Dead in the West Page 6

  The blood in the box bottom had congealed and stuck to the top of the corpse's head. The body was also wedged in with the dog.

  Cecil got a fresh grip, grunted, and pulled.

  This time the body came free, leaving a mess of its scalp and hair in the bottom of the box.

  Cecil tossed the body to the ground. Other than the neck which lolled loosely, the body was as stiff as a board. The tongue hung out of its mouth, and it seemed a foot long, and it was as dark as a razor strop.

  "That's who I thought you was," Cecil said, looking at the corpse. "Morning Banker—you being dead ain't nothing personal."

  This was a variation of what Nate had told Cecil when he foreclosed on his farm last year.

  His words had been more like, "You being broke ain't nothing personal. Just doing what I have to do."

  "You look good as I've seen you," Cecil said absently. "In fact, you look better than I've ever seen you, you old fart."

  Cecil, sensitive as he was, scratched his balls and looked in the box again. He could see the dog more clearly. It looked as if it had been wadded up into a ball. Its muzzle was mashed like a squeeze box into its head, and both its eyes were sticking out on tendons like strange insects. The dog and Cecil stunk of shit.

  Cecil got a cigar out of his white shirt pocket-occasionally the ash from his stogies revealed itself in the cafe's chili—and lit up. He usually waited for the evening to smoke the one cigar he bought a day, but hell, this was kind of a celebration. That damned mutt had turned over his last trash box, and good old Nate Foster—resident banker, drunk and full-time horse's ass—had foreclosed on his last farm.

  Cecil went back to the cafe, had himself a drink of cooking sherry, then went out front to tell the sheriff (who was having lunch with Caleb) about poor old Nate.

  VII

  The dog stayed in the box, but they took Nate over to the undertakers and sent for Doc.

  When Doc got there, Nate didn't look any better. The sheriff, the undertaker Steve Mertz, and Caleb stood looking down at the corpse.

  "Think he's dead, Doc?" Mertz said with his usual mirth.

  "I reckon he's just holding his breath," Caleb said. "But that trick with his tongue out like that will throw you."

  "Oh for Christsakes," Matt said, and walked out of the room.

  "I tell you," Caleb said, "that boy is getting squeamish."

  Doc paid no attention. He bent to look at Nate's face. An ant crawled across Nate's left eye. Doc brushed it away. He gripped the man's head and turned it.

  "Neck's broken, ain't it?" Caleb said.

  "Yep," Doc said. He looked at the bruise on Nate's neck and a deep, jagged wound just under it.

  "Guess the dog did that," Mertz said.

  "Right" Caleb said. "Then old Foster smashed the dog's muzzle halfway through his skull, wadded him up, tossed him in the trash, jumped in after him, landed on his head, and broke his neck,"

  "Well," Mertz said. "The dog could have bitten him."

  "Shut up, both of you, will you?" Doc said. "I can't hear myself think. Maybe the dog bit him after he was dead."

  "How'd he get his neck broke," Mertz said.

  "It could have been a big man done it," Doc said. "Only he'd have to have been a really big man, and the strongest man I've ever seen to do what he did to that dog's body.

  Anyone that knew how could have broken Foster's neck."

  "I seen a big nigger who fought bare-knuckle once, and he could have done that" Caleb said. "No trouble."

  "Don't suppose he lives around here?" Doc said.

  Caleb smiled. "Kansas City."

  "And I thought we were going to save Matt a lot of work. Do me a favor, Caleb, take a walk. You're stinking the whole place up."

  Caleb grinned again and lifted his hat in mock salute. "Glad to oblige, Doc, and I'll remember you."

  "In your prayers, I hope," Doc said.

  When Caleb was gone, Mertz said, "It don't do to piss Caleb off. He's onery and he don't forget."

  "To hell with Caleb."

  Doc looked the neck over some more. "What gets me is the rip," he said. "I suppose a crazy man might have done that."

  "A man?"

  "Ever seen a man with rabies, Mertz?"

  No.

  "Ugly stuff. Gets to his brain. Gets so he can't stand light and is thirsty all the time. Gets to where he'll bite like a dog. Has crazy strength—like ten men."

