Smonk or Widow Town Part 5

The judge, meanwhile, was hiding in the cluttered back room of the town clerk's office stuffing a valise with confidential records in case he had to blackmail his way out of this brouhaha. The clerk, and Justice of the Peace Elmer Tate, and Hobbs the undertaker and a pa.s.sel of business-owners, all killed, were to be memorialized in a ceremony the following Monday, and the judge expected to be asked by their widows to say a few words about each man. He was in a slight panic because he didn't know any of them. He was always drunk on his stops here which had winnowed from bimonthly to once or twice a year. He usually pa.s.sed sentence without remembering from one case to the next what he'd said. Most of the time he couldn't even find the tiny office they provided him.

He looked up to see the bailiff watching him from the door. A Winchester rifle in one hand.

Oh, said the judge. He shut the bag and buckled it.

I don't give a good got-dern what yer stealing, the bailiff said. Such cares is for the living, which I no longer count myself among. Did ye want to see me before I left?

I did, yes. Are ye shot?

Naw. The bailiff raised his s.h.i.+rt and revealed the purple a.n.u.s of his wound. s...o...b..d a tad but it ain't the first time.

You might want to get that looked at, the judge said. Or the rest of us 'll stop counting ye among the living too.

The doc's dead. Shot thew his thoat, among other places. And I've had worse than this anyway. The pain 'll remind me of Smonk's treachery.

I could write ye a statement to similar effect. In the meantime, go on lower ye tunic. I get the picture. He opened a pocket of his valise and removed a flask. Cheers, he said and drank and dabbed his lips with a handkerchief and took a seat on one side of a small writing table and waited for the bailiff to roll a stool across and sit opposite him, laying his cap between them.

What's that in ye jaw? the judge asked. Hard candy?

Naw.

My ulcer's griping. A rock of candy 'll help sometimes. But that's neither here ner there because my ulcer ain't gone git no better until we do something about this Smonk dilemma. Cause now that you done shot them gun-killers instead of arresting em for questions, it's no way to link Smonk to em. Is it.

I reckon not.

You reckon right. Legally, anyhow. He cleared his throat. Now. I'm willing to take into account that you was protecting the town and won't file no charges of obstructing justice ner murder on ye.

Preciate it.

However. I'd like ye to listen real careful to a letter I got. He un-crinkled a piece of paper so oft-clutched in his sweaty palms it was thin as tissue. I'll skip the personal references and things I deem beyond ye and jest read the particulars. To save time. He cleared his throat again. To the attention of Judge et cetera et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Ah. Here. "It is of Urgency that You come preside in the E. O. Smonk Trial. No Town has ever suffered more than Ours bedeviled and beset upon as We have been by this Devil or Homunculus or What Ever He claims to be He lives several Miles outside Town in a large Manson He comes to Town Sat.u.r.day Nights and wrecks Havoc on our Citizens beating them with his Fist at Night when good People ought to be in Bed getting ready for their Day of Labor. In a bold Gesture We Citizens of Old Texas have brought criminal Charges against Mr. Smonk. Mr. Smonk claims He will attend the Trial only if a Judge of the State Circuit is brought to mediate the Matters. No One Man or Group of Men will go to his Land and arrest Him. He is armed with Weapons from the United States Army," et cetera, et cetera.

The part he didn't read further said: "Since We are on your Circuit, We find it curious that you have not visited our Village in more than one Year. What might the Governor think."

Signed, the judge finished, Justice of the Peace and Beat Supervisor and U.S. Postmaster M. Elmer Tate. Owner of the Tate Hotel.

He folded the letter away. After that alarming news, he said, I began to use my copious influence and asked around about our Mister Smonk, and listen what I found out. Jest listen. Apparently it's been years old E.O.'s done slipped around the law, hither and yon all over the G.o.dd.a.m.n country. Years I said. Rumors mostly. Accounts as far west as Nevada and as far south as Mexico north up to Dakota. Man that always gets what he wants. One way another. Threats of violence and actual violence. Lawyers when he can use em cheap, gunmen if he can't. Bribes, extortion, name it. Blackmail. No crime ner coercion small ner large enough, with no loyalty ner fealty to country ner king. But impossible to nab. What do ye think of that, bailiff?

What?

That he disappears at will and is gone for a year then turns up someplace else. That n.o.body knows where he come from ner what he is. He was likely born out west where the law's jest now setting its teeth. Such an abomination as Smonk is would of never been allowed to carry on so far here in the Confederacy. He paused and took a long drink and continued. The part I don't understand is that for some reason not given in this letter, he's chose my quadrant of the G.o.dd.a.m.n county for a base of operation in these his waning years.

