What he needed more than anything was to find his hat and a place to relieve himself. Just about anywhere would satisfy the second requirement, but his hat had definitely disappeared.
Careful not to hit his bedroll, Henry emptied his bladder where he stood, then went in search of his well-worn Stetson.
After a brief search he discovered what happened to his hat: a dog had it. Stranger still, it was the dead miner’s dog, or its twin.
Unable to recall the Greek name the old man had given the dog, Henry called to it using every substitute he could think of. None worked. The dog trotted around until she found something of interest: a gopher hole. With a last look at Henry, she dropped the hat over the hole and then pushed it in with a front paw.
Henry yelled at her, but neither threat nor curse had any effect.
Satisfied, the dog ran off in the general direction of Greeley. Henry considered trying to shoot her, but his good hand was still a mess -- worse than the day before --and his hangover wouldn’t mix well with the sound of gunfire.
Knowing the sun’s effects would only get worse, Henry set about retrieving his hat. He walked to the spot where he’d seen the dog at work, then got down on his hands and knees for a better look down the hole. It wasn’t a gopher hole as he first thought, though it may have been a burrow of some kind. It expanded a good deal, just below the opening. His hat lay at the bottom.
Though the hole was deeper than he expected, his hat remained within reach. It would be a stretch, and he’d be feeling around in the dark, but he knew he could grab it.
He dropped to the ground, flat, and stuck his left arm in the hole. Ignoring the rocks and scrub which bordered the narrow opening, he reached around for the familiar stiff felt.
Suddenly, something terribly sharp stabbed his hand. And then again.
Screaming, he withdrew his arm and grabbed at the rattler still digging its fangs into his wrist. The snake hung on despite Henry’s frantic efforts to dislodge it. The pain in his hand grew even worse as he tried to pull the snake loose.
When it finally let go, Henry tossed the writhing death-dealer as far as he could with his good hand, the one that had merely been bitten by the miner’s dog. He fell backwards, suddenly feeling faint. The wound was raw and bleeding, and the flesh around it quickly began to swell.
Fear latched onto Henry’s heart the way the rattler latched onto his hand. Excruciating pain only added to his woes. With both hands impaired, climbing on his horse would be impossible. His only hope was to reach town. Greeley had no doctors, but there was a Chinaman who, some claimed, could cure damn near any disease a white man was liable to catch. Henry prayed he could do something for snakebites, too.
He ran, at first. By the time he’d covered half the distance to town, his vision had grown blurry and sweat dripped from every pore. Breathing had become difficult, and not simply because his tongue had started to swell. Dizzy and growing weaker with every step, Henry called out his brother’s name as he collapsed in the dirt.
~*~
Olen and Jasper found Henry when they came looking for their horses. They managed to get him to the Chinaman, who worked out of a room attached to the livery stable.
The wizened Asian merely shook his head as he issued the prognosis, “Too bad for him,” he said. “He dead soon.”
“Ya gotta do something,” Jasper cried. “Can’t you suck out the poison?”
The Chinaman shrugged. “Too late now.”
They carried Henry, unconscious but groaning, back to their makeshift camp. The last of the miner’s money went for food and whiskey, and the pair agreed to stay with Henry until the end. A day later, when the whiskey ran out, Olen went back into town hoping to find a way to earn some more money.
Henry lay next to a pile of cold ashes, all that remained of the previous night’s campfire. Jasper had taken a short walk. Helplessness and stress over his brother’s condition had worn his nerves to a nub, and while he had great faith in Olen, there were no guarantees that anyone in Greeley would give him the time of day, much less a job, or even a handout.
As he turned his steps back toward the campsite, Jasper noticed a dog digging in the ashes.
“Get away from there,” he shouted, despite the risk of waking his brother.
The dog ignored him, much as it had the first time, at the miner’s shack. Could it really be the same dog, he wondered. The stupid animal was digging in the fire pit, but Jasper wasn’t close enough to determine just what it had in mind. He yelled again.
This time the dog looked up at him, briefly, then went right back to work.
