Innocents' Massacre cont'd
J.
“Everyone is here Stone. What’s the word from this nigger?”
The old man’s wavering voice was filled with fear. He sat bent in his chair in the center of the bank. He was a shriveled creature who looked to have been of small stature even in the prime of his life, which was clearly well passed. Milky film covered bitter old gray eyes that held a sense of importance time could not dull. His features were sharp but had lost their delicateness with age. Elegant well-tailored clothes hung from his slender frame as loosely as once taut skin. The long white hair down to his shoulders seemed to shimmer, but could not distract from the liver spotted bald top of his pate. His twisted arthritic hands grasped the gold horn topped cane that kept him sitting upright in some semblance of authority and self-control. But his body shook lightly with a palsy that betrayed his frailty. In the middle of Lindsey Bank and Trust of Necessity, Jonas Groupier held court. Thus it was appropriate that he sat in lush environs. The Bank itself was opulent with cherry oak shining proudly everywhere. It was, its deceased owner had been proud to pronounce the finest bank west of Austin. His court was made up of the armed and diligent young men of Necessity. Men who where dedicated to the town and its last living founding father. Some were stationed at the curtained windows looking out nervously at the deserted streets of the town. Damien and Matt Jones stood sentry at the front door. Sheriff Miles stood in their midst before the last surviving elder his face a mask of exhausted reservation. Still he took a moment to choose his words.
“Mr. Groupier, that boy’s left ta talk to the Apache. If all is well he should return on tomorrow and we can move ahead with trying and hangin’ them old injuns. That is if that replacement Judge gets here from Austin.”
An uneasy quiet filled the room. The Jones boys glowered behind the Sheriff at the mention of the Judge. Their father had been the Judge of the town and they took his death as heavy as they took their embarrassment in the Saloon the day before. Groupier’s body shivered noticeably at the thought of his dead friend. Sheriff Miles looked at the clock on the wall as if it suddenly consumed all his attention. The ancient white man’s voice spit out hate.
“I financed the settlement of this town. I directed its growth with my long dead partner Rhinehold and the five murdered men in laying your jail Stone! Together we defended this land, this town duly deeded to us by the United States of America---“
The Sheriff’s scowled, as he interrupted Groupier’s litany, one heard by every citizen of this Necessity whenever the founding father had someone’s attention, undivided or otherwise.
“Yes sir, an’ I don’t aim ta allow this problem to go any farther. I jus’ wanted to keep the townsfolk outta danger and follow the proper-“
“Barrington, perhaps you should stop waiting on this government house boy and solve our problems…dammit my problem, in a more aggressive way. They’ll come after me next!”
Mr. Groupier slid back in his seat, his cane lolling in his hands. Caught in a fit of shaking, he could not speak. The men around him looked expectantly, waiting for the command that would allow them to alleviate his distress and theirs. But silent immobility reigned until the ancient collected himself. He collected himself enough to mumble.
“ I thought we had taught them damned Apache a lesson enough.”
Sheriff Miles turned back to at the bent shaking figure. He studied the well-dressed wraith with a new eye. A glint leapt to his tired eyes, then thinking better of the timing he softened his look.
“If the Injun Agent can’t work this out we’ll deal with it your way. But I would rather not endanger the women and children of this town. This whole area is infested with Apache brethren. We don’t know how many they got hiding in the hills much less the reservation. Me an’ my Deputy will keep an eye on the path from the town to the Reservation…for Agent Patrick’s return. If he don’t solve the problem we will.”
The room filled with the grumble of the foolhardy and the ignorant. Barrington heard young men sound like this before they faced a desperate enemy they knew nothing about. He also knew that grumble was nearly always followed by death. The unnecessary death of romantic men who thought they understood battle. As he walked toward the door he brushed past the Jones boys. Matt stared away his face red. Damien stared hard at Barrington, his face twisted with malicious intent.
“That nigger caught us unawares. That’s the only way he took my brother and me. Hell it was good you were there to save him from a right good trouncin’.”
The Sheriff opened the door. He paused a moment.
“Sure son. Too bad I won’t be there to help ‘em with them Apache hunh? Now they might give him a real tussle.”
As the doors of the bank closed Sheriff Miles heard the Groupier call to him.
“I am Necessity Stone. I made this town what it is. If they’re trying to kill the founders I’m the last! If I die at their hands Necessity will fall. I am Necessity!!”
With that the door closed and locked. Barrington walked away his mind moving way beyond his liking. He thought back to his soldier days fighting the Mexicans, of the family he never took the time to make, but mostly he thought with great trepidation the things men do out of necessity.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Innocents' Massacre cont'd.
I.
"Where ya going Mister Guy?"
Even Miriam shuddered at the earnestness of the squeaky voice that appeared from nowhere. Guy reined her in softly searching about for the source of the question. Theresa stood next to a small tree. Guy climbed down from the saddle. It was the outskirts of the town of Necessity. He had left the stable only an hour before and had expected an uninterrupted journey. The small black haired child stood patiently. Still, she waited for his response.
"Little Miss, what are you doing way out here?"
Theresa's dark brown eyes never moved, nor did her small mouth.
"Well child, I was off to the Apache reservation to talk to them 'bout the badness in your town."
Theresa looked down and fidgeted with here dress. Creasing the wispy fabric repeatedly with her tiny fingers. She walked up closer to Guy, at the same time gesturing him to come to her. Guy kneeled down and bent his head close to the child. She whispered in his ear with a tone secret in its softness but with definitive intent.
"Those Apache have powerful spooks. You gotta be careful the spooks don't lie to ya."
Guy leaned back steadying himself. He touched Theresa's shoulder lightly and smiled.
"I'll try and keep your advice in mind. I'll keep my eye's on 'em."
Theresa beamed, patting Guy on his shoulder.
"Good 'cause Daddy says them Injuns just have to be kept an eye on. Momma just wants to leave 'em alone, but Daddy says women never understand stuff like this."
Guys smile melted slowly away. He walked slowly over to Miriam and opened his saddlebag. He pulled out his bag of Lemon drops and shook them. Without turning to her he spoke.
"Now Theresa if you promise to get back home I'll give you as many of these lemon drops as you want when I get back… deal?"
Guy heaved himself back into his saddle and turned back to the little girl in time to see her skipping back towards Necessity. She yelled as she ran.
"Deal Mister Guy. But you be careful."
He gave her a moment to disappear around a ridge and then nudged Miriam on.
"White folks let their children do anything. Leave a little child like her out this way alone. Can't be nothing but trouble Miriam. Nothing but trouble."
Miriam trotted on silently as if unsure how to respond to Guy or the little girl.
There can be monotony in beauty, or perhaps monotony in the inability to respond to beauty. The red rock-faces glared down at Guy as he road Miriam through the passes in the small hills separating Necessity from the Apache reservation miles away from it. Sparse shrubs jutted boldly at odd angles from the coarse ground. And at times, beyond the song of birds flirting about, Guy and Miriam could hear the sound of the hearty animal denizens of this place scatter around in their daily tasks. But Guy was absorbed with thoughts.
"Miriam, I believe I been so worried about this mess I didn’t get enough sleep."
Miriam shook her head and laughed a high whinny.
"Yes we have been in more confusing situations… but this… this just taste nasty."
The bright sun continued its ascent to apex. Long shadows spread adding to the drama of the landscape. Still Guy's face would not soften.
"I must find out the connection of those old men. I have to find out why. And I gotta make sure this killing ends."
Miriam snorted decisively.
"Yes Miriam we definitely don't need scared white folks with weapons left to their own devices.
Quiet consumed Guy. He rested in the saddle, trusting Miriam to continue on with minimal direction. His mind drifted back to the day before in the jail cell with the old Apache murderers. Their driving chants in his head as if he was back in the cell again. Each syllable more hypnotic than the one before. Slowly the feeling of Miriam beneath him drifted away. The song of the men drowned the sounds of the hills out and Guy felt himself and the world change completely.
The settlement of Necessity 184?. This is not me.
And that realization frees me from the constraints of emotion.
I am small
My voice is soft and sweet. I pad on tint quiet feet.
Where's Daddy?
It is late as I scramble through the hushed house.
Darkness, long a fear, is defied to
lead me to the whisperings of adults.
If I am caught I am in trouble. I giggle
a child's laugh, covering my small mouth
with miniature hands.
A child's rebellion.
Where's Daddy?
Momma sits in the kitchen. All the big grownup ladies
are with her. They are hushed like this big dark house.
Through the slightly opened door
I see Momma in tears as
The women comfort her.
Daddy should do that.
Momma always smiles with Daddy.
Something is wrong.
The magical mischievousness of the moment
is lost.
Where's Daddy?
Memorized measured steps carry
My tiny form to the hallway near the Big Room.
I am not allowed there alone. That's Daddy's place
Where Daddy talks to other Big Men.
Where men listen to Daddy.
Light creeps out the large door and huddles close.
Confined by the shadows of the vacant hall.
I draw near that safe light.
And there is Daddy.
Pressed against the lip of
The doorway, caressed in the obsessed light
Where I stand, I hear his voice. Deep strong and sure.
Daddy's voice warms the cold fear of night.
We can't wait for them.
This is our land by law.
This is our Necessity.
I have heard too many tales.
Tales of wild raiding
parties destroying
new homesteads.
Not here!
Not where we call home!
We act tonight.
We send a message
We live without fear.
This is our Necessity.
The giddy joy of a mystery brightens my night. I rush to
the back door, fumbling as I put on my small shoes. Cold night air
ruffles my nightdress and flings my hair across my face. Tendrils
echoing the starless night sky. I climb up and into Daddy's favorite wagon.
It stinks of leather metal and sulfur. A final giggle subsides as I hide
myself under a large blanket, huddling close to sloshing cans of kerosene.
I am going with Daddy.
Even Miriam shuddered at the earnestness of the squeaky voice that appeared from nowhere. Guy reined her in softly searching about for the source of the question. Theresa stood next to a small tree. Guy climbed down from the saddle. It was the outskirts of the town of Necessity. He had left the stable only an hour before and had expected an uninterrupted journey. The small black haired child stood patiently. Still, she waited for his response.
"Little Miss, what are you doing way out here?"
Theresa's dark brown eyes never moved, nor did her small mouth.
"Well child, I was off to the Apache reservation to talk to them 'bout the badness in your town."
Theresa looked down and fidgeted with here dress. Creasing the wispy fabric repeatedly with her tiny fingers. She walked up closer to Guy, at the same time gesturing him to come to her. Guy kneeled down and bent his head close to the child. She whispered in his ear with a tone secret in its softness but with definitive intent.
"Those Apache have powerful spooks. You gotta be careful the spooks don't lie to ya."
Guy leaned back steadying himself. He touched Theresa's shoulder lightly and smiled.
"I'll try and keep your advice in mind. I'll keep my eye's on 'em."
Theresa beamed, patting Guy on his shoulder.
"Good 'cause Daddy says them Injuns just have to be kept an eye on. Momma just wants to leave 'em alone, but Daddy says women never understand stuff like this."
Guys smile melted slowly away. He walked slowly over to Miriam and opened his saddlebag. He pulled out his bag of Lemon drops and shook them. Without turning to her he spoke.
"Now Theresa if you promise to get back home I'll give you as many of these lemon drops as you want when I get back… deal?"
Guy heaved himself back into his saddle and turned back to the little girl in time to see her skipping back towards Necessity. She yelled as she ran.
"Deal Mister Guy. But you be careful."
He gave her a moment to disappear around a ridge and then nudged Miriam on.
"White folks let their children do anything. Leave a little child like her out this way alone. Can't be nothing but trouble Miriam. Nothing but trouble."
Miriam trotted on silently as if unsure how to respond to Guy or the little girl.
There can be monotony in beauty, or perhaps monotony in the inability to respond to beauty. The red rock-faces glared down at Guy as he road Miriam through the passes in the small hills separating Necessity from the Apache reservation miles away from it. Sparse shrubs jutted boldly at odd angles from the coarse ground. And at times, beyond the song of birds flirting about, Guy and Miriam could hear the sound of the hearty animal denizens of this place scatter around in their daily tasks. But Guy was absorbed with thoughts.
