The Heavenly Table(63)

“Pretty women, too,” Sugar went on. “Not no dogs. And I mean anything. Why, he spent most of his time laying in the barn trying to think up new stuff for them to do. They flocked to him like hens to a rooster. Don’t seem right, does it?” Then he turned and started on down the road without another word, a toothy grin spreading across his face.

Ellsworth stood in the dust for a while and waited on the man to come back, thinking that no matter what he had said, it would be one rich colored boy who would turn down a dollar a day, but Sugar just kept walking until he disappeared over the next rise. He had a hard time believing there was a farmer somewhere who could afford to pay a single man anything close to three greenbacks a day, or feed pork chops and whole chickens to his help. Nor keep a crippled songbird around whose only job was to chase whores all day! He began to worry that this might be another symptom of these modern times, paying a man more than he’d ever be worth, and perhaps even paying him for nothing at all. Why, if he could find someone who would treat him that good, he might chop off his own arms and hire himself out for regular wages.

And who in their right mind would walk forty miles to see some water? Ellsworth swiped at a fly buzzing around his head and looked across the road to the woods. Maybe the boy had just let on that he was going to the river. Perhaps he was hiding over there in the trees right now, watching him. He had heard they could be sneaky like that, slip up behind you and lift your pocketbook right out of your pants without you feeling a thing. He walked back down into the field and reached into a groundhog hole for the jar of wine he had hidden there yesterday. He took a long drink, reminded himself to lock the doors tonight in case the spying bastard followed him home. Setting the jar back in the hole, he started cutting on another row of corn. Sweat ran down his face and stung his eyes, dripped off his nose. By God, he would show that boy what he meant by a good day’s work. He hesitated a moment, then began to sing.





37


THAT EVENING, JUST as Sugar decided he had walked far enough for one day, three grimy, unshaven men came around a bend in the road on horses and reined to a stop a few feet in front of him. Two of them wore cowboy hats and overalls while the third’s attire consisted of a dusty frock coat and black trousers. A bloody piece of a white shirt was tied around the thigh of the heaviest one. Rifles protruded from their saddles and pistols hung from holsters belted around their waists. They looked to Sugar as if they had accidently stepped out of some bygone era and were searching for a way back to where they belonged. It wouldn’t have been the first time that someone ended up trapped in a time that didn’t quite suit them. He’d lived for a while with a woman who started coming home every night from her job in a millinery and dressing up like an Egyptian princess. Figuring she was just bored, he put up with the crazy costume for a while, but when she began praying to crocodiles and talking about him escorting her into the Underworld, he’d decided it was time to shag ass.

“Well, I’ll be goddamned,” Chimney said. “What we got here?”

“Gentlemen,” Sugar said, nervously tipping his bowler. He swallowed and tried not to stare at their guns. He thought of his razor, but what use would it do to pull it out? These men would have him dead before he could even snap it open.

“Where ye going, boy?” Chimney asked.

“Headed for the river,” Sugar said.

“The Ohio?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s quite a ways on foot.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Anything up this road?”

“Not much unless you like lookin’ at cows and chickens.”

“What’s your name?”

“Sugar.”

“You hear that, boys? His ol’ mama thought he was so sweet she named him Sugar.”

“That ain’t my real name,” Sugar said quickly. Although it didn’t make any goddamn difference what these bastards thought of him, he still didn’t want them to think that his mother didn’t have the sense to give him a proper name. “It’s just the one I go by.”

“Well, if I was you, I’d start looking for a new one,” Chimney said. “Makes ye sound like a pony.” He leaned over his saddle and spat, then looked up and down the road. “I bet you got some ol’ gal down there on the river, don’t ye? That’s why you got that fancy hat on.”

“No,” Sugar said, “just going to see my people is all.”

“Come on,” Cane said. “We don’t have time for this.” It was their third day in Ohio, and for the most part they were still riding at night. This morning they had made it as far as Buchanan, and, just before dawn, ended up in a soggy marsh filled with rotten logs. The rib cage of a deer had rested on a small ferny island rising up in the middle of the foul-smelling morass. After breakfasting on Chimney’s last two strands of licorice, they’d spread their blankets on a thick bed of pokeweed and nightshade and settled down as best they could. They had endured it until late afternoon, but finally agreed, though there were still several hours of daylight left, that even getting killed or raped by a posse would be better than the torture being inflicted upon them by the hordes of late-season mosquitoes and black gnats swarming over their stinking skin. They were as worn-out and miserable as they had ever been, and Cane was more determined than ever to find somewhere clean and safe to rest up for a couple of days.