Jasper hurried his steps, and closed the gap considerably before the dog backed away. When it stopped to sniff Henry, Jasper yelled some more. Finally, it took off at a lope.
Jasper checked what little remained of their supplies, but nothing seemed missing or out of place, and there was no trace of whatever the fool dog had been after. Jasper didn’t give it another thought.
Henry died a short while before Olen returned. The sun hadn’t even gone down.
“Find any work?” Jasper asked.
“They need a hand over at the stable,” Olen said. “It’s shit work and the pay’s no better. I hate to say this, but--“
“What?” demanded Jasper.
“I stopped by the undertaker’s place and had a little chat with him.” Clearly uncomfortable with the task ahead, Olean hurried on. “He said it’d cost eight dollars and fifty cents to put Henry in the bone orchard. That includes a wooden marker.”
Jasper contemplated the figure. He definitely preferred a cemetery plot over a hole in the dessert, but the price surprised him. “That’s a might steep, ain’t it?”
“Casket’s the biggest part of it. We could wrap him in a blanket instead, but--“
“He deserves a casket, Olen. Geezus. He’s my brother.”
“Yer right. Don’t know what I was thinking.”
The two sat in silence for some time before Olen stood up and strode toward his horse.
“Where ya goin’?” Jasper asked.
“To earn that eight dollars and fifty cents.”
“Want me to go with ya?”
“Naw,” said Olen. “You sit up with the-- with Henry. I’ll be back soon’s I can.”
“I’m gonna heat some beans for supper. You sure you don’t wanna stick around?”
“You go ahead without me.”
Jasper set about gathering materials for a camp fire. Before he struck a match, he wrapped Henry’s blanket a little tighter around his corpse and dragged the resulting bundle several feet away from the fire pit. Then he built the fire.
He used his knife to cut the lid off the can and had just spread some of the kindling out before putting the beans on when he heard a distinctive hiss.
Dropping the beans and rising to his feet, he searched frantically for the source of the sound. That’s when the dynamite went off and sent critical parts of him in several different directions. It happened so fast, Jasper never felt a thing.
~*~
For many logical reasons, the town of Greeley had few glass windows. Those it did have, however, shook in response to the blast of Jasper’s campfire.
Olen not only heard it, but felt it. He turned slowly to look at the scene he’d left behind and saw only a dust cloud billowing into the air. Standing square in the middle of Greeley’s main thoroughfare, Olen was quickly joined by many permanent residents, all of whom stared in disbelief at the battered trees in the distance.
After a brief, stunned silence, everyone began talking at once, and Olen couldn’t think. He had little doubt that Jasper had joined his brother in the Promised Land, or the alternative. They were, in either case, reunited. What Olen couldn’t get square in his head, was how it had happened.
At about that moment, a dog walked briskly up to him and deposited a well-chewed wad of red, white, and blue cloth at his feet.
Still dazed by the explosion, its portent and ramifications, Olen m
erely gazed down at the fabric in silence. Motionless. No one else seemed to notice. Then the dog barked.
Olen squinted. Was it the miner’s dog? What in the world was she doing here, in the middle of Greeley? And why had she delivered the cloth to him?
He bent down and retrieved the fabric. He spread it out on his thigh, ignoring the damp from the dog’s mouth. Still befuddled by the explosion, he stared down at the infamous ‘stars and bars’ of the confederacy.
“You there!” shouted a voice he partially recognized.
Me?
“Stand where you are, you thievin’ bastard!”
Olen looked up, surprised to see Smilin’ Mike advancing toward him with blood in his eyes and the ugly Smith and Wesson in his hand. “Uhm, whut?”
“That’s my good luck charm,” Smilin’ Mike said, pointing at the bandana.
“It is?”
The dog barked again. Olen swiveled his head to spot her, and came up empty until she peeked out from behind the gambler. His nerves shot completely to hell, Olen dropped his hand to his holster out of reflex, his palm on the handle of his Colt.