"Miriam, I believe I been so worried about this mess I didn’t get enough sleep."
Miriam shook her head and laughed a high whinny.
"Yes we have been in more confusing situations… but this… this just taste nasty."
The bright sun continued its ascent to apex. Long shadows spread adding to the drama of the landscape. Still Guy's face would not soften.
"I must find out the connection of those old men. I have to find out why. And I gotta make sure this killing ends."
Miriam snorted decisively.
"Yes Miriam we definitely don't need scared white folks with weapons left to their own devices.
Quiet consumed Guy. He rested in the saddle, trusting Miriam to continue on with minimal direction. His mind drifted back to the day before in the jail cell with the old Apache murderers. Their driving chants in his head as if he was back in the cell again. Each syllable more hypnotic than the one before. Slowly the feeling of Miriam beneath him drifted away. The song of the men drowned the sounds of the hills out and Guy felt himself and the world change completely.
The settlement of Necessity 184?. This is not me.
And that realization frees me from the constraints of emotion.
I am small
My voice is soft and sweet. I pad on tint quiet feet.
Where's Daddy?
It is late as I scramble through the hushed house.
Darkness, long a fear, is defied to
lead me to the whisperings of adults.
If I am caught I am in trouble. I giggle
a child's laugh, covering my small mouth
with miniature hands.
A child's rebellion.
Where's Daddy?
Momma sits in the kitchen. All the big grownup ladies
are with her. They are hushed like this big dark house.
Through the slightly opened door
I see Momma in tears as
The women comfort her.
Daddy should do that.
Momma always smiles with Daddy.
Something is wrong.
The magical mischievousness of the moment
is lost.
Where's Daddy?
Memorized measured steps carry
My tiny form to the hallway near the Big Room.
I am not allowed there alone. That's Daddy's place
Where Daddy talks to other Big Men.
Where men listen to Daddy.
Light creeps out the large door and huddles close.
Confined by the shadows of the vacant hall.
I draw near that safe light.
And there is Daddy.
Pressed against the lip of
The doorway, caressed in the obsessed light
Where I stand, I hear his voice. Deep strong and sure.
Daddy's voice warms the cold fear of night.
We can't wait for them.
This is our land by law.
This is our Necessity.
I have heard too many tales.
Tales of wild raiding
parties destroying
new homesteads.
Not here!
Not where we call home!
We act tonight.
We send a message
We live without fear.
This is our Necessity.
The giddy joy of a mystery brightens my night. I rush to
the back door, fumbling as I put on my small shoes. Cold night air
ruffles my nightdress and flings my hair across my face. Tendrils
echoing the starless night sky. I climb up and into Daddy's favorite wagon.
It stinks of leather metal and sulfur. A final giggle subsides as I hide
myself under a large blanket, huddling close to sloshing cans of kerosene.
I am going with Daddy.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Been away for awhile. I'll be putting up some sketches for Innocents' Massacre over the next few days and then I'll get back to the rest of the story. If anyone is out there tell me what you think. Oh and if you're in Atlanta check out the Apex Musuem. I have a painting in there until October so chek it out.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
PART TWO: RESERVATION
LIVING
G.
Guy sits up from his makeshift bed in the hayloft. A deep blood red slowly formed from the jet-black starless night, to welcome the coming Dawn. The government agent's horse, Miriam, rustled easily in the stable beneath him. Not even the sound of birds greeting the sun had begun. A smile spread across Guy Patrick's face. This was a moment of silent peace. Sleep held inexplicable nightmares that he woke from without remembering. But he carried the sense of trepidation the dreams gave him into the waking world.
Guy climbs down from the loft, his chest exposed to the early morning air. He inhales a long deep breath. Miriam clops up beside him, nuzzling her cold wet nose against his dark neck. Guy exhales. He is met with the swirling symphony of reds and oranges painting the sky. He pats Miriam softly on the jaw.
"This is ours Lady. Can't no one take that away."
Foreboding shapes lighten to dark reds and rich browns, becoming mountains and hills. The images battle for breathless dominance in the growing tableau of God's creation. Guy nodded his head in prayer.
"Lord, you have brought me to this place. Give me the strength to face the trials put before me, and the brains to make the right choice. Protect me from ignorance, foolishness, and hate… from inside and out."
Miriam whinnied as she again nudged Guy's neck.
"Oh and Lord allow Miriam the rest she deserves at the end of this journey. Amen."
With a final look at the red sky and a shiver, Guy climbed back to the loft to dress and prepared for the day.
Miriam stays at the door of the stable. Her huge black eyes unmoving in their study of the landscape. Her majestic body ripples at each cold breeze. Her tail whips rhythmically, shooing away the distraction of gnats and flies.
H.
"Good thing you're going to talk to those Apache, boy."
An hour earlier the Sheriff, kind enough to bring breakfast, found Guy preparing Miriam for the long trip to the Apache Reservation. The pleasantries and the meal now over, Miles wanted to get the Government agent on his way.
“I suppose ya didn’t learn much more from those witnesses then what I told ya?”
Guy handed the plate to Barrington. Busying himself with the straps on Miriam’s saddlebags, he found the rest of his stash of lemon drops. His face softened as he secured the flap over the pouch.
“Well sir I learned about the fear and confusion in Necessity, but nothing to add to the facts of this mystery.”
Guy grabbed Miriam’s bit gently and pet her jaw as he led her out if the stable. Barrington’s knitted brow and twisting mouth flexed and relaxed fitfully. He fiddled with his badge, the star dull in the morning sun blocked shadows of the empty stable.
“Well boy, I hope ya find some answers at the Reservation. That ruckus in the Saloon has changed the towns focus from its fear of those Injuns, ta resigned hatred of all outsiders, whether the president sent ‘em or no!”
Guy tied Miriam loosely to a post. Turning back to the Sheriff, he looked far beyond him.
“That sir was understood before I came to Necessity. Your warning is appreciated though. Very much so.”
Barrington looked closely at Miriam, a strong mottled mare. She was born a beautiful beast and trained to work as hard as her owner needed. He was sure the horse was Guy's most prized possession. He pulled an envelope from his vest pocket and pointed it towards Guy.
"Here's all ya need to know about that Apache reservation. The ride'll take about half a day but by the looks o' your filly here you'll get there in good order. "
Guy looked down at the envelope as he accepted it from Miles.
"Yes sir. Miriam does pretty well by me. "
Barrington turned and walked outta the stable beginning the short trek back to town.
"Just make sure the Apache understand there best be no more trouble."
Sheriff Barrington 'Stone' Miles stalks down the long empty street back into town. The early morning bustle found in most western cities was slowed to a frame-by-frame event, separated by long moments of pensive nothing. A woman beats her rug distracted. Stopping to wave to the Sheriff, a questing look of hope on her face. Quiet. The blacksmith stops working his forge to study his creation. Setting it aside he leans against his doorway, a vision of pointless automation. Silent. Miles stops to peruse his Necessity. The vibrant signs hang over the still buildings, lamenting the cowering audience that once praised their beauty. He turns resolutely and walks to the Bank. A moment passes as he stands before the door, hands on his hips, his head hung low, and his face knotted in trepidation. Then he holds his chin up as he brow sets in a determined decision. He knocks on the door. A young man greets him through the crack of the door. He looks at the Sheriff expectantly.
"Tell the old man I’m here. We gotta talk."
LIVING
G.
Guy sits up from his makeshift bed in the hayloft. A deep blood red slowly formed from the jet-black starless night, to welcome the coming Dawn. The government agent's horse, Miriam, rustled easily in the stable beneath him. Not even the sound of birds greeting the sun had begun. A smile spread across Guy Patrick's face. This was a moment of silent peace. Sleep held inexplicable nightmares that he woke from without remembering. But he carried the sense of trepidation the dreams gave him into the waking world.
Guy climbs down from the loft, his chest exposed to the early morning air. He inhales a long deep breath. Miriam clops up beside him, nuzzling her cold wet nose against his dark neck. Guy exhales. He is met with the swirling symphony of reds and oranges painting the sky. He pats Miriam softly on the jaw.
"This is ours Lady. Can't no one take that away."
Foreboding shapes lighten to dark reds and rich browns, becoming mountains and hills. The images battle for breathless dominance in the growing tableau of God's creation. Guy nodded his head in prayer.
"Lord, you have brought me to this place. Give me the strength to face the trials put before me, and the brains to make the right choice. Protect me from ignorance, foolishness, and hate… from inside and out."
Miriam whinnied as she again nudged Guy's neck.
"Oh and Lord allow Miriam the rest she deserves at the end of this journey. Amen."
With a final look at the red sky and a shiver, Guy climbed back to the loft to dress and prepared for the day.
Miriam stays at the door of the stable. Her huge black eyes unmoving in their study of the landscape. Her majestic body ripples at each cold breeze. Her tail whips rhythmically, shooing away the distraction of gnats and flies.
H.
"Good thing you're going to talk to those Apache, boy."
An hour earlier the Sheriff, kind enough to bring breakfast, found Guy preparing Miriam for the long trip to the Apache Reservation. The pleasantries and the meal now over, Miles wanted to get the Government agent on his way.
“I suppose ya didn’t learn much more from those witnesses then what I told ya?”
Guy handed the plate to Barrington. Busying himself with the straps on Miriam’s saddlebags, he found the rest of his stash of lemon drops. His face softened as he secured the flap over the pouch.
“Well sir I learned about the fear and confusion in Necessity, but nothing to add to the facts of this mystery.”
Guy grabbed Miriam’s bit gently and pet her jaw as he led her out if the stable. Barrington’s knitted brow and twisting mouth flexed and relaxed fitfully. He fiddled with his badge, the star dull in the morning sun blocked shadows of the empty stable.
“Well boy, I hope ya find some answers at the Reservation. That ruckus in the Saloon has changed the towns focus from its fear of those Injuns, ta resigned hatred of all outsiders, whether the president sent ‘em or no!”
Guy tied Miriam loosely to a post. Turning back to the Sheriff, he looked far beyond him.
“That sir was understood before I came to Necessity. Your warning is appreciated though. Very much so.”
Barrington looked closely at Miriam, a strong mottled mare. She was born a beautiful beast and trained to work as hard as her owner needed. He was sure the horse was Guy's most prized possession. He pulled an envelope from his vest pocket and pointed it towards Guy.
"Here's all ya need to know about that Apache reservation. The ride'll take about half a day but by the looks o' your filly here you'll get there in good order. "
Guy looked down at the envelope as he accepted it from Miles.
"Yes sir. Miriam does pretty well by me. "
Barrington turned and walked outta the stable beginning the short trek back to town.
"Just make sure the Apache understand there best be no more trouble."
Sheriff Barrington 'Stone' Miles stalks down the long empty street back into town. The early morning bustle found in most western cities was slowed to a frame-by-frame event, separated by long moments of pensive nothing. A woman beats her rug distracted. Stopping to wave to the Sheriff, a questing look of hope on her face. Quiet. The blacksmith stops working his forge to study his creation. Setting it aside he leans against his doorway, a vision of pointless automation. Silent. Miles stops to peruse his Necessity. The vibrant signs hang over the still buildings, lamenting the cowering audience that once praised their beauty. He turns resolutely and walks to the Bank. A moment passes as he stands before the door, hands on his hips, his head hung low, and his face knotted in trepidation. Then he holds his chin up as he brow sets in a determined decision. He knocks on the door. A young man greets him through the crack of the door. He looks at the Sheriff expectantly.
"Tell the old man I’m here. We gotta talk."
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Innocents' Massacre cont'd
E.
The sun slowly dipped in the sky, spreading long shadows over the town of Necessity. It was seven o’clock on the nose. Guy looked at his pocket-watch for the tenth time in the last half-hour. A fixed grimace locked on his mouth as he again viewed the empty and darkening street into town. Guy was waiting for the Sheriff to come and bring him to the Saloon.
Flipping the top back onto his watch, he dropped it in his pocket and patted the bulge twice. He rose and turned, reentering the drafty deserted stable that was to be his base of operations for the foreseeable future.
“Boy!”
The booming voice of Sheriff Miles interrupted the silence.
“Hey there Guy, we gotta go talk to them witnesses. What you walkin’ away for? C’mon!”
