Sunset and Sawdust

  “He’s with them,” Hillbilly said. “Ain’t nobody around here gonna help them. They got to have him with them. If they’re at Clyde’s, he’ll be there too. They got to be at Clyde’s, or Marilyn’s, Sunset’s mother-in-law, and I don’t think they’d go there. Too obvious, too easy. But Clyde’s, that would be the place.”

  “That’s good,” said Two. “And the mother-in-law?”

  “I don’t know she’s a problem,” Hillbilly said.

  The Other Two said, “We’ll consider on that. I’ll tell Brother McBride, and he’ll consider on it. Hillbilly, you direct us. And Plug, drive us, please.”

  “I ought to have to do something important,” Goose said. “Good as you been to me, miss. Good as Lee’s been.”

  “What I want you to do,” Sunset said, “is help Clyde out. Me and Daddy, we’re going over to Zendo’s, see how it’s going with Bull. I’ve had an idea I think might be good.”

  “I just want to help,” Goose said.

  “I know, and thanks for asking. Stay with Clyde and Karen and Ben, watch old Henry here and the tent. That’s your job and it’s important.”

  They were standing outside the tent, near the post where Henry was chained, sitting in his chair in the moonlight.

  A plate he had eaten off of was on the ground and Ben was licking it.

  “Can’t you make this dog go on?” Henry said. “He peed on the post a while ago. I don’t like having him around. He keeps sniffing me.”

  “If I wanted to do something about him, guess I could,” Sunset said.

  Lee came out of the tent. Sunset and Lee got in Sunset’s car. Lee said, “Sure we should leave them here?”

  “No one knows about this place, not even people that know Clyde. He doesn’t have visitors. It’s a good idea, being here.”

  “Living under a tarp, I can see that he doesn’t have visitors,” Lee said.

  “Actually,” Sunset said, “it’s nicer than the house he burned down. And now, there’s the tent.”

  “That tent is getting pretty crowded,” Lee said. “When this is over, back on your land, we ought to build a house, help Clyde build one here.”

  “We’ll see,” Sunset said.

  After they hit the main road the lights were full of grasshoppers and a tan Plymouth passing them.

  “Slow here,” Hillbilly said. “It ain’t so easy to see the place in the dark. Right there. Turn there. Road ends at his place.”

  “How far?” Two asked.

  “Not real far,” Hillbilly said. “A piece. But not far.”

  “Go down a ways, pull over and park,” said Two. “We’ll walk down and see them.”

  “We’ll take what God needs,” the Other Two said.

  Plug took the turn and the road was dusty and the dust rose up as they went, like a heavy mist, and grasshoppers jumped out of it, splattered against the windshield, which was already greasy with them. Plug drove a short piece, pulled in where there was a stretch of clearing, turned off the lights and parked.

  Hillbilly and Two had twelve-gauge pumps. Plug had a .45 revolver. Two said, “We’ll say what and when and how.”

  “Yeah,” Hillbilly said, “you fellas are the boss.”

  “You say we, you mean, you, right?” Plug said.

  “I mean the both of us,” Two said.

  Plug nodded. “All right. I see that—I think.”

  They got out of the car, walked down the road a ways, then Two stopped them.

  “We’ll go ahead,” Two said. “You come down the road walking. When you hear us cut down, you come running.”

  “Why don’t we just sneak up on them?” Plug said.

  Two turned his head slowly. He took off his bowler and shook out the sweat. The horseshoe scar looked raw in the moonlight. “We’ll sneak.”

  “We as in . . . you two?” Plug asked.

  “Correct,” the Other Two said. “Understand?”

  “Sure,” Plug said.

  Two nodded, went down the road quickly, then went into the woods and was gone.

  Plug said, “I say we go back to the car, drive away and keep driving.”

  “There’s lots of money in this,” Hillbilly said.

  “Wasn’t saying there wasn’t money in it. I’m saying I don’t care anymore. Tootie was supposed to get money too, wasn’t he? He ain’t getting no money now. So what’s money to him?”

  “Nothing to him,” Hillbilly said, “but maybe it’s more for us. We could ask McBride about Tootie’s share. We could maybe split it.”