The bailiff s.h.i.+fted in his chair.

You okay there? Please leave the room if ye need to pa.s.s gas.

I'm hunkydory. Can ye get to the point?

The G.o.dd.a.m.n point is we could of strang him up-fount him guilty, is what I'm saying-but instead this town of fools tries to lynch him unbeknownst to me and of course he escapes. Old Texas! What in the h.e.l.l was yall thinking anyway? Leaving all ye guns on a sideboard? Not a single G.o.dd.a.m.n dead-eye sniper hid anywheres?

The women had guns. They was hid.

The women.

We figured he'd of smelt something if we done anything different like. Out of the ordinary.

Well, he might of at that. What I hear he's had his share of experiences walking into and out of courthouse doors and he's got an extry sense about him. How come n.o.body informed me of the plot?

The bailiff looked out a window.

Well?

Don't n.o.body trust ye.

There's a fine hidy-do, ain't it. G.o.d almighty d.a.m.n. At least with Smonk a body knows where he stands.

The bailiff worked his jaw. Best take care not to sound like ye admire the b.a.s.t.a.r.d too much.

Who wouldn't admire the gall of a fellow brings a machine gun and a peck of hired killers to his own G.o.dd.a.m.n trial? Who wouldn't admire a fellow never leaves a trail of evidence? That's got this far in the world and galled so many folks and killed twice that number and cheated the rest, all without being blowed to itty bitty pieces or hanged by his G.o.dd.a.m.n neck or succ.u.mbing to one of the countless infirmities he seems to collect like a G.o.dd.a.m.n hobby, h.e.l.l yeah I admire the son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h.

The judge took his monocle off and polished it with his handkerchief. His eye looked small and weak without it, a puddle drying up. Well, he said, if you'll permit me, this next part's why I'm a G.o.dd.a.m.n circuit judge and you only a bailiff. See, what none of yall folks know out here in the wilderness between the rivers is that I'm a man of principle like none you've met. When I learned of this Smonk's existence, at great personal expense I sought him out to discern and divine his motives. With only the good of my const.i.tuents in mind and of course the interest of science and theology as well.

The meeting had occurred a week before, the judge remembered, down south in Mobile, where he'd met Smonk for supper in a dive overlooking the bay. Smonk had brought a big ball-headed n.i.g.g.e.r and a c.h.i.n.k wh.o.r.e in with him and several people got up and left the room.

I don't usually eat with n.i.g.g.e.rs, the judge had said, his black coat folded over his arm. c.h.i.n.ks neither.

Smonk b.u.mped the table sliding in. We don't usually eat with judges.

They'd had shrimp, which the judge despised. Bugs were what they looked like to him. He'd enjoyed the broiled potatoes, however, and speared them with his fork and added salt and chewed slowly as Smonk gobbled his shrimp-legs and sh.e.l.l and back veins in his beard-and rambled about the bridges he'd blown up in the War with the Spanish. How crucial the placement of the charge. How perfect the timing need be. How you always get your pay in advance. The ball-headed n.i.g.g.e.r never said a word, just ate quietly and with perfect manners which offended the judge. They were in a corner booth overlooking the water and shaded by a shutter propped open with a pool cue. Every door in the dive had a horseshoe nailed over it with the ends up.

His shoulders to the wall, Smonk smoked one cigar after another and ate a raw onion like an apple and had fits of coughing that shook the table. Once, he spilled a cup of salt then scooped a few grains and flicked them behind him. The judge had heard Smonk never left a building by any door except the one he'd entered. That he wouldn't touch a toadfrog. Wouldn't begin a trip on Sunday or bring anything black aboard a boat. Wouldn't carry a hoe, ax or shovel into a house. That he never stepped over a fis.h.i.+ng pole or under a ladder. Never swept beneath a bed or sang before breakfast or watched the full moon through green leaves. He made a point of getting his hair wet in the first May rain shower and believed that to take the rings off your finger would bring heart trouble and that a mouse-hole gnawed in your floor had to be patched by someone other than yourself. He believed it was bad luck to take cats into a new house. He believed that whatever you dreamed while sleeping beneath a new quilt would shortly come true, and that a dream of muddy water meant death.

His hands were abnormally large, though whether that was normal for his own peculiar brand of physiology or a symptom of one of his many ailments, the judge could only postulate. Smonk's fingertops were hairy and his breath hot and acidic, hanging in the air like burnt skunk, occasioning the judge to chew with his handkerchief over his mouth. Smonk had positioned the wh.o.r.e under the table to rub his feet and once in a while he looked down and said something to her.