Guy walked over to his pouch. He studied some papers from his bag deliberately, then turned to the entrance.
“I’m ready sir.”
F.
Guy and Barrington stood before the swinging doors of the Saloon. Barrington placed a heavy hand on Guy’s shoulder.
“Listen boy, be careful in there. These folks are edgy and have little ta no tolerance for…outsiders.”
Guy cut his gaze from the Sheriff’s chest and stared resolutely at the room beyond the swinging doors in front of him.
“Sir, if I am nothing else I am careful.”
The Sheriff slid his arm away and shook his head. Turning forward he pushed the doors wide and entered the Saloon followed closely by Guy.
Desperate carousing sounds leaped and thumped through the brightly lit Saloon. The piano player plunked out happy upbeat marches on the shiny wooden piano. Painted women danced through the crowd of male patrons, offering their company to winners and regret to losers at the various card tables. A tenuous sense of refuge existed in this bar, that none of its inhabitants dared abandon while foreboding pervaded the rest of Necessity. Wary faces shifted as Barrington sat in the center of the fray with the Negro stranger.
“Now, you’re gonna talk to five witnesses to the various killings. Only one actually saw the killings and that’s Sammy Meyer, the town drunk. The other four where nearby when the killings occurred and discovered the bodies of the victims and the suspects.”
Guy scanned the room undeterred by the piercing gazes of most of the patrons. He noticed a sullen young dandy sitting alone, a bottle and shot glass in alternate hands. The man seemed to mumble to himself and shake his head vigorously after each drink. Guy tapped on the table to get Sheriff Miles' attention. He nodded in the direction of the man.
“That is Wilson Lindsay the third, the son of one of the victims. His father was a wealthy banker here and one of the founding fathers of Necessity. Word is the boy hated his father livin’ but seems even more at a loss with havin’ him dead.”
Guy acknowledged the Sheriff’s statement wit a small gesture. He then continued to scan the raucous room. In the corner of the bar he discovered what was the crumbled form of Sam Meyer. No one else in the Saloon seems truly lost in their drink as he was, huddled protectively over his bottle as whiskey as he was. Everyone else seemed to only pretend to succumb to their cups. Hair long and ragged, clothes dusty and unkempt, he nursed his drink at the bar as if it was his last.
“That must be Sammy Meyer at the bar. He seems outta place here.”
Sheriff Miles allowed himself a slight smile.
“Sharp eye boy. Sammy’s only allowed in here to talk ta you, so he knows he better enjoy civilized livin’ as long as he can.”
Barrington cleared his throat and leaned closer to Guy.
“And if you think your pickin’ these folks out makes up for that stupid stunt of yours earlier in the jail, you are sorely mistaken. I ain’t impressed.”
Guy looked into the face of the grizzled sheriff. The Buffalo soldier’s face was a mask of complete innocence and sincerity.
“Yes sir. Please describe the others to me.”
Barrington leaned back in his chair. He looked away from the government, agent slightly disturbed. Regaining his composure, as he looked about the room, the Sheriff addressed Guy.
“Well we got the two Jones boys; Matthew and Damien. Those boys ‘bout killed the Injun we arrested for the last killing. Rambunctious pair those two. Finally we have Claudia Grimes, local good-time girl. She was the late Mayor’s favorite “companion.” before he was murdered after one of their evenin’s together. “
Sheriff Miles looked back at Guy, who was no longer maintaining his passive gaze on him. Guy was busy now studying Wilson Lindsey, III.
“May I speak to the witness’ now sir.”
The Sheriff felt comfortable again waving Guy on.
“Aright. Go on talk to the Lindsey boy first. I'll send the rest over to ya directly. And soldier, be civil, these folks are in mourning,”
The Buffalo soldier rose and approached Wilson slowly. Deep in his bottle, Lindsey did not respond to Guy’s approach. The Negro soldier stood in anticipation of some acknowledgement of his presence. Nothing broke Wilson’s ritual of pour raise drink repeat. Grabbing a chair from another table, Guy sat across from the distressed young man. Wilson Lindsey the third was the epitome of a fish out of water in this town. He wore the height of eastern fashion, obviously not made for the rugged southwest environs he currently lived in. Though his chestnut brown hair was mussed a bit, it still was cut precisely.
“So you are the Colored hope of a diseased town.”
The slightly nasal New England accent of the young man hissed from the shadows of his still bowed head.
“I do hope you can end this plague that has lain waste to our beloved founding fathers…father.”
Here his voice faltered and drifted quickly to silence.
“Mister Lindsey, I am here to help as best I can. You did not witness the actual killing?”
The young man’s face rose from shadow unveiling a mask of exhaustion, terror, and ultimately resolution. His bleary hazel eyes attempted to come to life.
Sir, I found my father after a rather brutal beating that I, in my cowardice, heard the length of and yet feared to come to my father’s rescue. In the safety of utter stillness and after the cessation of paralyzing trepidation, I found the blooded and lifeless carcass."
Guy studied the troubled face of this man-child.
“Your father called to you?”
“No he knew better. I am after all a production of his own devious design.”
Tears began to collect in the corner of his eyes.
“You see he knew from the moment I stepped off the train from Harvard. He wanted to be so proud. I was the young genius trophy sent away to the best schools back east from the time I was six years old.”
The grimace on the young man’s face intensified. Anger and regret vied for supremacy on his brow. Lindsey was a man torn.
“Mister Lindsey I am truly sorry for loss, but I need to know what you heard that night.”
Young Lindsey sighed heavily and dropping his head back to its original position. Spilled liquor on the rough-hewn surface of the table twisted the light from above transfixing him. In a haunted voice Wilson spoke from as if from the bottom of a deep pit.
“I heard chanting. I heard a song that penetrated my mind. I felt as if I had taken a great dose of laudlin. My father’s cries became the finale of an horrific symphony.”
His brow drew together as Guy spoke again.
“This chanting-- it was Apache?”
Wilson’s head shook vigorously, his hair becoming wilder by the second.
“I cannot be sure sir, but it was not English, nor any of the five languages I speak fluently. If it was Apache I am shamed more that I do not know a tongue so intimate to my birthplace.”
The bar remained lively but pensive. There was a sense that everyone there was keeping a secret ear to what was said to the government agent. Guy noticed the Jones boys openly glaring at him. They seemed to mumble conspiratorially. Guy looked way and returned his focus to the broken dandy.
“And you found the old Indian standing over your father with the club?”
At this utterance, Lindsey’s slight veneer of emotional control shattered. Heaving sobs and indecipherable lamentations tumbled from the man’s trembling lips. Guy heard the only word he needed.
“…yes…”
The boy crumbled into his seat, his knuckles white with the grip he held on the table. Guy rose and walked away. The sound in the room became centered on Guy. It vibrated. marched, then settled in the pit of his stomach. Burning eyes barely clouded by strong drink burrowed into his soul. Guy walked to the bar. The shattered waste of man that was Sam Meyer sat before him at the bar and the sour smell of human neglect was his herald. Sam was a slight man, whose age could not be determined beneath the disease and deterioration that his addiction bestowed upon him. As Guy approached, filmy gray eyes peered out from a pink pockmarked face looking out and beyond him to the inexplicable. Things conjured at the bottom of rotgut bottles and a whiskey soaked brain.
Noticing the empty bottle Sam clutched in his grimy hands, Guy set coin down to request another from the bartender. The bartender agitated at this double intrusion on his Valhalla turned to Sheriff Miles, currently concentrating on a friendly game of Spades, for approval. Miles gave a distracted nod and the bartender obediently placed a bottle before the drunk, never even acknowledging Guy’s money. Meyer broke the silence.
“Ya cain’t even see beyond the blood sometimes…Sometimes.”
His searching gaze never stopped on Guy.
“But the blood sees ya n’ answers in kind.”
Guy sighed.
“Mister Meyer what can you tell me about the killing you witnessed?”
“Ol’ injun hittin’ and hittin’. Jus’ nothin’ beyond the blood.”
“You saw the killing -?”
Meyer shook his head vigorously, as Guy lean in a bit closer in spite of the stench.
“Heard them kids. Chilren’ don’ understand Necessity. Just right n’ wrong.”
Sam shook violently at this announcement and closed his rheumy slate eyes.
“I know they hate ‘cause they hate me. But I ain’t done nothin’ but destroy myself. Why they judge that n’ not Necessity. Why cain’t they stay where they are and get outta my head. Ain’t I them? Ain’t I white?”
Guys brow deepened as he moved even closer.
“Did you hear anything?”
Sam rocked softly on his stool his mind a portal to mystery.
“Cain’t hear nothin’ but the kids n’ they only want what’s wrong righted. Don’ understand Necessity.”
Meyer burned with impotent fury. He began pounding on the bar. Disruption ran the tense bar to silence. Angry desperate silence. The quiet of the fearful forced to face their fear. Forced to admit the hypocrisy in their revelry. Meyer’ gnarled hands suddenly gripped Guys arms in a vice grip. Sam’s proximity sent a wave of near over-powering nausea across Guy’s face. Distant pupils focused, at last, on Guy.
“Ain’t I them! Them kids growwed n’ growwed but they still kids, and they only want wrong right! It makes sense ta them. Ya gotta hear the kids!”
Guy slipped and lost his footing into Sam’s contorted visage. His look more sober than they had ever been because of this drunken plea. Guy seemed dazed as strong arms loosened Sam’s grip on him and dragged him away. Didn’t even turn as the pulled him screaming from the Saloon. But he heard the despair in his voice. The loneliness desire and truth in his fading plea.
“Ain’t I them.”
“Sorry for Sammy, he can be pretty manic.”
A lush voice broke Guy’s descent. The voice turned into a vision. The dream of lonely cowboys and exhausted highwaymen made flesh. Painted and smelling of lilacs, Claudia Grimes smiled enticingly. Frosted gold locks tumbled gracefully about a cute round face. Pale powder was offset by ruby red lips, pink cheeks and alluring long lashes. She was not beautiful by many social standards, but her effect was far more intoxicating. Claudia did not create herself to be loved but to be desired as well as accessible. She was a woman whose charm and presence seemed to increase her simple physical gifts. Her firm touch on his hand jarred Guy to attention. He recoiled from her touch, as was expected, and collected himself.
“I’m sorry I scared you soldier. You seemed lost.
Guy nodded, maintaining a careful distance from the bouquet of sight, sound, and smell that stood before him. One that could lead him to pain or death.
“I’m fine ma’am. Just lost in thought. Have a seat please so I can ask you some questions please.”
Guy noticed the pattern the grain of the stained wood on the table made around his hand.
“I didn’t know they was sendin’ coloreds, that is the accepted term now isn’t it, to deal with the Indians?”
Her coy voice read as an invitation…Guy nodded still tracing the paths rolling around his fingers. But he inhaled the delicate fragrance that cleared the stench of the drunkard from his nostrils.
“Miss Grimes, you found the mayor dead?”
Claudia crinkled her brow a moment. She shifted in her seat and ran her hand up through her hair. As the strands fell from her fingers the danced haphazardly on her face. She then sat up in a stately pose.
“The Mayor cared very much for me…”
Claudia smiled off into space.
“And I, in my way, was find if him. He was not young, strong, or um vigorous, but he was important. That my dear can take a gal a long way.”
Guy noticed, as he studied the table more, that the lady, Grimes’ trembled faintly. A faint and steady tremble that could not be hidden behind her flirtations or memories of half-spent passions. She was shaken but a good actress.
“So ma’am you were, excuse my presumption, with the Mayor on the night of his murder.”
Claudia deflated. The performance ended and all the color, that was not artificial, drained from her face. Her eyes grew wide in the remembering.
“Yes.”
She answered like a child afraid of punishment after being caught in a lie.”
“Ma’am, I know this is difficult. Just take your time and tell me everything you can remember.”
Claudia smiled, grateful at the man’s patience.
“Thank you dear. Well I was dressin’ and preparin’ to leave his house when hard the most terrible of thuds. William had gone down to get my wrap for me. I thought I heard him humming then thud, thud, thud… then silence.”
“What did you do, ma’am, upon hearing these sounds?”
Claudia leaned in closer to Guy. Her perfumed swirled once more around. Guy looked up and deeply at her. She continued.