  Plug looked at the dirt road. “Don’t know I want to kill no woman. Don’t know I want to kill nobody. Tootie . . . dying like that, that was bad enough. I once shot a deer and got sick.”

  “You can’t think of them as people. Got to think of them as targets. That’s the way you do it, Plug.”

  “You was her friend,” Plug said.

  “I don’t feel any different about her now than I did before. I don’t care for her daddy, or Clyde, cause of what they done, but her, I don’t feel any different. It hasn’t got anything to do with the way you feel.”

  “The hell it doesn’t.”

  “You going in, or not?”

  About that time they heard a shotgun blast, and Hillbilly said, “That’s Two. Means it’s time for us.”

  Hillbilly started trotting down the road, and Plug, after a moment’s hesitation, went after him.

  Way it went down was Two came up on the left side of Clyde’s place, came through the woods with his shotgun ready, quiet as a dead mouse in a cotton ball, moving toe heel, and when he got where he could see Henry chained to the post, he thought about what McBride had said. He said, “Brother, Henry ain’t no good to us. He’s got too big a mouth, and he ain’t ever gonna be happy having a nigger get part of it. Henry don’t need the money he’s supposed to get. Me and you, we do. Henry, he’s played his string and he’s just another soul for you to gather.”

  Two went out of the woods and started walking toward Henry. Henry looked up, smiled, said softly, “Good to see you, Two.”

  “Good to see you,” Two said, lifted the shotgun and fired, knocked Henry out of his chair, drove him back against the post.

  Two pumped up another load as Ben came running, growling. He shot Ben and Ben’s legs went out from under him. Ben skidded in the dirt, yelped and fell, his side puffing up and down in big motions.

  Inside the tent, the first shot caused Clyde to poke his head out, then pull it back in as the second shot was fired and Ben went down. Clyde wasn’t near a gun when the shots went off, and when he pulled his head back in, he grabbed his shotgun. When he looked back out the colored assassin was much closer, putting the finishing touches on Henry, shooting him a second time in the body, leaning over him, putting his face close to Henry’s face. Clyde was about to shoot, looked up, saw trotting down the dusty road Hillbilly and Plug, Hillbilly with a shotgun, Plug with pistol drawn, and he knew then how they had found them.

  “Out the back,” Clyde said, and pushed Goose, who was trying to come forward with one of Clyde’s pistols, toward Karen, who was already at the back of the tent.

  Clyde pulled out his clasp knife and flipped it open. Just before Two lifted the front tent flap, he cut the back of the tent open and they all three went out and started running through the woods, grasshoppers exploding all around them with a beat of wings. Behind them they could hear running, and when Clyde looked over his shoulder he saw the big colored man in the bowler was gaining, running fast for a big man, so smooth it was like he was part of the night itself.

  “Go left,” Clyde said, knowing a trail was coming up. “Go left.”

  And Karen did. It was a narrow trail through the woods and the moonlight was not as bright there. Karen was wearing a dress and blackberry vines tore at it and Clyde could hear it rip and hear her grunt as the blackberry thorns tore her flesh.

  Goose fell behind Clyde as they ran, and Clyde turned to look for him.

  Goose wasn’t there. br />
  Goose thought: Sunset told me to watch after things, and I ain’t done it. I just turned and ran. We all turned and ran.

  And with the big pistol hanging heavy in his hand, Goose started running back toward Two, thinking: I will surprise him. I will shoot his ass before he realizes I’m on him.

  And just as Goose was turning the trail, lifting his pistol, ready to surprise Two, the big colored man surprised him by being there suddenly, as if he had sprung up from the ground like a giant grasshopper.

  And Goose stopped and pointed the pistol with both hands, pulled the trigger, thought: How can I miss? I’m close. But he did miss.

  Two didn’t. The blast lifted up Goose and knocked him back and slapped him to the ground. Goose tried to lift the pistol, but found he wasn’t holding it anymore. He wasn’t holding anything anymore. In fact, the shot had cut off his right thumb and some of his fingers and had gone on and hit him in the stomach. He didn’t feel pain. He just felt hot and stunned and breathless.