  "You mean Nate was bitten by a man with rabies?"

  "I didn't say that.... But it doesn't look like a dog bite. Though, to tell the truth, it doesn't look all that much like a man's bite either. I'm just thinking out loud is all."

  "If it ain't animal and it ain't human, what's that leave?"

  Doc grinned. "Plants with teeth."

  "Well, I think the dog did it" Mertz said.

  "And as Caleb said—who mashed the dog and tossed it in the trash after Nate was dead?

  A man that knows what he's doing, or one that's mad strong, could have killed Nate after he killed the dog. He could have grabbed Nate's head just right, twisted it, and bit him.

  Especially if he was mad with rabies."

  "That's what you think?"

  "Just thinking out loud. I'll make out the death certificate. Call it broken neck, loss of blood. Means of death unknown."

  Doc put on his hat and went out.

  VIII

  David did as the Reverend told him. He took some short sticks and placed them across the stage trail and back near the woods. He stuck them into the dirt about two inches and let three inches of stick show above ground.

  From where the Reverend stood, across the trail with his back to the trees on that side, it was a fair distance for a pistol—especially shooting at such small and shady targets.

  David finished with his task, went over to join the Reverend who held the revolver at his side. He stood by the Reverend and looked across the way. It took him a moment to locate the sticks.

  "Can you even see them?" David said.

  "I'm not that old yet, son."

  "You got enough bullets?"

  The Reverend looked at David. "More than we'll need." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two small boxes of ammunition. "Enough for a small-size army— but we won't shoot that much."

  "Are you men going to shoot or talk those sticks to death?" It was Abby. She had folded up the picnic remains and put them in the wagon.

  "Good point," the Reverend said, and smiled at her. My heavens, he thought, I have not been this happy in years.

  The Reverend pulled his eyes away from Abby with difficulty. She looked wonderful standing there watching, her hands behind her back, her eyes bright.

  "Okay, son ," the Reverend said. "This is a .36 Navy revolver. 1861 model. It has been converted from cap and ball to modern ammunition."

  "Why not just buy yourself another one? Pa says a .45 is the thing to have."

  "This one has done well by me. I like the feel of it. A gun is more than its caliber. In fact, a gun is the man who holds it."

  The Reverend cocked the revolver slowly, lifted it, and fired.

  One of the sticks went away.

  He did this five more times and five sticks went away.

  "Good shooting," David said, "but it's pretty slow."

  "I'm teaching you to shoot, not fast draw."

  "But I want to learn that too."

  "Go and put up some more sticks."

  David did as he was told. While he worked, Abby and the Reverend looked at one another but said nothing. It was getting so nothing needed to be said, and even the silence was comfortable.

  David came back and stood by the Reverend. "My turn?"

  "Almost." The Reverend loaded the revolver and put it in the sash at his waist.

  And then he drew. David almost saw it. There was a blur of the Reverend's hand, then the gun was gripped, pointing, being cocked, and the first round barked, and the first stick went away, and the gun was cocked again, and fired and
again and again until the air was full of acrid smoke. All the sticks were shot off at ground level.

  "God almighty!" David said.

  "Watch your language, son. The Lord is not nearly so enthused over good shooting as we are."

  "Goddamn, you must be as good as Wild Bill Hickok."

  "Most likely better" the Reverend said seriously.

  "Can I shoot now? I want to try."

  "No fast draw yet, just shooting."

  David nodded as the Reverend reloaded. "Why no holster? I'd think you'd need one for a fast draw," David asked.

  "Too many dime novels, son. Hickok for instance wore a sash. With the sight filed off"

  the Reverend held up the revolver to show that it had been filed off smoothly, "you don't have to worry about snags. And holsters have a tendency to grab a revolver. A sash or even your belt is preferable—go put up some sticks."

  David raced across the way to put up new targets. This time he took a big handful of sticks and placed them in a row. He counted them. Eleven.

  He rushed back to the Reverend's side.

  The Reverend handed him the gun. "When you get ready, take a death grip on it and point it like a finger. Don't try to aim. Just imagine you're lifting a finger and pointing it at one of the sticks. Your aim is naturally better when you do that. Soft squeeze on the trigger."