“I thought he’d fallen. I ran down the stairs. The old Indian was sittin’ on the…on the floor. It was him. He was hummin’ or mutterin’ real lightly to himself. And Willie was…he…the blood was everywhere!”
Claudia burst into tears and grabbed to Guys hands for comfort. Consumed by her tears, he did not pull away. For a moment she found warmth in their interlaced fingers. Then Guy felt a vise-like grip on his shoulder. Slowly Guy withdrew his hands from Miss Grimes and sat back in his chair. The hand on his shoulder did not retreat and as he turned his focus from the woman, Guy realized another person stood on his other side as well. One of the barmaids came and ushered Claudia away consoling her all the way.
“I ‘spect she told ya all she could boy.”
Matt Jones voice was laced with thick poison, his youth could not mask. He held Guy’s shoulder. Exacting pressure constantly. Guy stood still and studied the young man in the bar mirror. Matt stood on one side as his brother Damien, stood on the other. Matt was tall and broad shouldered with short dark hair. He had abnormally large and knotted hands that went well with his deep brow and rounded jaw. Damien was the antithesis of his brother. Tall and slight, his features seemed more comely. His hair was sandy blond and his gaze was intense. They mimicked the hate in his brother’s words.
“Now Matt, ya should be more careful I’m sure the man was only consoling Miss Claudia.”
The hand on Guy’s shoulder let go its grip. The two young men of Necessity sat down on opposite sides of Guy. And very close to him.
“Sheriff Stone say you wanna know ‘bout the ol’ bastard injun what killed our Paw.”
Matt leered viciously.
“Lucky he arrived when he did, else me n’ Damien woulda had the old boy done.”
Guy continued looking at the two men in the mirror as Matt spoke. They looked at him intently. Matt’s monstrous grin formed brutishly around his words. Damien’s eyes were set. Never moving from inspecting Guy, his mouth a terse rictus. Matt gleefully continued his speech.
“Fer what he did , we shoulda broke every red bone in his red hide.”
Damien put a light hand on Guy’s shoulder his gaze never changing as his voice was easy and informal.
“Matt gets a bit worked up jus’ thinkin’ about our Paw’s death n’ the way that Indian forgot his place. That ol’, dead Indian. I’m sure you know how dangerous it is when some folks forget their place.”
The room chatter, having not recovered from the outburst from the town drunk and the disintegration of Miss Claudia, stayed quiet enough to allow the Jones boy’s words to be heard easily throughout. Guy searched the mirror for Sheriff Miles face. He was, of course, watching the proceedings with an active eye and stilted smile.
“Damien, I don’t think this boy is focusing on our testimony!”
Guy turned his head looking directly at Damien. He seemed completely uninterested in Matt’s plodding words.
“Mister Jones, if you don’t plan to be a help, then don’t be a hindrance.”
Damien’s expression grew wild as he leaped from his chair and lunged at Guy.
“Why you uppity ass nigger!”
Time moved in single steps. Damien’s forward momentum was stifled by Guy’s fist colliding with him. Blood splattered across the handsome man’s face as Guy followed the punch by locking his other hand around Damien’s throat. Fumbling as if stuck in molasses, the Jones boy worked unsuccessfully to free himself from the iron grip. Recovering from his shock, Matt moved sluggishly to his brother’s aid. His massive hands clamped down on Guy’s shoulders once again. A screech let out his mouth as Guy jerked his head back smashing Matt’s nose across his face. He let loose of Guy scrabbling back, shocked, to nurse his wound. Damien’s world went gray from the pressure exerted. Pained and surprised at the man’s wiliness, Matt reached for his revolver. Noticing the movement, Guy let go of his neck and grabbed for Damien’s gun.
Two shots rang out.
The first shot ripped into Matt’s hand knocking the revolver from his grasp. The second shot blew the hat off his head as he yelped, diving desperately to the ground cowering. Turning quickly from his subdued opponents, Guy was met with the barrel of the Sheriff’s gun aimed at his face.
“Fine shooting son, now put the heater down. Now.”
The room was dead silence. Each individual breath was held in anticipation of whatever the next moment would bring. Matt’s hoarse whimpering curses punctuated the void of sound. Guy dropped the pistol and it fell to the Saloon floor with a limp clatter. Sheriff Miles returned his gun to the holster at his waist and offered a hand to Guy.
“I think we’re done here. Let’s go.”
The bar was frozen as they walked out. In the vacuous wind outside the bar Miles turned to Guy.
“Nice shooting. Glad you didn’t hurt no one…seriously.”
Guy walked on. He never looked at the Sheriff. His mind traveled time to more violent places and his jaw clenched at the memories. Blood filled his mind as he smiled briefly.
“Yes. Very lucky.”
E.
The sun slowly dipped in the sky, spreading long shadows over the town of Necessity. It was seven o’clock on the nose. Guy looked at his pocket-watch for the tenth time in the last half-hour. A fixed grimace locked on his mouth as he again viewed the empty and darkening street into town. Guy was waiting for the Sheriff to come and bring him to the Saloon.
Flipping the top back onto his watch, he dropped it in his pocket and patted the bulge twice. He rose and turned, reentering the drafty deserted stable that was to be his base of operations for the foreseeable future.
“Boy!”
The booming voice of Sheriff Miles interrupted the silence.
“Hey there Guy, we gotta go talk to them witnesses. What you walkin’ away for? C’mon!”
Guy walked over to his pouch. He studied some papers from his bag deliberately, then turned to the entrance.
“I’m ready sir.”
F.
Guy and Barrington stood before the swinging doors of the Saloon. Barrington placed a heavy hand on Guy’s shoulder.
“Listen boy, be careful in there. These folks are edgy and have little ta no tolerance for…outsiders.”
Guy cut his gaze from the Sheriff’s chest and stared resolutely at the room beyond the swinging doors in front of him.
“Sir, if I am nothing else I am careful.”
The Sheriff slid his arm away and shook his head. Turning forward he pushed the doors wide and entered the Saloon followed closely by Guy.
Desperate carousing sounds leaped and thumped through the brightly lit Saloon. The piano player plunked out happy upbeat marches on the shiny wooden piano. Painted women danced through the crowd of male patrons, offering their company to winners and regret to losers at the various card tables. A tenuous sense of refuge existed in this bar, that none of its inhabitants dared abandon while foreboding pervaded the rest of Necessity. Wary faces shifted as Barrington sat in the center of the fray with the Negro stranger.
“Now, you’re gonna talk to five witnesses to the various killings. Only one actually saw the killings and that’s Sammy Meyer, the town drunk. The other four where nearby when the killings occurred and discovered the bodies of the victims and the suspects.”
Guy scanned the room undeterred by the piercing gazes of most of the patrons. He noticed a sullen young dandy sitting alone, a bottle and shot glass in alternate hands. The man seemed to mumble to himself and shake his head vigorously after each drink. Guy tapped on the table to get Sheriff Miles' attention. He nodded in the direction of the man.
“That is Wilson Lindsay the third, the son of one of the victims. His father was a wealthy banker here and one of the founding fathers of Necessity. Word is the boy hated his father livin’ but seems even more at a loss with havin’ him dead.”
Guy acknowledged the Sheriff’s statement wit a small gesture. He then continued to scan the raucous room. In the corner of the bar he discovered what was the crumbled form of Sam Meyer. No one else in the Saloon seems truly lost in their drink as he was, huddled protectively over his bottle as whiskey as he was. Everyone else seemed to only pretend to succumb to their cups. Hair long and ragged, clothes dusty and unkempt, he nursed his drink at the bar as if it was his last.
“That must be Sammy Meyer at the bar. He seems outta place here.”
Sheriff Miles allowed himself a slight smile.
“Sharp eye boy. Sammy’s only allowed in here to talk ta you, so he knows he better enjoy civilized livin’ as long as he can.”
Barrington cleared his throat and leaned closer to Guy.
“And if you think your pickin’ these folks out makes up for that stupid stunt of yours earlier in the jail, you are sorely mistaken. I ain’t impressed.”
Guy looked into the face of the grizzled sheriff. The Buffalo soldier’s face was a mask of complete innocence and sincerity.
“Yes sir. Please describe the others to me.”
Barrington leaned back in his chair. He looked away from the government, agent slightly disturbed. Regaining his composure, as he looked about the room, the Sheriff addressed Guy.
“Well we got the two Jones boys; Matthew and Damien. Those boys ‘bout killed the Injun we arrested for the last killing. Rambunctious pair those two. Finally we have Claudia Grimes, local good-time girl. She was the late Mayor’s favorite “companion.” before he was murdered after one of their evenin’s together. “
Sheriff Miles looked back at Guy, who was no longer maintaining his passive gaze on him. Guy was busy now studying Wilson Lindsey, III.
“May I speak to the witness’ now sir.”
The Sheriff felt comfortable again waving Guy on.
“Aright. Go on talk to the Lindsey boy first. I'll send the rest over to ya directly. And soldier, be civil, these folks are in mourning,”
The Buffalo soldier rose and approached Wilson slowly. Deep in his bottle, Lindsey did not respond to Guy’s approach. The Negro soldier stood in anticipation of some acknowledgement of his presence. Nothing broke Wilson’s ritual of pour raise drink repeat. Grabbing a chair from another table, Guy sat across from the distressed young man. Wilson Lindsey the third was the epitome of a fish out of water in this town. He wore the height of eastern fashion, obviously not made for the rugged southwest environs he currently lived in. Though his chestnut brown hair was mussed a bit, it still was cut precisely.
“So you are the Colored hope of a diseased town.”
The slightly nasal New England accent of the young man hissed from the shadows of his still bowed head.
“I do hope you can end this plague that has lain waste to our beloved founding fathers…father.”
Here his voice faltered and drifted quickly to silence.
“Mister Lindsey, I am here to help as best I can. You did not witness the actual killing?”
The young man’s face rose from shadow unveiling a mask of exhaustion, terror, and ultimately resolution. His bleary hazel eyes attempted to come to life.
Sir, I found my father after a rather brutal beating that I, in my cowardice, heard the length of and yet feared to come to my father’s rescue. In the safety of utter stillness and after the cessation of paralyzing trepidation, I found the blooded and lifeless carcass."
Guy studied the troubled face of this man-child.
“Your father called to you?”
“No he knew better. I am after all a production of his own devious design.”
Tears began to collect in the corner of his eyes.
“You see he knew from the moment I stepped off the train from Harvard. He wanted to be so proud. I was the young genius trophy sent away to the best schools back east from the time I was six years old.”
The grimace on the young man’s face intensified. Anger and regret vied for supremacy on his brow. Lindsey was a man torn.
“Mister Lindsey I am truly sorry for loss, but I need to know what you heard that night.”
Young Lindsey sighed heavily and dropping his head back to its original position. Spilled liquor on the rough-hewn surface of the table twisted the light from above transfixing him. In a haunted voice Wilson spoke from as if from the bottom of a deep pit.
“I heard chanting. I heard a song that penetrated my mind. I felt as if I had taken a great dose of laudlin. My father’s cries became the finale of an horrific symphony.”
His brow drew together as Guy spoke again.
“This chanting-- it was Apache?”
Wilson’s head shook vigorously, his hair becoming wilder by the second.
“I cannot be sure sir, but it was not English, nor any of the five languages I speak fluently. If it was Apache I am shamed more that I do not know a tongue so intimate to my birthplace.”
The bar remained lively but pensive. There was a sense that everyone there was keeping a secret ear to what was said to the government agent. Guy noticed the Jones boys openly glaring at him. They seemed to mumble conspiratorially. Guy looked way and returned his focus to the broken dandy.
“And you found the old Indian standing over your father with the club?”
At this utterance, Lindsey’s slight veneer of emotional control shattered. Heaving sobs and indecipherable lamentations tumbled from the man’s trembling lips. Guy heard the only word he needed.
“…yes…”
The boy crumbled into his seat, his knuckles white with the grip he held on the table. Guy rose and walked away. The sound in the room became centered on Guy. It vibrated. marched, then settled in the pit of his stomach. Burning eyes barely clouded by strong drink burrowed into his soul. Guy walked to the bar. The shattered waste of man that was Sam Meyer sat before him at the bar and the sour smell of human neglect was his herald. Sam was a slight man, whose age could not be determined beneath the disease and deterioration that his addiction bestowed upon him. As Guy approached, filmy gray eyes peered out from a pink pockmarked face looking out and beyond him to the inexplicable. Things conjured at the bottom of rotgut bottles and a whiskey soaked brain.