  Now the big man in the bowler was standing over him. He dropped to his knees beside Goose. The man took off the bowler and put it on the ground. “You’re real fresh, son,” he said. “Real fresh.”

  “That’s the way we like them,” said the Other Two.

  Goose tried to figure that, the two voices, the one man, but he couldn’t, and he couldn’t think of anything but what an idiot he had been, running back like that, and he was dying now, and he knew it, and he hadn’t never had any pussy or done much of anything but work hard, and it was all over now, and then the man had his mouth over Goose’s mouth, sucking, and Goose tried to fight but his hands wouldn’t lift and he tried to bite, but he couldn’t have chewed snow, weak as he was, and he didn’t feel hot anymore, he felt cold, and now he felt pain, but that didn’t last, cause a moment later, he didn’t feel anything.

  Clyde wanted to go back, started to, but he had Karen to protect, and Goose, maybe he’d taken another trail, though Clyde couldn’t think of one, knowing these woods like he did, but he kept running after Karen.

  The trail came to an end. They stood on the bank of the creek, and here the bank was high up with lots of trees growing out from it, their roots exposed, and Clyde grabbed Karen’s arm, said, “I’m going to lower you down.”

  She took his hand and he leaned out and lifted her as if she were a doll, eased her over the edge, and lowered her, said, “Take hold of that limb, and swing under there. There’s a place.”

  It was a washout under the roots, and from where they had stood on the bank, you couldn’t see it. It was pretty big, and as Clyde lowered her down she got hold of one of the roots, let go of his hand and swung herself out of view. He thought: Hope there ain’t no moccasins in there.

  When she was out of sight, Clyde bent down close to the bank, called softly, “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” Karen said.

  “I’m handing the shotgun down. Be careful. Reach out and take it. I’ll swing it on my belt.”

  “Okay,” Karen said.

  Clyde took off his belt, fastened it around the stock of the shotgun, bent down close again, swung it out and back into the hole. Karen grabbed it and he let go of the belt.

  He got hold of a root and swung out and down, got hold of another, lowered himself so he could swing inside the wash with Karen. He had to bend his head slightly to fit, but it was the way he remembered. One time he had gone fishing and had waded out in the creek to get his line untangled, and he had seen the wash. It was almost half as tall as a man and very wide and pretty deep. The only difference now was that the creek had been high a few times and it had washed it out even more.

  When he felt Karen close to him, squatting, leaning against him, he reached in his pocket, got a matchbox, took a match out and struck it.

  A beaver was at the far side of the indention, and it hissed at them and bared its teeth. It looked like a big hairy rat there in the light of the wavering match.

  Karen huddled closer to him.

  “Hold this match,” Clyde said, took the shotgun and used it to poke at the beaver until it sprang past them, made Karen squeak slightly, leaped into the water and swam away.

  The match went out.

  “Be quiet now,” Clyde said. “Up against the back of the wash, and be quiet.”

  “I’m scared,” Karen said.

  “Then we’re scared together.”

  “Goose?”

  “We can’t think about that now. Be quiet, I said.”

  They eased back until they were as far as they could go, and quit squatting, sat down, waiting, listening.

  At the front of the trail Clyde and Karen had taken, Two could see blackberry vines had been ripped and disturbed where they had once grown tight on either side of the trail.

  As he stood there looking, Hillbilly and Plug came up, Plug pushing his revolver into its holster.

  “You’re slow,” Two said.

  “You done killed everybody?” Plug said. “We seen that boy. He wasn’t nothing but a kid.”

  “Silence,” the Other Two said. “They went this way.”

  “Sunset?” Hillbilly asked.

  “A big man and a girl,” Two said.

  “Probably Clyde and Karen,” Hillbilly said.

  “Henry, you shot him too,” Plug said. “I thought we just come to get him.”

  “We got him all right,” the Other Two said.

  “You got him, and Tootie. What’s to keep you from getting us?” Plug asked. “You might want to suck our faces too. Did you suck the dog?”

  “No soul,” Two said. “God didn’t give animals souls.”

  “What about you?” Plug asked. “You got one?”