  David lifted the revolver, cocked it, and fired. He didn't even come close. His round hit the edge of the stage trail.

  "You're trying too hard to aim. You've got to become one with the gun. It's got to be like part of you, a metal finger."

  "Can I put it in my belt and draw it?"

  "Only if you want to lose your manhood." David considered. "You mean I might shoot off my pecker?"

  "Precisely."

  Abby laughed.

  "Sorry, ma'm" David said. "I forgot you were there."

  "Quite all right "Abby said.

  David pointed the revolver across the trail, cocked, and fired. He did this until the cylinder was empty. None of his shots scored, but each came closer.

  He handed the empty revolver to the Reverend. "Damn," he said.

  "It takes time and patience," the Reverend said. "After you cock it time after time, get used to the weight, you develop muscles in your forearm, then the gun is like an extension of your forearm." The Reverend raised the revolver and pointed, "and the bullet seems more to come out of you than the gun."

  The Reverend reloaded, put the revolver in his sash. Though he was giving David sound advice, he realized too that he was showing off a bit for Abby.

  He jerked the revolver free with his left hand this time, cocked, and fired six times in succession. Six sticks disappeared.

  "Wow! You are better than Wild Bill Hickok."

  "I told you that," the Reverend said.

  The Reverend reloaded, put the gun in his sash. This time he drew with his right hand, fired, tossed the gun to his left, fired, and tossed it back and forth that way until six more sticks were down.

  Twelve shots altogether: one series of six left-handed, one series alternating, and he had not missed a shot.

  Abby applauded.

  "Thank you, ma'm," the Reverend said. Then to David, "Go see how close I shaved them to the ground."

  David ran across the trail to look.

  All twelve sticks were cut even with the ground.

  Twelve?

  He had set up eleven. He remembered distinctly.

  Well, no matter, the Reverend had found a stick. But as David bent to examine the one he had not set up, he noticed it was different from the others.

  He scraped around it, and when he saw what it really was, he called, "Reverend. Come quick!"

  IX

  The Reverend put his revolver away and strolled briskly across the shadowy forest trail.

  Abby followed.

  When he reached David, he squatted down to examine the stick.

  It was not a stick.

  It was a filthy, human finger shot off at the first knuckle.

  The Reverend scraped around it. A moment later he revealed a human hand.

  He kept digging.

  Soon he revealed an ugly, dirty face wearing an eye patch — though the patch had slipped and the empty eye socket was filled with dirt and forest mold. A worm twisted in the mess.

  "Bill Nolan!" David said. "The missing stage driver."

  The Reverend dug the rest of the body free.

  …

  When he had the entire corpse revealed, he said, "Go back to the wagon and get the blanket, David."

  David went.

  Abby bent down beside the Reverend. The smell of the dead man was strong. "Seems to be our day for dead bodies. What happened to him?"

  "I don't know. But someone wanted the body hidden."

  David returned with the blanket. The Reverend put it down beside Nolan, then he and David picked him up and put him on it. They folded the blanket over so that the body was covered.

  "All right, David," the Reverend said, "let's get him into the back of the wagon."

  They carried him over, placed him on top of the tent poles, then with David in the back with the corpse, the Reverend and Abby on the seat, they started back toward Mud Creek.

  One of the corpse's hands had slipped out from under the blanket, and direct sunlight struck it. It smoked faintly.

  The hand moved slowly back under the blanket.

  None of the living saw it.

  X

  They took Nolan to the undertaker and the doctor was called over.

  "Fancy seeing you again," Doc said to the Reverend.

  The Reverend nodded.

  "You need me back there, Dad?" Abby asked.

  "I'll handle it. Keep David and the Reverend company"

  The doctor left the others in the front room. He and Mertz went back to look at the body.

  It lay on a table next to the banker who was naked, cleaned, and stuffed in a tub of ice.

  Doc looked at the tub, then back to Mertz.

  "Keeps 'em fresh. He isn't going to be buried until tomorrow late. Having a hard time getting mourners. Going to have to pay for some."

