The Heavenly Table(64)

“I don’t know, I surely do like that hat,” Chimney said.

“Well, then, buy ye one,” Cane said. “They probably sell lids like that everywhere.”

“Not that one, they don’t.”

Cane let out a long, exasperated sigh. “Then just take the goddamn thing.”

“No, I got a better idea,” Chimney said. Pulling the Lee-Enfield from a leather scabbard tied with rawhide to his saddle, he ratcheted a shell into the chamber and looked at Sugar. “Here’s the way it’s gonna work. I’m a-goin’ to let you make a run for it. And if I can knock that hat off your head, then it’s all mine, understand? And if I can’t, well, it’s yours to go on wearing down to the river or wherever the f*ck it is you’re really going.”

“Brother, why would ye want that thing?” Cob asked, the first words he had uttered in hours. “It looks like something ye’d take a shit in.”

“Ha!” Cane said. “That’s a good one.”

“Well, I hadn’t thought of that, Cob, but maybe I will. Be mine to do with as I please, right?”

Sugar jerked the bowler off his head and attempted to hand it up to Chimney. “Here, mister, I don’t want it anyway. It’s all yours for the keeping, free of charge.”

“There,” Cane said. “It’s settled.”

“No, it’s not,” Chimney said. He scratched his chin and looked about, then pointed at a woods on the other side of a field overgrown with wild roses and goldenrod and white-flowered asters. “See them trees over there?” he said to the black man. “You put the hat back on and run that way. I promise ye I’ll count to thirty before I cut loose.”

“Please, mister,” Sugar said, “they no need to do this. I don’t even want—”

“Better get to moving, boy. One, two, three…”

Sugar looked around wildly, then leaped off the side of the road down into the pasture and started running for the tree line, his arms pumping like pistons and his legs stepping high and the sticker bushes ripping at his flesh.

“But this don’t make no sense,” Cob said. “He tried to give it to ye.”

Ignoring his brother, Chimney kept counting, but at twenty he stopped and settled the rifle on his shoulder. Even after the bowler fell off the black man’s head, he seemed intent on shooting. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. But just as he started to squeeze the trigger, a loud blast went off beside him and his horse lurched sideways, causing his own shot to fly harmlessly into the sky. He watched his target dive into some tall weeds. “What the f*ck?”

Cane put his pistol back in his holster. “Don’t ever pull no stunt like that again. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Jesus, no sense in gettin’ so excited. I was just going to scare him a little, that’s all.”

“Yeah,” Cane said, “I bet you were. Well, hurry up, it’ll be dark before long.”

“Hurry up what?” said Chimney.

“Go find that hat.”

“Shit, you think I really wanted that goddamn thing?”

“I don’t care if you did or not,” Cane said. “Get your ass down there.”

A few minutes later, as they sat watching Chimney in the field cursing and flailing at the weeds, Cob said to Cane, “I bet that feller’s mad that he lost his hat. Ye could tell he was proud of it.”

“Yeah, he probably was. Hard to say how long he had to save up for that thing.”

“Wonder why he calls himself Sugar, if that ain’t his real name?” Cob asked. “That seems kind of dumb to me. How’s anybody supposed to know who he really is?”

“Well, maybe he don’t like…” Cane started to say, but then he stopped. He looked over at Cob, at his cowboy hat and the red bandanna tied around his fat, sweaty neck and the pistol hanging at his side. He was the spitting image of the drawing on the last wanted poster they had seen, the one the store clerk had carried. Jesus Christ, why hadn’t he thought of that before? By the time Chimney found the bowler and made it back up to the road, Cane was in the process of changing their names and working on a line they could use. From here on out, he announced, at least until they crossed the border, he and Cob were Tom and Junior Bradford from Milledgeville, Georgia, and Chimney was their cousin, Hollis Stubbs. They were on their way to Canada to find an uncle.

“That’s it?” Chimney said. “Seems a little thin to me.” He set the bowler between his horse’s ears.

“We need to keep it as simple as possible. That way there’s less chance of screwing up.”

“What brought this on?”

“Something Cob said about the colored boy. I should have thought of it before.”

“You must be startin’ to slip if you got Cob giving you advice,” Chimney said.

“We got to change our looks, too,” Cane said, ignoring him. “Get rid of those cowboy hats and the neckerchiefs. And stick your pistols in your saddlebags.”

“You mean all of them?”

Cane stopped and considered for a few seconds. “No, you’re right. Maybe we better each keep one handy just in case.”

As they got ready to leave a few minutes later, Chimney said, “I still don’t feel right about you takin’ that shot away from me. I need to keep in practice.”