Noticing the empty bottle Sam clutched in his grimy hands, Guy set coin down to request another from the bartender. The bartender agitated at this double intrusion on his Valhalla turned to Sheriff Miles, currently concentrating on a friendly game of Spades, for approval. Miles gave a distracted nod and the bartender obediently placed a bottle before the drunk, never even acknowledging Guy’s money. Meyer broke the silence.
“Ya cain’t even see beyond the blood sometimes…Sometimes.”
His searching gaze never stopped on Guy.
“But the blood sees ya n’ answers in kind.”
Guy sighed.
“Mister Meyer what can you tell me about the killing you witnessed?”
“Ol’ injun hittin’ and hittin’. Jus’ nothin’ beyond the blood.”
“You saw the killing -?”
Meyer shook his head vigorously, as Guy lean in a bit closer in spite of the stench.
“Heard them kids. Chilren’ don’ understand Necessity. Just right n’ wrong.”
Sam shook violently at this announcement and closed his rheumy slate eyes.
“I know they hate ‘cause they hate me. But I ain’t done nothin’ but destroy myself. Why they judge that n’ not Necessity. Why cain’t they stay where they are and get outta my head. Ain’t I them? Ain’t I white?”
Guys brow deepened as he moved even closer.
“Did you hear anything?”
Sam rocked softly on his stool his mind a portal to mystery.
“Cain’t hear nothin’ but the kids n’ they only want what’s wrong righted. Don’ understand Necessity.”
Meyer burned with impotent fury. He began pounding on the bar. Disruption ran the tense bar to silence. Angry desperate silence. The quiet of the fearful forced to face their fear. Forced to admit the hypocrisy in their revelry. Meyer’ gnarled hands suddenly gripped Guys arms in a vice grip. Sam’s proximity sent a wave of near over-powering nausea across Guy’s face. Distant pupils focused, at last, on Guy.
“Ain’t I them! Them kids growwed n’ growwed but they still kids, and they only want wrong right! It makes sense ta them. Ya gotta hear the kids!”
Guy slipped and lost his footing into Sam’s contorted visage. His look more sober than they had ever been because of this drunken plea. Guy seemed dazed as strong arms loosened Sam’s grip on him and dragged him away. Didn’t even turn as the pulled him screaming from the Saloon. But he heard the despair in his voice. The loneliness desire and truth in his fading plea.
“Ain’t I them.”
“Sorry for Sammy, he can be pretty manic.”
A lush voice broke Guy’s descent. The voice turned into a vision. The dream of lonely cowboys and exhausted highwaymen made flesh. Painted and smelling of lilacs, Claudia Grimes smiled enticingly. Frosted gold locks tumbled gracefully about a cute round face. Pale powder was offset by ruby red lips, pink cheeks and alluring long lashes. She was not beautiful by many social standards, but her effect was far more intoxicating. Claudia did not create herself to be loved but to be desired as well as accessible. She was a woman whose charm and presence seemed to increase her simple physical gifts. Her firm touch on his hand jarred Guy to attention. He recoiled from her touch, as was expected, and collected himself.
“I’m sorry I scared you soldier. You seemed lost.
Guy nodded, maintaining a careful distance from the bouquet of sight, sound, and smell that stood before him. One that could lead him to pain or death.
“I’m fine ma’am. Just lost in thought. Have a seat please so I can ask you some questions please.”
Guy noticed the pattern the grain of the stained wood on the table made around his hand.
“I didn’t know they was sendin’ coloreds, that is the accepted term now isn’t it, to deal with the Indians?”
Her coy voice read as an invitation…Guy nodded still tracing the paths rolling around his fingers. But he inhaled the delicate fragrance that cleared the stench of the drunkard from his nostrils.
“Miss Grimes, you found the mayor dead?”
Claudia crinkled her brow a moment. She shifted in her seat and ran her hand up through her hair. As the strands fell from her fingers the danced haphazardly on her face. She then sat up in a stately pose.
“The Mayor cared very much for me…”
Claudia smiled off into space.
“And I, in my way, was find if him. He was not young, strong, or um vigorous, but he was important. That my dear can take a gal a long way.”
Guy noticed, as he studied the table more, that the lady, Grimes’ trembled faintly. A faint and steady tremble that could not be hidden behind her flirtations or memories of half-spent passions. She was shaken but a good actress.
“So ma’am you were, excuse my presumption, with the Mayor on the night of his murder.”
Claudia deflated. The performance ended and all the color, that was not artificial, drained from her face. Her eyes grew wide in the remembering.
“Yes.”
She answered like a child afraid of punishment after being caught in a lie.”
“Ma’am, I know this is difficult. Just take your time and tell me everything you can remember.”
Claudia smiled, grateful at the man’s patience.
“Thank you dear. Well I was dressin’ and preparin’ to leave his house when hard the most terrible of thuds. William had gone down to get my wrap for me. I thought I heard him humming then thud, thud, thud… then silence.”
“What did you do, ma’am, upon hearing these sounds?”
Claudia leaned in closer to Guy. Her perfumed swirled once more around. Guy looked up and deeply at her. She continued.
“I thought he’d fallen. I ran down the stairs. The old Indian was sittin’ on the…on the floor. It was him. He was hummin’ or mutterin’ real lightly to himself. And Willie was…he…the blood was everywhere!”
Claudia burst into tears and grabbed to Guys hands for comfort. Consumed by her tears, he did not pull away. For a moment she found warmth in their interlaced fingers. Then Guy felt a vise-like grip on his shoulder. Slowly Guy withdrew his hands from Miss Grimes and sat back in his chair. The hand on his shoulder did not retreat and as he turned his focus from the woman, Guy realized another person stood on his other side as well. One of the barmaids came and ushered Claudia away consoling her all the way.
“I ‘spect she told ya all she could boy.”
Matt Jones voice was laced with thick poison, his youth could not mask. He held Guy’s shoulder. Exacting pressure constantly. Guy stood still and studied the young man in the bar mirror. Matt stood on one side as his brother Damien, stood on the other. Matt was tall and broad shouldered with short dark hair. He had abnormally large and knotted hands that went well with his deep brow and rounded jaw. Damien was the antithesis of his brother. Tall and slight, his features seemed more comely. His hair was sandy blond and his gaze was intense. They mimicked the hate in his brother’s words.
“Now Matt, ya should be more careful I’m sure the man was only consoling Miss Claudia.”
The hand on Guy’s shoulder let go its grip. The two young men of Necessity sat down on opposite sides of Guy. And very close to him.
“Sheriff Stone say you wanna know ‘bout the ol’ bastard injun what killed our Paw.”
Matt leered viciously.
“Lucky he arrived when he did, else me n’ Damien woulda had the old boy done.”
Guy continued looking at the two men in the mirror as Matt spoke. They looked at him intently. Matt’s monstrous grin formed brutishly around his words. Damien’s eyes were set. Never moving from inspecting Guy, his mouth a terse rictus. Matt gleefully continued his speech.
“Fer what he did , we shoulda broke every red bone in his red hide.”
Damien put a light hand on Guy’s shoulder his gaze never changing as his voice was easy and informal.
“Matt gets a bit worked up jus’ thinkin’ about our Paw’s death n’ the way that Indian forgot his place. That ol’, dead Indian. I’m sure you know how dangerous it is when some folks forget their place.”
The room chatter, having not recovered from the outburst from the town drunk and the disintegration of Miss Claudia, stayed quiet enough to allow the Jones boy’s words to be heard easily throughout. Guy searched the mirror for Sheriff Miles face. He was, of course, watching the proceedings with an active eye and stilted smile.
“Damien, I don’t think this boy is focusing on our testimony!”
Guy turned his head looking directly at Damien. He seemed completely uninterested in Matt’s plodding words.
“Mister Jones, if you don’t plan to be a help, then don’t be a hindrance.”
Damien’s expression grew wild as he leaped from his chair and lunged at Guy.
“Why you uppity ass nigger!”
Time moved in single steps. Damien’s forward momentum was stifled by Guy’s fist colliding with him. Blood splattered across the handsome man’s face as Guy followed the punch by locking his other hand around Damien’s throat. Fumbling as if stuck in molasses, the Jones boy worked unsuccessfully to free himself from the iron grip. Recovering from his shock, Matt moved sluggishly to his brother’s aid. His massive hands clamped down on Guy’s shoulders once again. A screech let out his mouth as Guy jerked his head back smashing Matt’s nose across his face. He let loose of Guy scrabbling back, shocked, to nurse his wound. Damien’s world went gray from the pressure exerted. Pained and surprised at the man’s wiliness, Matt reached for his revolver. Noticing the movement, Guy let go of his neck and grabbed for Damien’s gun.
Two shots rang out.
The first shot ripped into Matt’s hand knocking the revolver from his grasp. The second shot blew the hat off his head as he yelped, diving desperately to the ground cowering. Turning quickly from his subdued opponents, Guy was met with the barrel of the Sheriff’s gun aimed at his face.
“Fine shooting son, now put the heater down. Now.”
The room was dead silence. Each individual breath was held in anticipation of whatever the next moment would bring. Matt’s hoarse whimpering curses punctuated the void of sound. Guy dropped the pistol and it fell to the Saloon floor with a limp clatter. Sheriff Miles returned his gun to the holster at his waist and offered a hand to Guy.
“I think we’re done here. Let’s go.”
The bar was frozen as they walked out. In the vacuous wind outside the bar Miles turned to Guy.
“Nice shooting. Glad you didn’t hurt no one…seriously.”
Guy walked on. He never looked at the Sheriff. His mind traveled time to more violent places and his jaw clenched at the memories. Blood filled his mind as he smiled briefly.
“Yes. Very lucky.”
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Innocents' Massacre cont'd
D.
The red to orange play of color began to allude to the ending of day in the silenced town of Necessity. The quick steady sounds of water being lapped up by the thirsty mouth of Guy Patrick’s horse.
“Easy now, Miriam you have a lot of time to enjoy your rest. I think we are gonna be in this town for a nice piece.”
Truth to be told the persistent rhythm of water to tongue to mouth calmed Guy in much the way the song of the Indian ancients had. Intent on the music of his horse Guy spun the chamber of his revolver absently. The scenario rolled through his mind again and again. Five dead white men, slain violently by five decrepit Indian elders. A town of frightened white folks, easily the most dangerous kind, chomping at the bit for revenge. A Reservation of uncommonly peaceful Apache, trying to stay uninvolved. A redneck arrogant adventure-seeking sheriff. And a colored Indian-diplomat. Guy was over- whelmed.
“It was easier fighting Indian, renegades, bandits and Mexicans in the Ninth.”
Guy returned his revolver to his holster. He felt a light pressure on his shoulder. Slowly moving his hands, palms out, away from his pistol, Guy turned slowly to see who was there. The little white girl was very still, or perhaps it was the moment. She was eight or nine years old with pale skin and long dark hair to her back. Her eyes were light brown huge and nearly round. Guy looked at her delicate child features and his face softened.
“Hi, my name is Theresa. What’s yours?”
The voice was a happy expectant chirp. Guy smiled in spite of himself.
“Little missy, my name is Guy. Pleasure to meet you.”
Theresa took his outstretched hand and curtsied very solemnly. Her mouth moved to a small smile as she studied Guy.
“You look lost Mr. Guy. You been sitting here quiet for near ‘bouts an hour. I been watching. You need some help?”
Theresa sat down unbidden next to Guy, a friendly smile growing on her face. Guy looked around the street searching for the girl’s mother. Except for the two people and Miriam, the street was deserted.
“ I’m just resting Miss Theresa. Thank you for asking.”
“Oh you’re very welcome.”
They sat quietly staring together at the still town. Theresa began to emulate Guy’s every little movement. Soon she was sitting straight up with a stern look on her face, the childish mirror image of her subject. Her actions were only marred by her barely stifled giggles. Guy allowed her to enjoy her game some minutes before speaking.
