Bull Mountain(21)

Gareth came out of the house with the glass pitcher of tea and a stack of paper cups and held them both up for his father to take. Cooper took the pitcher and held it in his hand like a hammer. Delray tried to get off a last word, right before Cooper bashed the glass pitcher into his head. The glass shattered and spun Delray down to his knees. A large sliver of glass was wedged into Delray’s skull, and smaller chunks, all shiny and reflective in the sun’s light, stuck out of his cheeks and bottom lip. It looked like his jaw was broken as well, because it just hung there open and loose, disconnected from the rest of his face. Cooper shoved a booted foot into Delray’s back, forcing him down flat in the dirt, then pulled a nickel-plated Colt Python from the waistband of his trousers. He didn’t thumb the hammer or point it at anyone. He just held it, letting it be known.

“And that . . . is that,” Cooper said. “Ernest, you and Horace get this sack of shit off my mountain, and don’t let me see no more of him.”

Ernest didn’t try to keep Cooper’s stare this time. He was too scared to even look at him. He grabbed Delray by the shoulders, careful of his ruined jaw, and dragged him toward his truck parked by the tree line, leaving a trail of red mud, iced tea, blood, and broken glass. Gareth helped without having to be asked. Before they reached the trees they heard Cooper call out, “Ernest.”

Ernest turned and looked back at the truck, where Cooper was already working on the next bale.

“Yeah, boss?”

“After you get Valentine up here, take the rest of the day off. But tomorrow, bring a friend. We’re going to need to catch up.”

“Yessir.”

2.

Gareth came into the main house dirty and tired, his hands caked with dry blood and glass dust. Cooper ran him a tub of water to wash up in and went back outside to tarp down the load on the truck. It was getting dark and Gareth’s mama would have supper ready soon. Roasted venison, butter beans, and fresh-cut collards were a welcome diversion from the day’s events, but thoughts of supper vanished like steam from a kettle with the sound of trucks coming in from the Western Ridge. Cooper pulled the canvas tarp down tight over the bales of marijuana buds and tied it off. Gareth appeared on the porch, toweling off his hands, hoping he wouldn’t have to get them dirty again.

“That’s far enough,” Cooper said, and held up a hickory ax handle he kept under the seat of his truck. The first vehicle stopped and Ernest got out with Horace, Albert Valentine, and a few other men Cooper had working the crops. A second truck following swiftly behind the first carried Valentine’s wife, Mammie, and his young son, Albert Junior. Gareth and Albert Junior were almost the same age and spent most of their summers together swimming and fishing in Bear Creek, or picking wild blackberries or scrounging for pecans for Albert Senior to bake into pies. The old man made the best pies. Cooper loved the old man’s pies.

“Val!” Gareth yelled from the porch, happy to see the younger boy and oblivious of the trouble his father was in. Albert Junior ran to the porch. Mammie followed after him but kept her eyes on Cooper. Cooper watched the boys briefly before turning his attention to the old man.

“What did I tell you, Albert?” Cooper said.

Valentine held his hat to his chest with both hands. “I know what you told me, Mister Cooper, sir . . . but, well, it just ain’t right is all.”

“What ain’t right? You making and selling shine off this mountain with my family’s stills against my wishes? Is that what ain’t right?”

Ernest, Horace, and the boys settled in around Cooper and Valentine like a murder of blackbirds.

“It’s like I told you already,” Valentine said. “Rye done gave me the still. He done gave me the route, too. Ask anybody. Ask the owners of the pool halls down ’round Tennessee, who’s been buyin’. They were expectin’ me. Rye told them to.”

Cooper arched an eyebrow in surprise. “You already been selling?”

“Yessir, and this here is for you.” He motioned to the only other black man in the crowd, who produced a brown paper bag from his pants pocket and handed it to Cooper. Cooper knew the feel of a stack of cash, so he didn’t bother to open it.

“What is this?”

“Twenty percent of the first run,” Valentine said. “I think that’s fair.”

“You do?” Cooper said softly.

“Yessir.”

“You think it’s fair to steal from me and my family and come here and throw a little money in my face like that’s gonna settle things? You did spend a lot of time with my brother.”

“But, sir, Rye . . .”

“Rye’s dead, and you setting up shop on our mountain after I done told you no is disrespectful to his memory and a goddamn slap in my face.”

Valentine squeezed at his hat and looked down at it. “Yessir.”

“Now, the way I see it, I got two choices. I can kill you right here and be done with it, or because you were my brother’s friend”—Cooper stopped and looked at the length of hickory in his hands—“you could tote an ass-whuppin’ and go on home. Either way, you’re out of the liquor business.”

“Please, Mr. Burroughs, please don’t hurt him,” Mammie said from the porch. Gareth and Albert Junior sat wide-eyed behind her. Gareth knew his father wouldn’t hurt Val’s dad. He was just mad is all. Cooper didn’t answer.