed me from behind. No time for Laban to react. Almost didn’t react myself.”

  Sloan looks up to where he imagines heaven to be in that hazy place just beyond the furthest stars. It helps him to place Jesus in his heart when he’s pondering things he doesn’t want to ponder like why this is the first he’s hearing of stolen horses. That’s as like to be the cause of the fight as anything else, but why hadn’t Amer mentioned this before? “So Bryan clipped you. I can see it. What I’m wondering is where was Charlie when this was happening?”

  “Leapt from the shadows and started pounding on me. Had to leave off the old man to pound him back. Was the boy who caused all these wounds, not his useless wastrel of a father.” Amer coughs into the back of his hand in what Sloan takes to be a signal to Laban. Amer drops his voice to a devilish growl. “I’m no weakling. Bloodied Charlie just as bad as he bloodied me. Wasn’t looking to, but I couldn’t take the chance he had that revolver on him. Wasn’t in the mood to be shot.”

  Sloan is trying to keep his focus on Jesus, but Amer is making that a mite hard. “What’s this you’re saying about a gun?”

  Amer throws up his hands in apparent dismay, as if suggesting they’ve already had this conversation a hundred times when they haven’t even had it once. “The one the Bryan boy has been toting around for weeks. Surely you’ve seen him at the edge of the bush taking shots at pigeons and ducks and God knows what else. Word is he got that revolver to use on me. Couldn’t take the chance he was looking to use it tonight.”

  Whose word is Amer talking about? Surely not the Lord’s, since God would never speak such a blatant falsehood and, although Amer most certainly would, his tone suggests he isn’t doing it now. Sloan is well and truly puzzled. “Charlie’s got no gun. He traded the one he had, not three, four days past.”

  Amer starts to speak, stops, then starts again. “Suppose Charlie told you that?”

  “No, sir. It was Atchison himself who told me he traded Charlie his fiddle for that gun. He was right proud of the deal he’d made and even showed me the gun so that I’d know he was speaking true.”

  It’s Amer’s turn to look puzzled and Sloan has no trouble understanding why. “You heard me right, a fiddle. I had Atchison repeat it twice because it sounded so absurd and I was certain I must’ve heard him wrong. Only I didn’t. Charlie no longer has a gun, he has a musical instrument.”

  “That can’t be true.”

  But it is. Atchison is one of the few God-honest men around here and if he says he traded a fiddle to the Bryan boy, then that’s what he did. There’s no doubt in Sloan’s mind that Atchison would willingly swear on a stack of Bibles without fear of heavenly retribution. Amer’s reaction suggests he has no doubt either, although God only knows what Amer would have Atchison swear on. A stack of coins maybe. “The boy had one of my shotguns for a short while, but he didn’t have the resources to keep that neither. So far as I’m aware, the Bryans don’t possess a single firearm. I’m surprised you don’t know that, seeing as how you’re usually the one telling me these things.”

  Amer spits in the direction of Porter’s boots and it’s not at all clear if it was his intent to hit them. “Heard the Bryan boy still had the revolver and was preparing to use it on me first chance he got. Porter and I were discussing that very thing in my barn just this morning.”

  Porter gives a terse nod. It must be the God’s honest truth then, for if it wasn’t, Porter would be crowing over the lie. Still, Sloan isn’t satisfied. “Who’d you hear it from?”

  “Not at liberty to say.”

  “It’s not really about liberty.”

  And it isn’t. Depending on what they find at Bryan’s place, the law may soon be asking Amer the very same question – not to mention the Lord Almighty – and neither will be put off by his claiming a lack of liberty. Surely Amer knows that. “Can you at least say when you heard it?”

  “Not two days past.”

  That’s a bit hard to believe. Gossip spreads faster than fire in the bush. Then again, Porter seems to have been under the same impression and there’s not a sinner alive who’s more up on the latest gossip than him, except maybe the preacher, and he knows better than to pass on such unchristian filth. So it’s strange that Sloan is turning out to be the best informed of the trio. “By two days past, the gun had already been traded away, so either your confidant is behind on their gossip or they were setting you up for exactly the sort of battle that took place here tonight. I can’t rightly guess which, but I’m thinking you can.”

  Sloan is weary. When his wife awoke him from his dreams, he was certain she was having one of her nightmares. Now he feels as though he’s the one who’s been caught in a snare set by the devil himself and he’s beginning to fear for his Eternal Soul.
He turns on Laban. “And you did what while all this was happening? It seems to me that if there was enough time for Charlie to jump into the fray, there was enough time for you to do the same. Am I to understand you just stood by while two men attacked your father?”

