Dynamite’s owner was Levi Crone, one big gent in a dirty white shirt with the sleeves ripped out. He had a big red face and big fat muscles and a belly like a big iron wash pot. He wore a hat you could have bathed in. He was as tall as Black Joe, six foot two or more. Hands like hams, feet like boats. He looked at the White Mule, said, “That ain’t the story mule, is it?”
“One and the same,” Frank said, as if he had raised the white mule from a colt.
“I heard someone had him. That he had been caught. Catch and train him?”
“Me and my partners.”
“You mean Leroy and the nigger?”
“Yeah.”
“That the hog in the stories, too, I guess?”
“Yep,” Frank said.
“What’s he for? A stepstool?”
“He runs with the mule. For a ways.”
“That ain’t allowed.”
“Where say can’t do it, huh?” Black Joe asked.
Crone thought. “Nowhere, but it stands to reason.”
“What about rule can’t run with the dick hard?” Black Joe said, pointing at Dynamite’s member.
“Ain’t no rule like that,” Crone said. “Mule can’t help that.”
“Ain’t no rule about goddamn hog none either,” Black Joe said.
“It don’t matter,” Crone said. “You got this mule from hell, given to you by the goddamn red-assed devil his ownself, and you got the pork chop there too from the same place, it ain’t gonna matter. Dynamite here, he’s gonna outrun him. Gets finished, he’ll fuck your mule in the ass and shit a turd on him.”
“Care to make a bet on the side some?” Black Joe said.
“Sure,” Crone said. “I’ll bet you all till my money runs out. That ain’t good enough, I’ll arm wrestle you or body wrestle you or see which of us can shoot jack-off the farthest. You name it, speckled nigger.”
Black Joe studied Crone as if he might be thinking about where to make all the prime cuts, but he finally just grinned, got out ten of the eleven-fifty he had been paid. “There mine. You got some holders?”
“Ten dollars. I got sight of it, and I got your word, which better be good,” Crone said.
“Where’s your money?” Leroy said.
Crone pulled out a wad from his front pocket, presented it with open palm as if he might be giving a teacher an apple. He looked at Leroy, said, “You gonna trade a goat? I hear you like goats.”
“Okay,” Leroy said. “Okay. I fucked a goddamn goat. What of it?”
Crone laughed at him. He shook the money at Black Joe. “Good enough?”
“Okay,” Black Joe said.
“Here’s three dollars,” Frank said, dug in his pocket, held it so Crone could see.
Crone nodded.
Frank slipped the money back in his pocket.
“Well,” Leroy said. “I ain’t got shit, so I just throw out my best wishes.”
“You boys could bet the mule,” Crone said.
“That could be an idea,” Leroy said.
“No,” Frank said. “We won’t do that.”
“Ain’t we partners?” Leroy said, taking off his seed salesman’s hat.
“We got a deal,” Frank said, “but I’m the one paid Black Joe for catching and training. So, I decide. And that’s about as partner as we get.”
Leroy shrugged, put the seed salesman’s hat back on.
—————
The mules lined up and it was difficult to make them stay the line. Dynamite, still toting serious business on the undercarriage, lined up by White Mule, stood at least a shoulder above him. Both wore blinders now, but they turned their heads and looked at one another. Dynamite snapped at the white mule and missed. White Mule snapped back at Dynamite’s nose, grazing him. He threw a little kick sideways that made Dynamite shuffle to his right.
There was yelling from the judges, threats of disqualification, though no one expected that. The crowd had already figured this race out. White Mule, the forest legend, and Dynamite, of the swinging big dick, they were the two to watch.
Leroy and Black Joe had pulled the hog back with a rope, but now they brought him out and let him stand in front of his mule. They had to talk to the judges on the matter, explain. There wasn’t any rule for or against it. One judge said he didn’t like the idea. One said the hog would get trampled to death anyway. Another said, shit, why not. Final decision, they let the hog stay in the race.