Smilin’ Mike, however, was way ahead of him and fired his .44 dead center into Olen’s forehead.
~*~
Little Owen Mabry, the tow-headed son of an earnest couple dispatched by an association of Southern Baptists to establish a college in west Texas, stood beside the wagon which bore all their worldly goods. The family had just reached Greeley after a difficult journey from Rome, Georgia. Ready to scout a location for the proposed college, they had stopped for much-needed supplies.
Owen had found and quickly befriended a skinny, long-haired dog with which he lolled in the shade beneath their wagon.
“Don’t get too attached to that dog,” Owen’s father said. “I’m sure she belongs to somebody.” He glanced at Greely’s rough buildings and the people who occupied them. “I wouldn’t want to upset anyone around here.”
“I can’t believe we even stopped,” Owen’s mother said. “Considering what we’ve heard about this place.”
“We’re nearly out of food,” he said.
“And how’re we gonna pay for it? We can’t even wire for more expense money. There’s no telegraph office.” She glanced nervously about. “Or much of anything else.”
“Have faith,” Mr. Mabry said. “The Lord will provide.”
When the dog bolted and ran away down the mud rutted street, Owen called after her. She ignored him and disappeared behind the livery stable at the edge of town.
Mr. Mabry put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “It’s probably just as well, Owen. We can’t afford to feed ourselves much less a dog, too.”
“Y’know,” said Mrs. Mabry, “a guard dog might not be a bad idea.”
Owen briefly followed their conversation, but grownups never understood the important stuff, like how boys and dogs belonged together. He couldn’t explain it, but no one could convince him that God had planned it any other way.
His parents had gone into the general store to see if the shopkeeper might be willing to barter for anything they had. Eventually, all three came outside so the merchant could poke around in their belongings.
As Owen waited for the interminable bargaining to end, the skinny dog reappeared. It dodged around a mule-drawn wagon and raced between a pair of cowhands staggering from a saloon before reaching him. The dog finally collapsed next to him, panting heavily in the afternoon heat.
She had dropped something at Owen’s feet, but he left it there to find her some water. He grabbed a bucket from an iron hook on the side of the wagon and dipped it in a nearby trough. The water didn’t look or smell very good, but Owen figured the dog wouldn’t care. He was right. She nearly stuck her whole head in.
Meanwhile, Owen hefted the little drawstring bag she had brought. It felt oddly heavy, and the contents clicked softly when he jiggled them.
“What’ve you got there?” his mother asked.
“I dunno,” he said. “The dog brought it.” Before she could say more, Owen dumped the bag into his palm. Gold nuggets of various sizes poured out, far too many for the little boy’s hand. The overflow landed on the ground.
Mrs. Mabry suddenly appeared faint and leaned against the wagon. She removed her bonnet and fanned herself with it.
“You all right, Ma?” Owen asked.
“I believe I am,” she said, then bent low and whispered for him to pick up the shiny stones and put them back in the bag.
Mr. Mabry and the merchant had nearly finished their negotiations when Owen’s mother asked him about the dog.
The store owner shrugged. “Used to belong to an old miner who worked up in the hills. He brought her in from time to time, but I heard he got himself kilt. Explosion of some kind. Anyway, the dog wandered into town a couple weeks ago. Been hangin’ mostly ‘round the Eagle.” He pointed at a particularly seedy, two-story saloon. “Why? You interested?”
“I am,” Owen said.
His father frowned, but Owen went on anyway. “Well, I am interested.”
“You’d be the only one,” the merchant said.
“Fine,” said Mrs. Mabry. “Owen, kindly put the dog in the wagon and hand me whatever she dropped on the ground.”
Only too eager to comply, Owen raced to do her bidding.
“Have you lost your mind?” an astonished Mr. Mabry asked. “The last thing in the world we need is a dumb mutt!”
She smiled at him. “Didn’t you tell me the Lord would provide?”
He nodded, though the gesture lacked enthusiasm.
“Well,” she said, “I believe he just did.”