“Miss Theresa do you think you should be out alone with all that’s been happening?”
Guy’s voice was soft but urgent.
“O them Injuns are jus’ killing old folks. And men at that! I’m not too worried … Say is that why you’re here?”
Theresa’s eyes got unbelievably larger and she smiled wider looking at Guy.
“Well yes child. I’m to end this foolishness.”
Theresa’s small face turned to worry.
“You’re not gonna shoot those old Injuns are you?”
Her faced turned to deep worry as Guy dared a consoling pat on her small hand.
"No, no little Missy, I’m just going to make sure no more folks die.”
Theresa’s face lightened some at Guy’s words. She looked away from her city.
“…my Mom says its going to end when it ends. I hope it stops soon. I’m tired of the sadness.”
“Yes, Necessity seems to be in deep mourning.”
Theresa’s face changed to one of terrible confusion, then brightened.
“You ever seen a dead person Mr. Guy?”
Guy’s face tightened and fell.
“Seen many…seen many.”
Guy closed his eyes as Theresa continued chattering on. But his mind was consumed with the past. Consumed with a memory.
Colorado 187?. Rocky Mountain passes gather snow as early winter envelops the region. The trail was cold and getting worse. The excitement of again facing combat heartened the freezing souls of the colored soldiers. Twelve men, eleven colored soldiers and the white sergeant move days ahead of their company, to follow a fading trail of renegade Apaches. They press on with the promise of a chance. A chance to prove their worth as soldiers as men as human beings.
“I was to find the path.
I was to lead the way.”
Elusive, perhaps invisible Indians exist in frozen dreams and warm hopes. Cut off by mounds of snow and time the soldiers set camp in clear, mountain passes. They sing songs, tell stories, lying about truths and giving beautiful life to falsehoods told from childhood. They conspire to keep lively cool spirits with the passionate promise of a chance. Then came the hunger.
“It grazed quietly in a mountain glade.
It’s albino pelt ruffling at its body’s huge movement.
The pale buffalo inspired hope. To the
Indians it was a sacred thing. To me
it represented food: survival and an extension
of the promise of a chance.
The hunt was on. Invigorated by a new prey, the soldiers the white beast relentlessly. For days they trailed the creature tirelessly. Each time the creature’s capture seemed imminent, it would disappear around a craggy bend or in a blanket of new snowfall. The hunt did rattle forth smaller game, giving the men sustenance for the days that followed, but the target, the buffalo like the Apache that initiated the whole campaign, remained elusive.
White grows heavy like a comforter lying over a bed. Soon a safe harbor from the elements became the primary objective of the band of warriors. They could hole up until the rest of their company caught up. The maze of mountain passes that the search for the White Buffalo lead them through ended in a small craggy nook protected from the worse cold and harshest winds that whipped around them.
“I took first watch as everyone settled in for
the night. I sat against a rock and watched
the white snow obscure the world like the
blackest night. And then to my fault I fell
asleep.”
Dead silence echoes as snow forms a solid world of blinding light. His eyes shoot open and see this. The comforting darkness behind his closed lids is a warm memory. A deep snort breaks the quiet of his musings. Its origin cannot be found, its intentions cannot be read. His trembling hand slides down to the rifle lying at his side. Guy raised his weapon, to face whatever terror this indefinable world dare throw at him. Like the curtains at a theater show the snow seemed to part. It let up and he saw a terrifying scene. A scene that paralyzed his tongue from voicing the scream his brain sent to it. His eyes went wide and falling tears froze on his cheek. His comrades, his friends lay shattered in broken heaps, stomped and gutted in a tableau of pure bestial carnage. The rifle fell from the soldier’s hand as he slid to the ground still struck completely dumb. A gravely, raspy weak crackling coming from his throat, like the sound of an animal shook to the bone by the enormity of the predator hunting it. The snow curtain fell, obscuring his vision once more and the snort, much closer, resounded through the gap. Slowly the snow took a monstrous form. A huge white shape coalescing as it came closer, encompassing Guy’s whole world. As his eyes locked onto the black rimmed pale eyes of the Buffalo, his bladder joined the litany of fear engorging his body as warm piss spread through his trousers. The beast towered over him, menacing in its proximity.
“I could not speak, nor could I move.
I felt the movement of my jaw and my
dead worthless tongue, not even able
to usher up some final death cry.
I stared at the eyes of my executioner.”
The snout of the killer inches from his face was covered in the gore and blood of the other soldiers, turned pink from mingling with the snow. Once again the ungodly snort exploded from it s maw spreading pink human refuse over the face and chest of Guy, lying helpless before it.
“I saw a look of recognition in
those damned eyes as the insides of
my friends froze across my face
and chest. The last pieces of proof
of their time on this world.
I prepared my mind, staring into the
cunning eyes of what I thought
had been our prey. I closed my
eyes, waiting. I would die.”
Time passed in the soldiers black world of prayer and hopes of paradise. As the words of the Twenty-third Psalm ran through his mind for the twenty-third time, he opened his eyes. He was alone. The snow stopped falling. He was alone and the snow had stopped. Guy laughed wearily to himself thinking it only a dream. He looked down to grasp his rifle and was transfixed by the still warm dripping stain on his shirt. Time slowed as he looked across the camp. Guy cried to himself, babbling incoherently as he waited for the beast to return to send him on the journey that his friends, his comrades, now walked. It never returned.
“I was alive. The joy of that
was coupled with the question…
Why?”
“Why’d you stop talking to me Mr. Guy?”
The wavering voice of the girl roused Guy from his introspection.
“Sorry child, I was just thinking about folks long gone, but that’s not the stuff for young ears. Sweetie I have a lemon drop for you if you can tell me where the old Meyer stable is.”
Theresa stood up excitedly. Ready for the task.
“You promise? I’ll show you exactly where it is Mr. Guy!”
After freeing Miriam from the water trough, Guy followed the laughing child to the nearby stables. He handed her the lemon drops and waved her on.
“Thank you child. Now you run on home. I’m sure your parents are worried after you.”
Theresa smiled gleefully, fisting her payment protectively.
“Alright Mr. Guy. See you later.”
Guy watched the happy child skip back into town, but he remained tight, bound to images of death.
D.
The red to orange play of color began to allude to the ending of day in the silenced town of Necessity. The quick steady sounds of water being lapped up by the thirsty mouth of Guy Patrick’s horse.
“Easy now, Miriam you have a lot of time to enjoy your rest. I think we are gonna be in this town for a nice piece.”
Truth to be told the persistent rhythm of water to tongue to mouth calmed Guy in much the way the song of the Indian ancients had. Intent on the music of his horse Guy spun the chamber of his revolver absently. The scenario rolled through his mind again and again. Five dead white men, slain violently by five decrepit Indian elders. A town of frightened white folks, easily the most dangerous kind, chomping at the bit for revenge. A Reservation of uncommonly peaceful Apache, trying to stay uninvolved. A redneck arrogant adventure-seeking sheriff. And a colored Indian-diplomat. Guy was over- whelmed.
“It was easier fighting Indian, renegades, bandits and Mexicans in the Ninth.”
Guy returned his revolver to his holster. He felt a light pressure on his shoulder. Slowly moving his hands, palms out, away from his pistol, Guy turned slowly to see who was there. The little white girl was very still, or perhaps it was the moment. She was eight or nine years old with pale skin and long dark hair to her back. Her eyes were light brown huge and nearly round. Guy looked at her delicate child features and his face softened.
“Hi, my name is Theresa. What’s yours?”
The voice was a happy expectant chirp. Guy smiled in spite of himself.
“Little missy, my name is Guy. Pleasure to meet you.”
Theresa took his outstretched hand and curtsied very solemnly. Her mouth moved to a small smile as she studied Guy.
“You look lost Mr. Guy. You been sitting here quiet for near ‘bouts an hour. I been watching. You need some help?”
Theresa sat down unbidden next to Guy, a friendly smile growing on her face. Guy looked around the street searching for the girl’s mother. Except for the two people and Miriam, the street was deserted.
“ I’m just resting Miss Theresa. Thank you for asking.”
“Oh you’re very welcome.”
They sat quietly staring together at the still town. Theresa began to emulate Guy’s every little movement. Soon she was sitting straight up with a stern look on her face, the childish mirror image of her subject. Her actions were only marred by her barely stifled giggles. Guy allowed her to enjoy her game some minutes before speaking.
“Miss Theresa do you think you should be out alone with all that’s been happening?”
Guy’s voice was soft but urgent.
“O them Injuns are jus’ killing old folks. And men at that! I’m not too worried … Say is that why you’re here?”
Theresa’s eyes got unbelievably larger and she smiled wider looking at Guy.
“Well yes child. I’m to end this foolishness.”
Theresa’s small face turned to worry.
“You’re not gonna shoot those old Injuns are you?”
Her faced turned to deep worry as Guy dared a consoling pat on her small hand.
"No, no little Missy, I’m just going to make sure no more folks die.”
Theresa’s face lightened some at Guy’s words. She looked away from her city.
“…my Mom says its going to end when it ends. I hope it stops soon. I’m tired of the sadness.”
“Yes, Necessity seems to be in deep mourning.”
Theresa’s face changed to one of terrible confusion, then brightened.
“You ever seen a dead person Mr. Guy?”
Guy’s face tightened and fell.
“Seen many…seen many.”
Guy closed his eyes as Theresa continued chattering on. But his mind was consumed with the past. Consumed with a memory.
Colorado 187?. Rocky Mountain passes gather snow as early winter envelops the region. The trail was cold and getting worse. The excitement of again facing combat heartened the freezing souls of the colored soldiers. Twelve men, eleven colored soldiers and the white sergeant move days ahead of their company, to follow a fading trail of renegade Apaches. They press on with the promise of a chance. A chance to prove their worth as soldiers as men as human beings.
“I was to find the path.
I was to lead the way.”
Elusive, perhaps invisible Indians exist in frozen dreams and warm hopes. Cut off by mounds of snow and time the soldiers set camp in clear, mountain passes. They sing songs, tell stories, lying about truths and giving beautiful life to falsehoods told from childhood. They conspire to keep lively cool spirits with the passionate promise of a chance. Then came the hunger.
“It grazed quietly in a mountain glade.
It’s albino pelt ruffling at its body’s huge movement.
The pale buffalo inspired hope. To the
Indians it was a sacred thing. To me
it represented food: survival and an extension
of the promise of a chance.
The hunt was on. Invigorated by a new prey, the soldiers the white beast relentlessly. For days they trailed the creature tirelessly. Each time the creature’s capture seemed imminent, it would disappear around a craggy bend or in a blanket of new snowfall. The hunt did rattle forth smaller game, giving the men sustenance for the days that followed, but the target, the buffalo like the Apache that initiated the whole campaign, remained elusive.
White grows heavy like a comforter lying over a bed. Soon a safe harbor from the elements became the primary objective of the band of warriors. They could hole up until the rest of their company caught up. The maze of mountain passes that the search for the White Buffalo lead them through ended in a small craggy nook protected from the worse cold and harshest winds that whipped around them.
“I took first watch as everyone settled in for
the night. I sat against a rock and watched
the white snow obscure the world like the
blackest night. And then to my fault I fell
asleep.”
Dead silence echoes as snow forms a solid world of blinding light. His eyes shoot open and see this. The comforting darkness behind his closed lids is a warm memory. A deep snort breaks the quiet of his musings. Its origin cannot be found, its intentions cannot be read. His trembling hand slides down to the rifle lying at his side. Guy raised his weapon, to face whatever terror this indefinable world dare throw at him. Like the curtains at a theater show the snow seemed to part. It let up and he saw a terrifying scene. A scene that paralyzed his tongue from voicing the scream his brain sent to it. His eyes went wide and falling tears froze on his cheek. His comrades, his friends lay shattered in broken heaps, stomped and gutted in a tableau of pure bestial carnage. The rifle fell from the soldier’s hand as he slid to the ground still struck completely dumb. A gravely, raspy weak crackling coming from his throat, like the sound of an animal shook to the bone by the enormity of the predator hunting it. The snow curtain fell, obscuring his vision once more and the snort, much closer, resounded through the gap. Slowly the snow took a monstrous form. A huge white shape coalescing as it came closer, encompassing Guy’s whole world. As his eyes locked onto the black rimmed pale eyes of the Buffalo, his bladder joined the litany of fear engorging his body as warm piss spread through his trousers. The beast towered over him, menacing in its proximity.