So the mules and the hog and the riders lined up, the hog just slightly to the side of the white mule. The hog looked over its shoulder at Black Joe standing behind him. By now the hog knew what was coming. A swift kick in the ass.
Frank climbed up on the white mule, and a little guy with a face like a timber axe climbed up on Crone’s mule, Dynamite.
Out front of the line was a little bald man in a loose shirt and suspenders holding up his high-water pants, showing his scuffed and broken-laced boots. He had a pistol in his hand. He has a voice loud as Nester on the Greek line.
“Now, we got us a mule race today, ladies and gentlemen. And there will be no cheatin’, or there will be disqualification, and a butt-beating you can count on to be remembered by everyone, ’specially the cheater. What I want now, line of mules and riders, is a clean race. This here path is wide enough for all twenty of you, and you can’t fan too much to the right or left, as we got folks all along the run watching. You got to keep up pretty tight. Now, there might be some biting and kicking, and that’s to be expected. From the mules. You riders got to be civil. Or mostly. A little out of line is all right, but no knives or guns or such. Everyone understand and ain’t got no questions, let up a shout.”
A shout came from the line. The mules stirred, stepped back, stepped forward.
“Anybody don’t understand what I just said? Anyone not speak Texan or ’Merican here that’s gonna race?”
No response.
“All right, then. Watch women and children, and try not to run over the men or the whores neither. I’m gonna step over there to the side, and I’m gonna raise this pistol, and when you hear the shot, there you go. May the best mule and the best rider win. Oh, yeah. We got a hog in the race too. He ain’t supposed to stay long. Just kind of lead. No problems with that from anybody, is there?”
There were no complaints.
“All right, then.”
The judge stepped briskly to the side of the road and raised his old worn .36 Navy at the sky and got an important look on his face. Black Joe removed the rope from the pig’s neck and found a solid position between mules and behind the hog. He cocked his foot back.
The judge fired his pistol. Black Joe kicked the hog in the ass. The mule line charged forward.
The hog, running for all it was worth, surged forward as well, taking the lead even. White Mule and Dynamite ran dead even. The mules ran so hard a cloud of dust was thrown up. The mules and the men and the hog were swallowed by it. Frank, seeing nothing but dust, coughed and cursed and lay tight against the white mule’s neck, and squinted his eyes. He feared, without the white mule being able to see the hog, he might bolt. Maybe run into another mule, throw him into a stampede, get him stomped flat. But as they ran the cloud moved behind them, and when Frank came coughing out of the cloud, he was amazed to see the hog was well out in front, running as if he could go like that all the way to Mexico.
To his right, Frank saw Dynamite and his little axe-faced rider. The rider looked at him and smiled with gritty teeth. “You gonna get run into a hole, shit breath.”
“Shitass,” Frank said. It was the best he could come up with, but he threw it out with meaning.
Dynamite was leading the pack now, leaving the white mule and the others behind, throwing dust in their faces. White Mule saw Dynamite start to straighten out in front of him, and he moved left, nearly knocking against a mule on that side. Frank figured it was so he could see the hog. The hog was moving his spotted ass on down the line.
“Git him, White Mule,” Frank said
, and leaned close to the mule’s left ear, rubbed the side of the mule’s neck, then rested his head close on his mane. The white mule focused on the hog and started hauling some ass. He went lower and his strides got longer and the barrel back and belly rolled. When Frank looked up, the hog was bolting left, across the path of a dozen mules, just making it off the trail before taking a tumble under hooves. He fell, rolled over and over in the grass.
Frank thought: Shit, White Mule, he’s gonna bolt, gonna go after the hog. But, nope, he was true to the trail, and closing on Dynamite. The spell was on. And now the other mules were moving up too, taking a whipping, getting their sides slapped hard enough Frank could hear it, thinking it sounded like Papa’s belt on his back.
“Come on, White Mule. You don’t need no hittin’, don’t need no hard heels. You got to outrun that hard dick for your own sake.”
It was as if White Mule understood him. White Mule dropped lower and his strides got longer yet. Frank clung for all he was worth, fearing the saddle might twist and lose him.