  Two grabbed Plug by the shirt and shoved him back. Plug dropped his hand to his gun, but didn’t pull it. He said, “All right. All right.”

  “No more,” Two said. “Not a word.”

  Plug nodded.

  Two started trotting down the trail, Hillbilly and Plug behind him.

  Clyde and Karen sat in the wash and listened to an owl hoot and the creek water run. They saw a coon cross in the moonlight, splashing water, clambering to the other bank, melting into the brush and trees. Grasshoppers were rattling and rustling through the brush and they could see hundreds of dead ones in the water, washing by.

  After a while they heard the crunching of leaves and such and the sound of running feet coming nearer. Karen tensed and grabbed hold of Clyde. Clyde sat with his legs crossed, the shotgun lying across one thigh, listening. It was hot in the wash and sweat ran down his face and stuck to the inside of his shirt, and he could feel dampness from Karen and he could smell something too. Fear.

  The running stopped above them and there was the sound of someone breathing heavy. Clyde guessed Plug. Thought: They stopped right here? Why? They see some sign?

  No. No sign. These guys, they wouldn’t know sign.

  Or would they?

  Could they read where they left the trail, dropped over the side into the creek?

  And if they could, would they know there was a wash here? Maybe they’d come down into the creek, and from here, he would have a shot.

  Still, there were three of them. And he had the girl.

  But they could have stopped because the trail widened here, there was room to spread out, take a breather. Maybe—

  “There ain’t no use,” he heard Hillbilly say. “Clyde, he knows these woods good as a goddamn squirrel.”

  Then Clyde heard someone, the big colored man, he figured, though he sounded very educated, very smooth, a Yankee colored, say, “Brother McBride isn’t going to be happy.”

  “We should go back and wait on them,” another voice said, and Clyde didn’t know who it was. He didn’t sound colored or Southern either. Was there a fourth person? Someone he hadn’t seen?

  “No,” said the first voice, the one he thought must be the colored man. “They won’t come back. They won’t do that.”

  Then there was movement, followed by sile
nce, and they sat for a long time listening to nothing. Then there was an explosion. So loud Karen made a little yip.

  She put her hand over her mouth, bent double. Clyde reached out and patted her gently on the shoulders.

  Clyde found that he was breathing heavy. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose.

  Easy, now, he told himself.

  Easy, now. It didn’t sound that close. It was just loud. It might have been a gun, but it didn’t sound like one. No. It wasn’t a gun. The more he thought on it, the more certain he was it wasn’t a gun.

  But what was it?

  They waited about five more minutes, Clyde counting out what he thought was five minutes in his head.

  Clyde thought: No, don’t go up there. That could be just what they’re waiting for. Us to show our faces. Maybe that’s what they’re doing. Lying in wait.

  But the explosion? What was that?

  Clyde rested the shotgun across his knees, wiped his damp hands on his shirt. He used his hand to wipe sweat from his eyes, dried his hands on his shirtfront again.

  They waited. Twenty minutes or so went by. Again, Clyde figuring it in his head, deciding maybe twenty or so was long enough.

  Clyde leaned over and put his mouth over Karen’s ear.

  “You take the shotgun. I’m going to slip out and into the creek. Go up a ways.”

  “No,” Karen said.

  “I’m going to go up a ways and cut back, see if anyone is up there. If not, I’m going to call down to you. If I don’t call, if anyone shows their face over the edge, starts to come into the wash, you shoot to kill.”

  “Clyde.”

  “Keep it soft,” he said.

  Karen lowered her voice again. “Just wait. I’m scared. Just wait.”

  “We’ll wait a while longer, but just a while,” he said.

  They did wait, and it was a long wait, and finally Clyde slipped out of the wash and dangled off the roots and down into the water. He was quiet about it, but still the water splashed as he waded through it, the dead grasshoppers washing along as he waded. He took to the bank on the side the wash was on, climbed up and flipped open his knife.

  He was down some distance from the wash, and he could see along the moonlit trail, could see where they had been standing, but they weren’t there anymore. He crept down that way, and through a gap in the trees, high up, he could see a lick of brightness as if the sun had risen early and blown up.