  That’s certainly what Laban’s lack of wounds suggests and nothing about Amer’s story indicates otherwise. The way Amer tells it, Sloan could be forgiven for thinking that Laban wasn’t even there.

  Once again, Amer answers a question directed at someone else. “Did as I told him. Not your business what instructions I give my boy. No reason for him to interfere in a battle between me and those aggressing against me.”

  Sloan can think of a few. He expects Porter can too and fully expects his neighbour to join him in giving voice to several when Porter surprises him by marching off towards the settlement road without comment, his boy stumbling along beside him and Laban trailing behind the boy. What a devil of a night this is turning out to be.

  Amer catches Sloan by the arm. “If Bryan had stolen your horses and then clipped you when you tried to retrieve them, tell me honestly you wouldn’t have played it as I did.”

  “Come on, Amer. You know me well enough to know I would’ve left it to God to decide.”

  “That’s as bold a lie as I’ve ever heard.”

  “You best watch what you accuse a man of. Even me.”

  Amer drops Sloan’s arm like it’s a burning coal. He needs Sloan on his side, that’s clear to both of them, and Sloan has been tested enough for one night by God and the devil both. There comes a point when one of them will win. God’s surely got the advantage, but the devil never runs out of tricks. Sloan picks up his pace, determined to catch up with Porter, who’s heading straight for Bryan’s mean little shanty. Sloan gestures towards the corral. “Charlie and Bryan were dropped in the field out back. We should probably tend to them first.”

  Porter’s head is shaking. “Well, sir, Mrs. Bryan says she and her youngest dragged the men inside and I don’t rightly believe she’d say such a thing if it wasn’t the truth, so I think it best we head straight inside and face what needs to be faced.”

  That sounds like a plan Sloan can agree to. He looks over his shoulder as Porter knocks on the door, then enters without waiting for a reply. Sloan can barely make out Amer and his son continuing along the settlement road to their homestead. It’s just as well. Their presence in the home of the two men they’ve so recently battled would likely complicate things. Besides, Sloan has a feeling Amer’s purpose in fetching him this evening had less to do with a Christian need to help the suffering and more to do with advancing his own diabolical interests.

  Sloan follows Porter into the unlit shanty. He can hear Eleanor Bryan sobbing somewhere off to the right. To the left he hears the ghastly rasping of breath being dragged into and forced out of straining lungs. The whole place smells like a slaughterhouse at noon.

  Porter aims his voice to the right. “Excuse me, ma’am. Myself and Sloan have come to help you out, such as we are able.”

  There’s no response, so Porter tries again. “I surely mean you no disrespect, Mrs. Bryan, when I say it’s far too dark in here for proper seeing. I should think a bit more light would help us to best determine the situation you find yourself in. May I ask, ma’am, do you have a lantern or a candle we can use to take a closer look at your men?”

  Eleanor chokes down her tears. “A candle? We’ve got no blessed money for nothing so fancy as that. If you want to know God’s truth, I can afford not the purchase of a needle when one is sorely needed. Should you men wish to see something more than the callousness in your own souls, you’ll surely need to set fire to a stick. Finding one is certain to be a challenge. Charlie had plans to fetch in some wood come morning, but I dare say that’s not likely to happen now.”

  Sloan says a silent prayer as the Porter boy dekes outside and returns with a couple of robust sticks. Sloan grabs them and heads for the wood stove, stumbling when his foot comes down on what he judges to be a hand. Sweet Jesus. Sloan crosses himself, then swings open the stove door, holding the sticks in the embers until they catch. He reaches one back to Porter, who holds it out in front him. In the flickering orange, they see the Bryan men stretched out on either side of the stove. Neither man is moving. Sloan would be inclined to say that neither man is breathing, either, except one of them is rasping so loudly the deaf could hear it.

  It’s Bill Bryan. Sloan crouches next to the old man and holds the torch above his face. Holy Mother of God. Blood is crusted in Bryan’s hair and gashes zigzag his scalp. More distressingly, there’s a dark puddle beneath his head. Sloan leans in close. “Do you know me, Bill?”

  Bryan moves his battered hand to the strip of flour sack tightly wrapped around his throat. He pushes the bloody fabric aside to show Sloan a wound to the left of his windpipe. Sloan holds the torch closer and sees what he takes to be a ball hole. Bryan grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him down, hissing. “If that scoundrel hadn’t shot me, I’d have cleaned the field of him.”

  Sloan stares into the old man’s glassy eyes for longer than is healthy, then pats Bryan’s chest. “God be with you, my friend.”