“I could not speak, nor could I move.
I felt the movement of my jaw and my
dead worthless tongue, not even able
to usher up some final death cry.
I stared at the eyes of my executioner.”
The snout of the killer inches from his face was covered in the gore and blood of the other soldiers, turned pink from mingling with the snow. Once again the ungodly snort exploded from it s maw spreading pink human refuse over the face and chest of Guy, lying helpless before it.
“I saw a look of recognition in
those damned eyes as the insides of
my friends froze across my face
and chest. The last pieces of proof
of their time on this world.
I prepared my mind, staring into the
cunning eyes of what I thought
had been our prey. I closed my
eyes, waiting. I would die.”
Time passed in the soldiers black world of prayer and hopes of paradise. As the words of the Twenty-third Psalm ran through his mind for the twenty-third time, he opened his eyes. He was alone. The snow stopped falling. He was alone and the snow had stopped. Guy laughed wearily to himself thinking it only a dream. He looked down to grasp his rifle and was transfixed by the still warm dripping stain on his shirt. Time slowed as he looked across the camp. Guy cried to himself, babbling incoherently as he waited for the beast to return to send him on the journey that his friends, his comrades, now walked. It never returned.
“I was alive. The joy of that
was coupled with the question…
Why?”
“Why’d you stop talking to me Mr. Guy?”
The wavering voice of the girl roused Guy from his introspection.
“Sorry child, I was just thinking about folks long gone, but that’s not the stuff for young ears. Sweetie I have a lemon drop for you if you can tell me where the old Meyer stable is.”
Theresa stood up excitedly. Ready for the task.
“You promise? I’ll show you exactly where it is Mr. Guy!”
After freeing Miriam from the water trough, Guy followed the laughing child to the nearby stables. He handed her the lemon drops and waved her on.
“Thank you child. Now you run on home. I’m sure your parents are worried after you.”
Theresa smiled gleefully, fisting her payment protectively.
“Alright Mr. Guy. See you later.”
Guy watched the happy child skip back into town, but he remained tight, bound to images of death.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Innocents' Massacre cont'd
C.
“If I could be any more worried about our government I don’t know where I would be. They send your black ass over here to help deal with this shit and you proceed to have a Pow-Wow with the damned killers you’re supposed to be investigating! Please boy, please tell me you have an explanation for yourself!?”
Guy’s mind cleared a bit and he looked at the floor. He did not dare meet the glowering stare of the Sheriff. He responded in a flat tone.
“Sorry sir I must be tired from the ride to town. I was on the trail a good piece.”
Miles sat down in his desk across from Guy enraged.
“Well maybe you need to concentrate a little harder damn it, lazy shiftless…”
The Sheriff’s words trailed off menacingly. He stood up and crossed over to Guy. Grabbing him by the arm he yanked him from his seat and dragged him over to the closed door across from the front, through and into a grim room.
In the room were five covered forms on a long table. Miles placed Guy in front of the head of the table and pulled the sheet off. There on the table lay the five battered bodies of the victims. Dried blood was caked over vicious wounds adorning each misshapen face. They could not be identified as individuals, except in the various patterns of brutality painted on their distorted faces. Guy blanched at the sight. No sounds came from these dead swollen lips.
“This is what you are here about. You’re here to make sure no more of this happens. ’Cause believe me if anything like this happens again there is gonna be some real bloodshed! And ain’t no napping government nigger gonna be able to stop it!”
Guy bent close to the nearest body. His head finally and completely clear.
“What weapon did this?”
“A club. A simple club!”
“But those men…” Guy looked towards the cell room, ”those men could not of had the strength to do this?”
Miles again covered the bodies with the long sheet.
“Look I’m gonna send ya to where you’re gonna be staying. Rest a bit, collect your damn thoughts after your long ride, and then meet me at the saloon. You can talk to some witnesses there.”
Sheriff Miles walked back into his office and scribbled on a piece of paper. He thrust it into Guy’s waiting hand.
“You can read can’t ya boy? This where you’re gonna be. It’s noon now. I’ll come and get you at six to go to the saloon. Be awake for this!” Guy nodded focus on the sheet of paper.
“Yes sir.”
Guy walked out to his horse and patted him absently. He tried to recall the peace he felt at the old men’s song, but the vision of dried blood and battered faces flooded his thoughts.
C.
“If I could be any more worried about our government I don’t know where I would be. They send your black ass over here to help deal with this shit and you proceed to have a Pow-Wow with the damned killers you’re supposed to be investigating! Please boy, please tell me you have an explanation for yourself!?”
Guy’s mind cleared a bit and he looked at the floor. He did not dare meet the glowering stare of the Sheriff. He responded in a flat tone.
“Sorry sir I must be tired from the ride to town. I was on the trail a good piece.”
Miles sat down in his desk across from Guy enraged.
“Well maybe you need to concentrate a little harder damn it, lazy shiftless…”
The Sheriff’s words trailed off menacingly. He stood up and crossed over to Guy. Grabbing him by the arm he yanked him from his seat and dragged him over to the closed door across from the front, through and into a grim room.
In the room were five covered forms on a long table. Miles placed Guy in front of the head of the table and pulled the sheet off. There on the table lay the five battered bodies of the victims. Dried blood was caked over vicious wounds adorning each misshapen face. They could not be identified as individuals, except in the various patterns of brutality painted on their distorted faces. Guy blanched at the sight. No sounds came from these dead swollen lips.
“This is what you are here about. You’re here to make sure no more of this happens. ’Cause believe me if anything like this happens again there is gonna be some real bloodshed! And ain’t no napping government nigger gonna be able to stop it!”
Guy bent close to the nearest body. His head finally and completely clear.
“What weapon did this?”
“A club. A simple club!”
“But those men…” Guy looked towards the cell room, ”those men could not of had the strength to do this?”
Miles again covered the bodies with the long sheet.
“Look I’m gonna send ya to where you’re gonna be staying. Rest a bit, collect your damn thoughts after your long ride, and then meet me at the saloon. You can talk to some witnesses there.”
Sheriff Miles walked back into his office and scribbled on a piece of paper. He thrust it into Guy’s waiting hand.
“You can read can’t ya boy? This where you’re gonna be. It’s noon now. I’ll come and get you at six to go to the saloon. Be awake for this!” Guy nodded focus on the sheet of paper.
“Yes sir.”
Guy walked out to his horse and patted him absently. He tried to recall the peace he felt at the old men’s song, but the vision of dried blood and battered faces flooded his thoughts.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Innocents' Massacre cont'd
B.
Five bent and withered forms sat huddled in one common cell. Five very old Apache men. The room was filled with the soft low chanting of near intelligible words. The words did not seem to escape the confines of the cell bars. They whistled in a circular path just inside the cell doors. Miles and Guy entered from the hall. The five figures looked to be emaciated and nearer to death than life, but their countenance were bright and beaming.
“God damn it! Shut up that racket you savages! “
Miles slapped the keys against the bars of the cage. The prisoners stopped their mantra. They uttered absolutely no sound. As they went silent the seemed to shrink a bit more. Guy studied each “killer” in turn.
“Mister Miles I doubt these old men could get up from their death beds let alone brutally beat a man to death. What evidence do you have of their guilt?”
“See what I mean? But damned if they weren’t found standing over the bodies of their victims, a bloody club at their feet! And blood was splattered all over them!”
The ancient Apaches turned to Guy as one. Their lips still moved almost imperceptibly. The Sheriff shook his head.
“They’re all yours boy. We couldn’t get nothin’ outta them and I’m sick of trying anyhow.”
Miles turned rattling his keys at the silent old men.
“Hear that crazy old redskins? I’m sick of ya’! Can’t wait ‘til they hang your murderin’ hides!”
With that the Sheriff handed the keys to Guy and stormed out of the room. Guy stood stock still until the sheriff’s footsteps ceased in the distance. He then focused on the Apache in the cell. With Miles departure the men slowly raised the volume of their voices to an insistent whisper. The sound was light and repetitive. The words were definitely not English. Nor any dialect of Apache Guy knew or spoke. Guy nodded respectfully to the old men. Still they continued their song never taking their eyes off of him. Guy unlocked the cell and addressed them in Apache.
“Old warriors, I do not understand your words, but I hope you understand mine. I am sent by the Great White Father to learn of the killings you have done and why. If you help me then I can save the rest of your people from pain… if you have acted alone.”
The only response to Guy’s words was the lilting chant and the stares of the accused. He walked into the cell and sat on one of the dilapidated cots. The gentle sounds of the raspy voiced men held him in sway. His lids grew heavy and the words penetrated his head. The sounds reverberated in his skull as his eyes rolled back in his head. He felt searing heat against his skin then placid peace. The meaning of the words took form in his mind in a language clearer than any that could be spoken.
“the children cried
for we were sleep
and no where to be found.
We wake from our sleep.
The children cry no more.”
Over and over the chorus spun through Guy’s mid until suddenly it stopped. Guy opened his eyes to Sheriff Miles standing directly in front of him, face red and contorted.
“What in the name of Custer’s last stand are you about boy! What the hell are you doing? Why don’t you just walk these murder’s to freedom!”
Eyelids still heavy and light-headed Guy looked warily about his surrounding. The prisoners had not moved but Guy sat on the floor in the midst of them. The door to the cell was wide open, just as he had left it. Guy leaped quickly to his feet and crossed the short distance to the cell door. Guy shook his head clear. Sheriff Miles stomped behind cursing wildly as he slammed shut and locked the cage. He ushered the still wobbly Guy into the next room and pushed him into a chair.
B.
Five bent and withered forms sat huddled in one common cell. Five very old Apache men. The room was filled with the soft low chanting of near intelligible words. The words did not seem to escape the confines of the cell bars. They whistled in a circular path just inside the cell doors. Miles and Guy entered from the hall. The five figures looked to be emaciated and nearer to death than life, but their countenance were bright and beaming.
“God damn it! Shut up that racket you savages! “
Miles slapped the keys against the bars of the cage. The prisoners stopped their mantra. They uttered absolutely no sound. As they went silent the seemed to shrink a bit more. Guy studied each “killer” in turn.
“Mister Miles I doubt these old men could get up from their death beds let alone brutally beat a man to death. What evidence do you have of their guilt?”
“See what I mean? But damned if they weren’t found standing over the bodies of their victims, a bloody club at their feet! And blood was splattered all over them!”
The ancient Apaches turned to Guy as one. Their lips still moved almost imperceptibly. The Sheriff shook his head.
“They’re all yours boy. We couldn’t get nothin’ outta them and I’m sick of trying anyhow.”
Miles turned rattling his keys at the silent old men.
“Hear that crazy old redskins? I’m sick of ya’! Can’t wait ‘til they hang your murderin’ hides!”
With that the Sheriff handed the keys to Guy and stormed out of the room. Guy stood stock still until the sheriff’s footsteps ceased in the distance. He then focused on the Apache in the cell. With Miles departure the men slowly raised the volume of their voices to an insistent whisper. The sound was light and repetitive. The words were definitely not English. Nor any dialect of Apache Guy knew or spoke. Guy nodded respectfully to the old men. Still they continued their song never taking their eyes off of him. Guy unlocked the cell and addressed them in Apache.
“Old warriors, I do not understand your words, but I hope you understand mine. I am sent by the Great White Father to learn of the killings you have done and why. If you help me then I can save the rest of your people from pain… if you have acted alone.”
The only response to Guy’s words was the lilting chant and the stares of the accused. He walked into the cell and sat on one of the dilapidated cots. The gentle sounds of the raspy voiced men held him in sway. His lids grew heavy and the words penetrated his head. The sounds reverberated in his skull as his eyes rolled back in his head. He felt searing heat against his skin then placid peace. The meaning of the words took form in his mind in a language clearer than any that could be spoken.
“the children cried
for we were sleep
and no where to be found.
We wake from our sleep.
The children cry no more.”
Over and over the chorus spun through Guy’s mid until suddenly it stopped. Guy opened his eyes to Sheriff Miles standing directly in front of him, face red and contorted.