But no, Leroy, for all his goat-fucking and seed salesman’s hat stealing, could fasten harness better than anyone that walked.
The trail became shady as they moved into a line of oaks on either side of the road. For a long moment the shadows were so thick they ran in near darkness. Then there were patches of lights through the leaves and the dust was lying closer to the ground and the road was sun-baked and harder and showing clay the color of a poison-ivy rash. Scattered here and there along the road were viewers. A few in chairs. Most standing.
Frank ventured a look over his shoulder. The other mules and riders were way back, and some of them were already starting to falter. He noticed a couple of the mules were riderless, and one had broken rank with its rider and was off trail, cutting across the grass, heading toward the creek that twisted down amongst a line of willow trees.
As White Mule closed on Dynamite, the mule took a snapping bite at Dynamite’s tail, jerking its head back with teeth full of tail hair.
Dynamite tried to turn and look, but his rider pulled his head back into line. White Mule lunged forward, going even lower than before. Lower than Frank had ever seen him go. Lower than he thought he could go. Now White Mule was pulling up on Dynamite’s left. Dynamite’s rider jerked Dynamite back into the path in front of White Mule. Frank wheeled his mount to the right side of Dynamite. In mid-run, Dynamite wheeled and kicked, hit White Mule in the side hard enough there was an explosion of breath that made Frank think his mule would go down.
Dynamite pulled ahead.
White Mule was not so low now. He was even staggering a little as he ran.
“Easy, boy,” Frank said. “You can do it. You’re the best goddamn mule ever ran a road.”
White Mule began to run evenly again, or as even as a mule can run. He began to stretch out again, going low. Frank was surprised to see they were closing on Dynamite.
Frank looked back.
No one was in sight. Just a few twists of dust, a ripple of heat waves. It was White Mule and Dynamite, all the way.
As Frank and White Mule passed Dynamite, Frank noted Dynamite didn’t run with a hard-on anymore. Dynamite’s rider let the mule turn its head and snap at White Mule. Frank, without really thinking about it, slipped his foot from the saddle and kicked the mule in the jaw.
“Hey,” yelled Dynamite’s rider. “Stop that.”
“Hey, shitass,” Frank said. “You better watch that limb.”
Dynamite and his rider had let White Mule push them to the right side of the road, near the trees, and a low-hanging hickory limb was right in line with them. The rider ducked it by a half inch, losing only his cap.
Shouldn’t have told him, thought Frank. What he was hoping was to say something smart just as the limb caught the bastard. That would have made it choice, seeing the little axe-faced shit take it in the teeth. But he had outsmarted his ownself.
“Fuck,” Frank said.
Now they were thundering around a bend, and there were lots of people there, along both sides. There had been a spot of people here and there, along the way, but now they were everywhere.
Must be getting to the end of it, thought Frank.
Dynamite had lost a step for a moment, allowing White Mule to move ahead, but now he was closing again. Frank looked up. He could see that a long red ribbon was stretched across in front of them. It was almost the end.
Dynamite lit a fuse.
He came up hard and on the left, and began to pass. The axe-faced rider slapped out with the long bridle and caught Frank across the face.
“You goddamn turd,” Frank said, and slashed out with his own bridle, missing by six inches. Dynamite and Axe-Face pulled ahead.
Frank turned his attention back to the finish line. Thought: this is it. White Mule was any lower to the ground he’d have a belly full of gravel, stretched out any farther, he’d come apart. He’s gonna be second. And no prize.
“You done what you could,” Frank said, putting his mouth close to the bobbing head of the mule, rubbing the side of his neck with the tips of his fingers.
White Mule brought out the reinforcements. He was low and he was stretched, but now his legs were moving even faster, and for a long, strange moment, Frank thought the mule had sprung wings, like that horse he had seen on the front of the book so long ago. There didn’t feel like there was any ground beneath them.
Frank couldn’t believe it. Dynamite was falling behind, snorting and blowing, his body lathering up as if he were soaped.
White Mule leaped through the red ribbon a full three lengths ahead to win.