  "I reckon he can afford it," Doc said.

  Doc examined Nolan. He had a crushed hand and what looked like a bite on his neck. He frowned.

  "That's just like Nate had—isn't it?"

  "More or less," Doc said.

  Doc went over the body, stripping it of its clothes as he went. When he was finished, he went to the washbasin and washed his hands, dried them.

  "Well," Mertz said. "What's the cause of death?"

  "Loss of blood."

  "From that wound? It's bad, but not that bad,"

  "Nonetheless," Doc said, put on his coat, and went out.

  Mertz looked at Nolan and patted him affectionately. "Doc's getting old," he said.

  …

  Mertz picked up Nolan's clothes from the floor and went through them for valuables. He'd done fairly well by Nate, getting a ring and a silver dollar. And he got a wallet. Empty.

  But a nice wallet. He figured Caleb had profited the contents of Nate's wallet before his body was brought in.

  Win some, lose some.

  He set about his business.

  XI

  Doc came out and said, "I know this isn't supposed to be something you say after you look at a corpse, but I'm hungry. Let's go over to the house for something to eat. You coming too, David?"

  "No sir, I got to skedaddle. Pa will want me over at the livery the rest of the day. I'll put the poles in the shop, Reverend."

  "That okay with your pa?" the Reverend asked. "Yeah, long as you pay him for keeping them overnight," "Figures," the Reverend said. "Very well." David darted for the door, stopped, turned. "Reverend. Can I see you a minute?"

  David and the Reverend went outside.

  "I just wanted to say," David mumbled, "I had a real good time today." "So did I." "I think you could do a lot worse than Miss Abby. You ought to keep her."


  "She's not a fish, David."

  "You know what I mean."

  "I'll consider it. It'll be up to her."

  "Thanks for the shooting lesson."

  "You're welcome—and aren't you glad we didn't use Abby for shooting practice?"

  David smiled. "Yeah. But maybe she'd have been big enough for me to hit. I'm no good on sticks.

  "Practice, that's the key."

  They shook hands.

  David climbed on the wagon, clucked to the team, and started for the blacksmith shop.

  XII

  Doc and Abby had a house connected to the back of the office. It was simple, but nice.

  Abby fixed beans, tortillas, and coffee, and after they ate, they retired to Doc's study. It was stuffed full of books and the smell of cigar smoke. The study connected directly to Doc's office.

  They took chairs near Doc's desk, and he spoke. "I'm not sure I want to tell this, but I've thought on it all day, consulted books, and I intend to consult others. And, Reverend, as a man of God, a man who deals with immortal souls, I think you're definitely the one to hear this. I guess I could have Calhoun over too, but he's an idiot. So, I'll just keep it between the three of us. My daughter already thinks I'm crazy, but she has to live with me. And you, Reverend—there is something about you. You're a man of God, but you're also a realist." Doc nodded at the gun. "What I need right now is someone who is not only knowledgeable of man's soul, but of everyday realities. Reverend, do you believe the dead can walk?"

  "What?" Abby said.

  Doc didn't answer. He just looked at the Reverend. The Reverend was taken totally by surprise, but finally, "On an everyday basis, no."

  "I'm serious," Doc said.

  "I thought you might be.... All right. I suppose the dead can walk. Under certain circumstances. Lazarus walked and he had been dead for some time. Dead and entombed."

  "I'm talking about the living dead, not returning from the dead."

  "Dad?" Abby said, "Are you off your rocker?"

  "Maybe."

  "'You mean nosferatu?" the Reverend said. "Ghouls? Zombies?"

  "Then you know what I'm talking about?"

  "Not exactly, but I've read a book or two on folklore."

  "Okay. I'll cut through the horseshit. The man who fell apart in the street. He was dead before he fell."

  Silence hung in the air like an anvil.

  "Dad " Abby said, "that isn't possible "

  "I've been telling myself that all afternoon. But I examined the body—pieces of it—under a microscope, performed various tests on it. That was dead, decaying flesh. The sun was speeding up the decay, but I tell you, that man was dead. An examination of the internal organs proved it."