Oh, yah, she answered. Mista Smonk weal, weal hod. Weal, weal big. From under the table her hands appeared, a foot apart.

Trained her good, didn't I? Smonk said grinning to the n.i.g.g.e.r but the n.i.g.g.e.r didn't grin back or otherwise commit. Nor did he lower his eyes to the judge's satisfaction when the judge stared at him, but this seemed a prudent time to set one's sense of propriety aside for the greater good, so instead of having the impertinent fellow hanged, the judge had let it go for that day and turned to study Smonk's features. In profile E.O.'s nose and mouth extended farther than your normal white Christian's, an African feature which might locate some n.i.g.g.e.r in his past. And his eye, the one of use, was narrow, like a c.h.i.n.k's. h.e.l.l, wondered the judge, am I even dealing with a white man at all? Smonk had parched skin the color and texture of an ancient saddle and matted red hair tied at his neck, a cascade of beard graying down his chest but red around the lips like a consumptive's. There's your coughing. It was impossible to say how old he was. Might be fifty, might be eighty. Could of been handsome too in his young days, but now with nicks and sores and carbuncles and liver spots, et cetera, and that purple scar the size of a G.o.dd.a.m.n dirtdobber nest going up his neck behind his ear, well h.e.l.l, it looked like any day could end his journey of years.

Smonk had sensed this inspection and for a moment locked his eye-as clairvoyant and intent as a wolf's, gazing at snow with blood on it-with the judge's.

The judge looked away.

You want ye shrimps, fellow? Smonk asked.

Naw. The judge swallowed. I don't eat bugs.

Don't eat bugs.

Weal, weal, weal hod.

Little more was said. After Smonk waited for the judge to pay, they'd walked down a narrow flight of stairs and through a back alley past mounds of rotting sh.e.l.lfish and along the tracks to the rail station where three men were loading a buckboard wagon. Smonk shooed them away and offered the judge the sum of five hundred dollars in a cigar box for a verdict against the town of Old Texas. The judge removed his monocle and took the box and placed it under his arm. Smonk put his cigar in his teeth and rolled back a green tarp in the wagon and what the judge beheld caused him to drop the box.

Is that a G.o.dd.a.m.n Gatling gun?

h.e.l.l naw, Smonk said. I got dirt on a general up in Was.h.i.+ngton. This here is Mister Hiram Maxim's machine gun, the newest model. Makes a army Gat look like a G.o.dd.a.m.n flintlock.

Now, one week and one ma.s.sacre later, the judge sat across from the bailiff and stuffed his handkerchief in the breast pocket of his coat and wished he had a rock of hard candy. From outside he heard a lady wailing.

Mic-Bailiff, he said, taking another swig, don't trouble to thank me for my legal or scientific pursuits regarding Smonk. He rose and shut the window. On the sill outside was a parched white splat of birds.h.i.+t. A monarch b.u.t.terfly flittered down and landed there, then fluttered on. Thought the s.h.i.+t was a G.o.dd.a.m.n flower. The judge smiled. It's been my pleasure and duty, he said, turning, to serve my fellow citizens, even unto the risk of my own life yea soul.

I ain't a bailiff no more. Didn't I say that?

The judge began to search his pockets ironically. Did ye file a letter of resignation in triplicate? If not yer still in the town's employ and I can't in good conscience accept a resignation now. In this current crisis. In other words, you the law.

What was they? asked the bailiff.

What was what.

Smonk's motives. Which ye set out to discern and divine.

Ah. The judge looked up and to the left and composed his thoughts. Wretched, he said. There's his motives, crystallized into one apt term. But what I'm trying to get at here is that with the justice of the peace et cetera et cetera murdered, the time's done arrived to circ.u.mvent the natural course of law.

You ain't got to go far to convince me, said the bailiff. Smonk kidnapped my youngun during his escape, if ye ain't heard. Or killed him one. If you'd of asked me first off, I'd of told ye Smonk's days is numbered fewer than the fingers on my hand and I'd of been gone.

Excellent. But ye gone need help. Man be a fool to take on E. O. Smonk without a G.o.dd.a.m.n army, jest about. I'm gone wire the governor post haste, but in the meantime is it anybody else left? Yall got to go after him now, this instant. Fore he disappears.