Frank let White Mule run past the watchers, on until he slowed and began to trot, and then walk. He let the mule go on like that for some time, then he gently pulled the reins and got out of the saddle. He walked the mule a while. Then he stopped and unbuttoned the belly band. He slid the saddle into the dirt. He pulled the bridle off of the mule’s head.
The mule turned and looked at him.
“You done your part,” Frank said, and swung the bridle gently against the mule’s ass. “Go on.”
White Mule sort of skipped forward and began running down the road, then turned into the trees. And was gone.
Frank walked all the way back to the beginning of the race, the viewers amazed he was without his mule.
But he was still the winner.
“You let him go?” Leroy said. “After all we went through, you let him go?”
“Yep,” Frank said.
Black Joe shook his head. “Could have run him again. Plowed him. Ate him.”
Frank took his prize money from the judges and side bet from Crone, paid Leroy his money, watched Black Joe follow Crone away from the race’s starting line, on out to Crone’s horse and wagon. Dynamite, his head down, was being led to the wagon by Axe-Face.
Frank knew what was coming. Black Joe had not been paid, and on top of that, he was ill tempered. As Frank watched, Black Joe hit Crone and knocked him flat. No one did anything.
Black man or not, you didn’t mess with Black Joe.
Black Joe took his money from Crone’s wallet, punched the axe-faced rider in the nose for the hell of it, and walked back in their direction.
Frank didn’t wait. He went over to where the hog lay on the grass. His front and back legs had been tied and a kid about thirteen was poking him with a stick. Frank slapped the kid in the back of the head, knocking his hat off. The kid bolted like a deer.
Frank got Dobbin and called Black Joe over. “Help me.”
Black Joe and Frank loaded the hog across the back of Dobbin as if he were a sack of potatoes. Heavy as the porker was, it was accomplished with some difficulty, the hog’s head hanging down on one side, his feet on the other. The hog seemed defeated. He hardly even squirmed.
“Misses that mule,” Black Joe said.
“You and me got our business done, Joe?” Frank asked. Black Joe nodded.
Frank took Dobbin’s reins and started leadin
g him away.
“Wait,” Leroy said.
Frank turned on him. “No. I’m through with you. You and me. We’re quits.”
“What?” Leroy said.
Frank pulled at the reins and kept walking. He glanced back once to see Leroy standing where they had last spoke, standing in the road looking at him, wearing the seed salesman’s hat.
Frank put the hog in the old hog pen at his place and fed him good. Then he ate and poured out all the liquor he had, and waited until dark. When it came he sat on a large rock out back of the house. The wind carried the urine smell of all those out-the-window pees to his nostrils. He kept his place.
The moon was near full that night and it had risen high above the world and its light was bright and silver. Even the old ugly place looked good under that light.
Frank sat there for a long time, finally dozed. He was awakened by the sound of wood cracking. He snapped his head up and looked out at the hog pen. The mule was there. He was kicking at the slats of the pen, trying to free his friend.
Frank got up and walked out there. The mule saw him, ran back a few paces, stared at him.
“Knew you’d show,” Frank said. “Just wanted to see you one more time. Today, buddy, you had wings.”
The mule turned its head and snorted.
Frank lifted the gate to the pen and the hog ran out. The hog stopped beside the mule and they both looked at Frank.
“It’s all right,” Frank said. “I ain’t gonna try and stop you.”
The mule dipped its nose to the hog’s snout and they pressed them together. Frank smiled. The mule and the hog wheeled suddenly, as if by agreed signal, and raced toward the rickety rail fence near the hill.
The mule, with one beautiful leap, jumped the fence, seemed pinned in the air for a long time, held there by the rays of the moon. The way the rays fell, for a strange short instant, it seemed as if he were sprouting gossamer wings.
The hog wiggled under the bottom rail and the two of them ran across the pasture, between the trees and out of sight. Frank didn’t have to go look to know that the mule had jumped the other side of the fence as well, that the hog had worked his way under. And that they were gone.