  Because St. Peter surely won’t be. Not that Sloan says this last bit. It’s not, after all, his place to say it. Instead he shuffles across the hard-packed dirt to where Porter is examining the wounds on Charlie’s arms and chest. He signals for Sloan to clap eyes on the boy’s forehead and pushes up the sack cloth to reveal a ball hole. Jesus H. Christ, Bryan and Charlie have both been shot.

  Sloan again crosses himself, then presses his lips to Charlie’s ear. “Do you know me, Charlie?”

  There’s no reply, so Sloan places his hand on the boy’s chest. It’s warm – hot even – but it’s rising and falling so modestly it takes a few seconds to determine that it’s moving at all. He removes his hand and wipes the warm, sticky blood on his shirt as he stares into Charlie’s unblinking eyes. There’s no doubt about it, the boy’s soul is already gone. “May your soul rest in Eternal Peace.”

  It’s the only thing Sloan can think to say and it’s a blessed lie. There won’t be any peace where Charlie is going, for the boy is surely not destined for paradise. There are too many knocks against him owing to there not being a commandment too sacred for that boy to challenge or outright break. It imperils Sloan’s soul just thinking about the harm this unchristian boy has done or threatened to do or would do if given half the chance. He prays for Charlie anyway. It’s the Christian thing to do.

  Sloan feels a bump against his arm and opens his eyes. It’s the Porter boy, who is just now kneeling down next to Charlie and dipping a rag into a tin. He drips water onto Charlie’s lips, causing them to flutter, but that’s all they do. “Charlie, wake up. I’ll tell the truth about how the cart got damaged. Promise, I will. But you have to wake up.”

  The hopeless bargaining of children. Sloan can’t watch. He gets to his feet and heads for the door, hesitating while he tries to think of something soothing to say to Mrs. Bryan on his way out, but he’s not sure what he could possibly say that would bring her comfort at a time such as this. Nothing, would be his guess, so he heads outside and tries once again to call Jesus into his heart. When he turns back, he discovers Porter standing behind him. “Well, sir, what do you think?”

  Sloan shakes his head. “Amer said he beat Bill and Charlie. That’s clearly the truth, but not once did he say a blessed thing about firing a weapon and yet there’s no other way those wounds could’ve been made. There must’ve been a gun and Amer or his son must’ve fired it.”

  And God let it happen. It’s sacrilege to think that, but how can he not? The Lord is Almighty. He is the ultimate Saviour of us all. He alone could’ve stopped this had He wanted it stopped. It was surely within His power to do so. Instead God let the devil win this round and Sloan must find a way of accepting His will because questioning God’s wisdom is th
e surest way he knows to forfeit his place in heaven.

  Porter grinds his boot heel into the ground. “Yes, sir, there surely was a pistol. I myself heard its report not an hour past. I couldn’t see any more than a portion of the fisticuffs from my place due to the darkness, but I surely did hear sticks striking sticks and other such things as I wouldn’t want to guess at. My boys heard the same as myself and yet the way Amer tells the tale, Bryan surprised him in the lawful act of collecting his horses. I don’t see how that could possibly be true if the scoundrel thought to bring a pistol with him. I’m guessing you see it the same.” Porter pauses. He kicks the ground so hard Sloan half expects it to crack open and reveal the fires of hell. “Amer surely takes us for fools, sir. There’s no better proof than the cock and bull story he told us here tonight. There’s no defence so far as I know for gunning a man down on his own property. I’ll wager not even Boyd himself will be able save Amer from his own foolish actions.”

  If Boyd even wants to. Sloan is less sure than many of the neighbours that Boyd is in league with Amer. He’s heard the accusation many times, but people often see evil where evil doesn’t reside and often miss it where it does. Yet what disturbs Sloan most at this moment is that Porter seems more concerned with Amer taking him for a simpleton than with the fate of the two men lying bleeding in Bryan’s shanty. Once a faithless heathen, never a child of God.

  Sloan raises his eyes to heaven and prays for the Lord to take his anger before he says or does something that will seal his heavenly fate as surely as Amer has sealed his own. “I believe a crime has been committed here tonight, Porter. Maybe more than one, but one to be sure.”

  Sloan needed to say that out loud to hear how the words sound in the air. They sound harsh and judgemental, but accurate. Jesus, Mary and Joseph save us all from the darkness in our own souls.

  As Porter joins Sloan in staring up at the sky words start flooding from his lips. “You have no earthly clue how glad I am to hear you say it, sir. If I were to say the same thing, people around here would surely think it’s just me making up scandals to spread about the bush. But you and Amer are on good terms so far as I know, owing to his time spent boarding at your place just three short years ago, and yet you can see without my bidding that what he told us out on the road can’t possibly be truthful.”