Holding the table for support, the bailiff stood to his feet. You dreaming if ye think he's gone disappear this time. If ye think this is done. You ain't the only one studied him, Yer Honor. I had my dark a.s.sociations with ole Smonk too, matters not to speak of now. But in his mind, ye see, we attacked him. Now if we don't finish the job he's gone come back tomorrow or the next day with something bigger than that machine gun and burn Old Texas to the ground, or worse. This ain't over, is what I'm saying. It's jest begun.

G.o.d d.a.m.n, said the judge. He sat looking perplexed. How in the h.e.l.l do ye account for him?

I don't. They say when he come out his momma's wound he caught his foot on something in her guts and s.n.a.t.c.hed it loose. Say he weighed more than fourteen pounds. Say his eyes was open when the n.i.g.g.e.r midwife peeled back the caul and he sucked and gnawed on his momma's t.i.t even after she'd bled to death and started to cool and he never would of stopped eating if the midwife hadn't prized her dern thumb in to break the seal. You know what else?

What?

They say he was born with teeth. Say the midwife died from the ray bees.

G.o.d d.a.m.n, said the judge.

The bailiff put on his cap. It's some things in the world ye jest got to take for what they is. On they own terms. He took up his rifle. It's one other fellow wasn't numbered among the dead, I heard. Blacksmith down the way. I reckon me and him's the mob.

Well. If it's anything yall need, charge the town for it.

I might need a few more guns.

Fine.

And a hoss.

Whatever. The important thing is to catch him and kill him and mail me his G.o.dd.a.m.n gla.s.s eye, which I claim for a souvenir.

The bailiff moved his jaw. I best git on.

Do that. The judge raised his flask in a farewell toast. He had no intention of wiring the governor or anybody else. This backward secluded town had designed its own doom and could burn forgotten to the ground as far as he cared. And as for the bailiff, closing the door behind him, well, the judge expected never to see the poor idiot alive again.

Cheers, he told the room.

Sucking Smonk's eye, McKissick limped out into the heat. For a moment he leaned against a column until a spell of nausea pa.s.sed, then he walked faster, hand clamped to his wound. He went to the doctor's and the doctor's widow gave him some bandages and lamp oil and he made a poultice. Then he limped along the road to the opposite end of town to the blacksmith shed where he found Gates, a filthy man in his sixties, hammering coffin handles on an anvil. Four covered bodies laid out on various stacks of wood. He'd been staring into his fire and had difficulty seeing who it was.

Who's that? Will the bailiff?

I was once, said he. Who the h.e.l.l are you? A blacksmith, or-he indicated the bodies-the d.a.m.n undertaker?

Blacksmith. By G.o.d. My talent's about the only thing he ain't took from me. But since old Hobbs was shot, we all jest doing our own setting by. He nodded at the bailiff's side. Catch one?

Naw. Jobbed me with his sword.

The smith drank from a tin cup and then resumed his hammering. Don't touch them handles yonder. They still hot.

I'm going after him, McKissick said between hammerfalls. He took my boy. The judge is conscripted me.

Gates used a pair of tongs to turn the coffin handle which glowed orange and went back to whacking it on his anvil. Luck to ye.

McKissick limped to the corner of the shed and pulled back the sheet from a corpse and winced at the face stained in blood, much of the head mown away. Who's these fellows?

The hammering stopped. That one was Lurleen.

Dern, the bailiff said. Sorry. He c.o.c.ked his head for a different angle.

Them others is my stepdaughters. Itina there and Clena and that one cut in half yonder's Revina. I still ain't found her legs though them toes on the salt lick there's probably hers. They long enough.

Dern. McKissick studied Gates's dead wife. How come she's wearing men's duds?

All of em is. So they could go see inside the courtroom when Smonk got ambushed. They hadn't ever saw such a show. We put they hair up under they hats and wrapped cloth around they knockers to flatten em. They was a family of big-bosomed girls, if ye remember.

McKissick did. The stepdaughters who'd lay with any man could muster a hard-on. Their mother who wasn't a whole h.e.l.l of a lot older than her oldest daughter but a lot prettier. It was common knowledge around town that she'd had congress with Smonk.

Look close, the smith said, sipping from his cup. You can still see where we drawed mustaches on her lip with ash. We was laughing so hard. Them younguns started cutting up. Scratching they make-believe b.a.l.l.s and pretending to hold giant p.e.c.k.e.rs and take a p.i.s.s. Itina went over to Revina and humped on her. We was all drunk.

My condolences. On the whole brood.

Thank ye. Mine on ye boy.

Hold off on condoling him, if ye don't mind.

Sorry. Didn't go to jinx ye.

McKissick picked up a coffin handle from where it lay cooling on a block and threw it down.

Hot, ain't it, Gates said. I told ye.