~End~
Sex and the Big Six
(Circa 1926)
The mustachioed visage of Andrew Volstead peered out from a cheap wooden frame above the speakeasy’s saloon-style bar. A bullet hole punctuated his left eyebrow and lent him a quizzical look. The vandalism came as no surprise in light of Volstead’s role in the enforcement of prohibition and the bar’s occasionally well-armed clientele.
Kate Mabry, sitting at her piano, smiled whenever she looked at the over-sized photo. Because of Volstead and the other assholes who couldn’t keep their noses out of everyone else’s business, she had a job -- in a gin joint, true, but a job. Two jobs, really, if one also counted race car driving, which Kate sure as hell did.
“Well, bless my soul if it ain’t Katie Mabry,” said a tall, overly groomed, and slightly zozzled young man as he dropped to the piano bench and pressed his leg against hers. She slid to the far edge. He followed, his hand moving slowly toward her knee. A span of bare flesh lay exposed between the hem of her skirt and the rolled top of her stocking.
“You wanna die young?” she asked. “Go ahead and touch my leg.”
He froze, his paw hovering over her exposed thigh. “What? The bank’s closed?”
“Get lost, Jep.”
He stood up, laughing. “You don’t know what yer missin’.”
“I pray that’s true.”
“It’s just a matter of time, y’know.” His gaze flowed south from her face to her lap with a strategic pause at her chest. “You’ll come around.”
She suddenly craved a hot bath. “You familiar with eternity, Jep? That’s just a matter of time, too.”
“If you’re gonna play Mrs. Grundy ya oughta cover up those stilts.”
The barman made a face at her. He paid her to play music, not piss off the trade. “I’ve got work to do,” she said.
“It’ll keep. I’ve got a proposition for ya.”
“Not interested.”
“Oh? I figured a big time race driver would jump at the chance to ditch an old clunker like yours. Wouldn’t you like to get your hands on a real car?”
“Like yours?” She laughed, hoping her interest wouldn’t show. But a car like Jep Dickerson’s? A Big-6 Buick? Who wouldn’t take a chance?
“Yeah. Like mine. But, if you don’t care, I’ll go peddle my potatoes elsewhere.”
; “Hold on,” she said. “Let’s talk.”
~*~
Kate strolled into the chemistry lab without knocking. Though she could easily have passed for just another college student -- and a strikingly attractive one -- she would never have been caught dead taking classes. “Hey, big brother,” she said. “You busy?”
Owen “Doc” Mabry looked up from his work. “Me? Nah. I was just sitting here hoping someone would come in and distract me. Lo and behold, it’s you!” He sat back on his stool amid a wonderland of glass tubing, bubbling beakers, and vials of curious fluids.
“I need a little help,” she said.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I sorta made a side bet with Jep Dickerson.”
“Jep Dickerson, the rich, snotty, jerk? That Jep Dickerson?”
“I guess I’ve mentioned him before.”
“Frequently, but never in a nice way.”
She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t care about him. I care about his car.”
“You made a side bet about his car?” Doc gave her a bemused look. “I don’t get it.”
“He challenged me.”
Doc felt his blood pressure rising. “He baited you.”
“We’re gonna race. Just Jep and me.”
“No mechanics?”
“No other drivers. You’ll be right beside me, like always. I need you.”
“You need a mortician, not a mechanic. Your car’s dead.”
“Aw c’mon, Doc!” She punched him playfully on the shoulder. “We can squeeze one more race out of it. We have to! I’ve already signed us up. It’s July the 4th. And if we win -- No. When we win -- we’ll drive off in Jep’s big, beautiful Buick.”
“Wake up, Katie! Your car is a wreck, a worn out pile of junk. His car is a thing of beauty: a Buick. A six-cylinder Buick, fer cryin’ out loud!”
“So?”
“So, what’s the side bet? What happens when we lose?”
She pursed her lips but said nothing.
He cleared his throat. “Guess you didn’t hear me. What happens when we lose?”
“That can’t happen.”
“Damn it, Kate! What’s at stake? What aren’t you tellin’ me?”