The Savage(11)

Now, forking the meat in the pan, turning it to fry evenly, Van Dorn wondered about the other faces. Thought of them being loaded on the truck, if they were being hauled off for butchering.

Sitting the fork down, closing his eyes, he made the images out, patched and filthy. Some were young boys. Eyes plumbed with sags. Lips peeled. Others behind the bars were young girls. Daughters. And older females. Mothers. Opening his eyes, he slid on the thick cotton glove, protecting his hand from the heated handle. Removed the pan from the fire. Let it lie out on the rock, away from the flame. With night he could travel the land. Maybe work his way toward English or Marengo. Search for these men who took people. Find their encampment. Where they rested. But then what would he do once he found them and those whom they took?

Knifing a hunk of loin from the skillet, savoring the taste of deer, he chewed and thought about that night they’d returned to Indiana. About the man who held up the Widow. The moments he’d tried to bury but could not. Instead they infested his mind like the enslaved faces in the back of the flatbed.





THEN

Horace never fell. A hole bored into a side wall. Somehow missing the glass of a bay-sized window.

The pistol rattled to the tile with the shuttering body that followed. Van Dorn eyed the man laid out sideways. Horace grabbed the .45. The female arched over the counter, still holding an axe handle she’d blindsided the man’s skull with. Horace huffed air and slanted words with vehemence to the man on the floor. “Threaten me, my boy, now comes consequence!”

Van Dorn watched the man grit his teeth with his father’s bootheel realigning his teeth. Coloring his gums. Crooking his cavity for air and words, replacing words with grunts and slurs.

Stepping back from the man, Horace glanced at Van Dorn. “Veer your face south, son.” Next an explosion came like hail to a vehicle. Brass bounced onto the floor. A mess was created. The man’s image spread over the floor with a mural of bone, muscle, and brain.

The female screamed.

Everyone’s ears rang. Afraid to breathe, Van Dorn twisted his view back to the man. Studied his splayed features. From his perspective there was no twitch or pulse of fiber.

Horace towered over the man, held the smoking pistol in his bloody fist, and said, “Stupid son of a bitch forced my reaction.”

Movement came around the counter, the female dragged the axe handle behind her. The three of them stood staring at the man’s swells of crimson that had become his detonated appearance. A pool of nerve tissue and blood widened in its shape. Stained the floor with its expired tint.

Van Dorn could hardly believe the ease of violence.

“Lord God,” the female said, “you showed him his end.”

“Dumb-ass pointed a gun at me, threatened my son. No one lays a threat nor a hand to my blood except me.”

“You’ve made that clear.”

Quaking from neck to heel, the woman reached with the axe handle. Jabbed the man’s body like a young child testing a dead animal’s bloat. Nothing returned. No rise or fall from his cage.

“He’s one dead son of a bitch.”

“Thought he’s gonna try and kill me and my son.”

“You twisted the tides.”

A rank smell crept among the store. An off-color pool seeped from beneath the man’s center. His bladder had fallen. Horace shook his head, turned his eyes to the female, asked, “You gonna phone the law?”

“Hell no,” she snapped.

“It was self-defense. I’d no other means.”

“Ain’t disputing the facts. He’s a month out of the pen. Know’d no other skill than robbing folks.”

“You know’d him?”

Walking around the body, the female studied the sinking of his shape. Stopped and said, “Know’d him, I married one of his brothers. A man who dowager’d me. But left me the family’s store we’s standing in.”

Surprised, Horace looked to the woman. “You’re telling me this retch was robbing his own?”

“Was his intentions, yes. Until you and your boy walked in on his attempt. He wasn’t good for much. None of them Alcorns are unless it involves hassling a person that ain’t white. Except my husband, Alex. When he married me their family tree was peppered with some culturing. I ain’t white and I ain’t black. I’m what they call half-and-half, or mulatto.”

Horace said, “Them?”

Laying the length of wood upon the counter, the lady wiped her nervous palm against her pants leg. Offered it to Horace. “Call me the Widow Alcorn.” Pointing to the man, the Widow said, “This one here that you showed his end was named Gutt.”

Horace shook his head. “The boy and myself did not come for trouble. Call the law. I’ll take whatever consequence they offer.”

“Cain’t. His brother finds out he’s shot dead in my store, they’ll as soon kill you and me. Hide us where no cracker-headed badge’ll look.”

Horace’s complexion grazed confusion. “You can’t leave him lying about the tile for everyone to see.”

As though she’d devised it before Horace and Van Dorn had entered her store, the Widow spoke calmly. “No I can’t. I’ll be needing you and your boy’s hands.”

Passing to the rear of the mart, the Widow opened a door. Disappeared for a moment. Came back with a gun-magazine-sized cut of plastic. Unrolled a tarp next to the body that sounded like thunder as it crunched and she spread it open, created an enormous square.