“What in the name of Custer’s last stand are you about boy! What the hell are you doing? Why don’t you just walk these murder’s to freedom!”
Eyelids still heavy and light-headed Guy looked warily about his surrounding. The prisoners had not moved but Guy sat on the floor in the midst of them. The door to the cell was wide open, just as he had left it. Guy leaped quickly to his feet and crossed the short distance to the cell door. Guy shook his head clear. Sheriff Miles stomped behind cursing wildly as he slammed shut and locked the cage. He ushered the still wobbly Guy into the next room and pushed him into a chair.
Friday, April 21, 2006
INNOCENTS’ MASSACRE:
A GUY PATRICK NOVEL
It is the late 1870’s in Reconstruction America. The southwest of the country is quickly losing its right to be called frontier. In the next four decades the United States would be facing a Great War that would change the scale of how violence and death would be perceived. Humanity was beginning to reach beyond itself in molding a world. Still things existed to confound and capture man’s waning attention to the unfathomable. Things old, mysterious and powerful were enjoying their last days in the world as the focus of man’s imagination. But they were there and they still are… if you look warily out the corner of your eye.
Official telegram message received March 12th to the Office of Indian Affairs: Mister Jason Thomas Ward, Asst. to the Head of Indian Affairs. Reads as follows:
MR WARD
PEACE HAS RETURNED TO TOWN*STOP*DISPUTE BETWEEN TOWNSFOLK AND RESERVATION APACHE RESOLVED*STOP*GUILTY PARTIES HAVE BEEN CAPTURED AND PUNISHED WITH THE AID OF SHERIFF MILES*STOP* DETAILS UPON MY RETURN*STOP* THE NATIVES ARE NO LONGER RESTLESS*STOP*
SPCL AGENT INDIAN AFFAIRS
CPL GUY PATRICK
PART ONE: THE TOWN OF
NECESSITY
A.
MARCH 6TH
The quiet town of Necessity. Birthed nearly thirty-five years ago in privilege. A southwest frontier town that grew with time and its auspicious proximity to the trade routes between California and Houston, Texas. A town froze quiet with fear. Five dead. Five elder statesmen of the town slain brutally by the hands of equally aged Indians from the nearby Apache reservation. A death a week for five weeks without fail- and this was the sixth week. The town feared a war with the, until now, passive Indians. Something had to be done. If this did not end, of what would it be the beginning?
After the third killing, word reached Indian Affairs by way of Fort Piedmont in New Mexico. The Sheriff calmed the town by telling them of the government agent being sent to deal with the situation.
Guy Patrick rode into town to no fanfare. Town’s people sneered at the slight Colored riding a near exhausted horse into their town, if they pondered him at all. Erect in the saddle, his head up and eyes straightforward, Guy rode to the town jail to meet the Sheriff.
“If that don’t beat all! They really sent a Colored to deal with these savages! Well? What’s your name boy?
Guy looked up from tying his horse to the post. He glanced at the Sheriff just long enough to remember his features. Then, looking down, he responded.
“Cpl. Guy Patrick, sir. Sent as special agent to the Assistant to the Head of Indian Affairs. You are sir-?
The Sheriff held from speaking. He stared hard at Guy. The young dark Negro was a compact five feet eight inches tall with a wiry build. Dressed in unmarked military gear he looked to be a man use to spending long amounts of time in the wilderness of the Southwest. He also noticed the man was clean-shaven. The wide brim hat he wore held a single hawk feather in the band. Here the Sheriff’s jaw clenched involuntarily.
“Well boy my name is Sheriff Barrington Miles and I am the law in this little hamlet. Most folks ‘round here call me ‘Stone’, but you… you can call me Mister Miles.”
Guy nodded to the man’s chest. Miles was easily six feet-three inches tall, with the lumbering build of a career soldier and the slight paunch of a complacent warrior. Miles’ eyes were agate blue and the curly hair that fell down his face into thick sideburns was a dusty light brown. The Star on his vest shone brightly in the midday sun. As well taken care of as this little town.
“Yes sir, Mister Miles. While my horse is resting might I be able to see your prisoners sir?”
Sheriff Miles smiled.
“Right this way boy, right this way.”
They entered the small jailhouse with Sheriff Miles leading the way. A small simple wooden building it did not look as if it had too much use. One desk set against the wall opposite a hallway leading to the single small jail cell. Opposite the entrance a door sat ominously closed. Stopping at his desk he searched the drawer for the cell keys.
“Now boy, you understand that since we sent for ya, two more good town folks have been killed. So we got the… er-killers here and we got assurances from the Reservation that these men are actin’ alone, but that two murders ago! You need to go out there and find out once and for all what the hell is going on!”
Guy nodded his face blank.
“Mister Miles you seem mighty unsure of yourself when you say you have the killers. What do you mean?”
Sheriff Miles sat down at his desk. He took a deep breath and pushed his hat back to his hairline. Something outside the window held his gaze.
“Listen this town has been peaceful for years, hell decades. I come here ‘bout five years ago thinking I was gonna have some interesting troubles because of them Apaches nearby. Well damned if Necessity has no problems at all with the Indians. I mean nothing since they formed the town ‘bout thirty years ago!”
“Yes sir. I checked the town’s history before coming. Do you know why there weren’t any problems before?”
“You gotta ask them that! Shit ain’t that what you’re here for? When you see those prisoners you’ll understand. You’ll see why we need someone to talk to them Apache!”
Miles rose from his desk, cell keys jingling in hand.
“’Cause if you can’t straighten this shit out and make things right- there’re folks in the town, me included, that will!”
Guy’s face tightened in determination.
“Then I guess I should meet these killers sir.”
A GUY PATRICK NOVEL
It is the late 1870’s in Reconstruction America. The southwest of the country is quickly losing its right to be called frontier. In the next four decades the United States would be facing a Great War that would change the scale of how violence and death would be perceived. Humanity was beginning to reach beyond itself in molding a world. Still things existed to confound and capture man’s waning attention to the unfathomable. Things old, mysterious and powerful were enjoying their last days in the world as the focus of man’s imagination. But they were there and they still are… if you look warily out the corner of your eye.
Official telegram message received March 12th to the Office of Indian Affairs: Mister Jason Thomas Ward, Asst. to the Head of Indian Affairs. Reads as follows:
MR WARD
PEACE HAS RETURNED TO TOWN*STOP*DISPUTE BETWEEN TOWNSFOLK AND RESERVATION APACHE RESOLVED*STOP*GUILTY PARTIES HAVE BEEN CAPTURED AND PUNISHED WITH THE AID OF SHERIFF MILES*STOP* DETAILS UPON MY RETURN*STOP* THE NATIVES ARE NO LONGER RESTLESS*STOP*
SPCL AGENT INDIAN AFFAIRS
CPL GUY PATRICK
PART ONE: THE TOWN OF
NECESSITY
A.
MARCH 6TH
The quiet town of Necessity. Birthed nearly thirty-five years ago in privilege. A southwest frontier town that grew with time and its auspicious proximity to the trade routes between California and Houston, Texas. A town froze quiet with fear. Five dead. Five elder statesmen of the town slain brutally by the hands of equally aged Indians from the nearby Apache reservation. A death a week for five weeks without fail- and this was the sixth week. The town feared a war with the, until now, passive Indians. Something had to be done. If this did not end, of what would it be the beginning?
After the third killing, word reached Indian Affairs by way of Fort Piedmont in New Mexico. The Sheriff calmed the town by telling them of the government agent being sent to deal with the situation.
Guy Patrick rode into town to no fanfare. Town’s people sneered at the slight Colored riding a near exhausted horse into their town, if they pondered him at all. Erect in the saddle, his head up and eyes straightforward, Guy rode to the town jail to meet the Sheriff.
“If that don’t beat all! They really sent a Colored to deal with these savages! Well? What’s your name boy?
Guy looked up from tying his horse to the post. He glanced at the Sheriff just long enough to remember his features. Then, looking down, he responded.
“Cpl. Guy Patrick, sir. Sent as special agent to the Assistant to the Head of Indian Affairs. You are sir-?
The Sheriff held from speaking. He stared hard at Guy. The young dark Negro was a compact five feet eight inches tall with a wiry build. Dressed in unmarked military gear he looked to be a man use to spending long amounts of time in the wilderness of the Southwest. He also noticed the man was clean-shaven. The wide brim hat he wore held a single hawk feather in the band. Here the Sheriff’s jaw clenched involuntarily.
“Well boy my name is Sheriff Barrington Miles and I am the law in this little hamlet. Most folks ‘round here call me ‘Stone’, but you… you can call me Mister Miles.”
Guy nodded to the man’s chest. Miles was easily six feet-three inches tall, with the lumbering build of a career soldier and the slight paunch of a complacent warrior. Miles’ eyes were agate blue and the curly hair that fell down his face into thick sideburns was a dusty light brown. The Star on his vest shone brightly in the midday sun. As well taken care of as this little town.
“Yes sir, Mister Miles. While my horse is resting might I be able to see your prisoners sir?”
Sheriff Miles smiled.
“Right this way boy, right this way.”
They entered the small jailhouse with Sheriff Miles leading the way. A small simple wooden building it did not look as if it had too much use. One desk set against the wall opposite a hallway leading to the single small jail cell. Opposite the entrance a door sat ominously closed. Stopping at his desk he searched the drawer for the cell keys.
“Now boy, you understand that since we sent for ya, two more good town folks have been killed. So we got the… er-killers here and we got assurances from the Reservation that these men are actin’ alone, but that two murders ago! You need to go out there and find out once and for all what the hell is going on!”
Guy nodded his face blank.
“Mister Miles you seem mighty unsure of yourself when you say you have the killers. What do you mean?”
Sheriff Miles sat down at his desk. He took a deep breath and pushed his hat back to his hairline. Something outside the window held his gaze.
“Listen this town has been peaceful for years, hell decades. I come here ‘bout five years ago thinking I was gonna have some interesting troubles because of them Apaches nearby. Well damned if Necessity has no problems at all with the Indians. I mean nothing since they formed the town ‘bout thirty years ago!”
“Yes sir. I checked the town’s history before coming. Do you know why there weren’t any problems before?”
“You gotta ask them that! Shit ain’t that what you’re here for? When you see those prisoners you’ll understand. You’ll see why we need someone to talk to them Apache!”
Miles rose from his desk, cell keys jingling in hand.
“’Cause if you can’t straighten this shit out and make things right- there’re folks in the town, me included, that will!”
Guy’s face tightened in determination.
“Then I guess I should meet these killers sir.”
11.30.05 In Dreams Come Responsibility
Looking back looking back. How prophetic he thought perusing his thoughts a month before the crisis. Before this great changing thing hit him and he was beginning to understand the necessity of the change. He commended her final honesty. He appreciated himself more: his thoughts his observations, but not his conviction, his greatest failure to himself. But once again he was given another chance, another moment to increase.
ENDURE EXPERIENCE UNDERSTAND TRANSCEND
These truisms never disappear. These truisms always return to remind him when he has forgotten. So the Turtle looked away from the Butterfly because he realized that though she flew and it was beautiful thing he could not currently do, he realized he looked back at her flight and he knew he must concentrate on his long journey forward. So after this last look backÂ…
Â…this last look where he has been and where he has failed, the Turtle continues climbing JacobÂ’s ladder of destiny. Thru three baptisms he has been. The princess elf was a test of the wind. The moon goddess was a test of water. The butterfly was a test of fire and perhaps the most intense. But he saw the form behind it all and he was finding a peace to follow his continued journey. Thinking it was all about them when it was all about him which was all about us which is all about everything.
So he made a kiss and said goodbye. No anger no regret just a lesson learned. And his heart became full and hope danced in his breast and his spirit expanded to encompass all his joys and his fears. YeahÂ… he would be victorious.
4.21.06
So come on in and hear some stories. Cause I ain't got nothing more important to do.
In here I'm gonna post some serialized stories and siIce i have the summer to myself, I'm gonna post pages of my magnum opus epic Of Mythic Proportions. A story in three parts that spans from the beginning of time to six years in the future. Come on in. EliasInfinity.blogspot.com.
Tellin' Stories!!!
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