The Highway Kind(62)

Before Terri could say anything, I said, “He ain’t alive no more, but before he died he said he done that map to trick you so you’d think he was letting go of the loot, but he came back for it. He moved it, all right, but it’s still in the same place, buried right behind Geronimo’s grave. You missed it.”

He studied me a moment to see if there was truth in what I said, and he saw truth where there wasn’t any, which goes to prove if I want to lie, I can do it. So we got our bearings and headed out in the direction of Geronimo’s grave after stopping at a station for gas and at a general store across the street from it to buy a shovel and some rope. Johnson gave me some money and I went in and bought the goods. Johnson sat in the backseat with Terri to make sure I didn’t talk to anyone at the station or the store. He kept the knife close to her.

At the store I was supposed to ask how far it was to Fort Sill, where Geronimo was buried, and I did. When I told Johnson how far it was, he figured we could drive through the night and be there early morning, before or just about the time the sun came up.

It started raining that afternoon, and it was a steady rain, but we drove on, the wipers beating at the water on the windshield.

Johnson said, “Every time it rains, someone says, ‘The farmers need it.’ I don’t give a hang about the farmers. Papa raised hogs and chickens and grew corn and such, and he spent a lot of time beating my ass with a plow line. To hell with the farmers and their rain. I hope their lands blow away. I can eat pork or beef or chicken or a squirrel. I don’t care about the farmers. The farmers can go to hell.”

“If I’m reading you right, you don’t seem to like farmers,” Terri said.

“That’s funny,” Johnson said. “You’re gonna funny yourself to death.”

Johnson sat quiet after that and didn’t say another word until we came close to Fort Sill. Now, it’s supposed to be a fort and all that, but the graveyard wasn’t really protected at all. We parked up near it, Johnson grabbed the shovel and coiled the rope over his shoulder, and we all trudged into the graveyard, the rain beating down on us so hard we could barely see. We fumbled around in the dark awhile, but Johnson, having been there before, found Geronimo’s grave easy enough. A blind man could have found it. There was a monument there. It was made of cemented stones, and it was tall and thin at the top, wide at the bottom. There was a marker that said GERONIMO. On the grave itself were pieces of glass and bones and stones that folks had put there as some kind of tribute. The sun was rising and the rain had slackened, but we could see it had beat down the dirt at the back of the grave, behind the pile of rocks that served as Geronimo’s marker, and damn if we couldn’t see a tin box down in a hole there. The rain had opened the soft dirt up so you could see it clearly as the sun broke over the trees in the graveyard.

I thought, Uncle Smat, you ol’ dog, you. He had done exactly what I was pretending he did. The box really was there. Uncle Smat figured hiding it right near where it had been before would fool Johnson, and it would have, had I not told a lie that turned out to be the truth. Uncle Smat might actually have meant to mail that map but then he got stabbed, went off his bean, somehow ended up back at the chicken coop where he’d been staying, and died of the stabbing.

Johnson handed me the shovel, said, “Dig it the rest of the way out.”

“What happens to us then?”

“You drive me out of here. I can’t carry that on my back, and I can’t drive. Later, I tie you up with the rope somewhere where you can be found alongside the road.”

“What if no one comes along?” Terri said.

“That’s not my problem,” Johnson said.

I scraped some dirt off the box with the shovel, and then I got down in the hole to dig. Water ran over the tops of my shoes and soaked my socks and feet. I widened the hole and worked with the shovel until I pried the box loose from the mud. I slipped the rope under the box and fastened it around the top with a loop knot. I climbed out of the hole to help pull the box up. Me and Terri had to do the pulling. Johnson stood there with his big knife watching us.

When we got it up and out of the hole, he took the shovel from me, told us to stand back, and then used the tip of the shovel to try and force open the lid. This took some considerable work, and while he was at it, Terri stepped around beside Geronimo’s grave.

Johnson stopped and said to Terri, “Don’t think I ain’t watching you, girlie.”

Terri quit inching along.

Johnson got the box open and looked inside. I could see what the sunlight was shining on, same as him. A lot of greenbacks.

“Ain’t that fine-looking,” Johnson said.

“Hey, Johnson, you stack of shit,” Terri said.

Johnson jerked his head in her direction, and it was then I realized Terri had stooped down and got a rock, and she threw it. It was like the day she killed that bird. Her aim was true. It smote Johnson on the forehead, knocking off his hat, and he sort of went up on his toes and fell back, flat as a board, right by that hole we had just dug.

I looked down at Johnson. He had a big red welt on his forehead, and it was already starting to swell into a good-size knot.

“Girlie, my ass,” Terri said as she came up.

I bent down and took hold of his wrist but didn’t feel a pulse.

“Terri, I think you done killed him.”