Horrible Harvest

Undeserved favor. That’s what I come to understand the grace of God to be, and it’s why I lean towards the whole matter of God and religion and the like to be complete and utter bullshit. A man schemes and lies and beats the less fortunate with words and weapon, and he lives in fine favor. God give that sumbitch grace. He earned his treasure by fear and thieving, but I’ll be damned if deserved a fat mistress penny of it. Meanwhile, the folks he stole from suffer all the dusks and dawns they live on this planet, the time between, too. None of it makes a lick of sense to me now, nor when I was kid toiling on Daddy’s rice farm.

The morning after Daddy give us instruction on how we was to raid Galtville, God and his grace weighed heavy on my mind. The more I give a bent back to the paddies with the sound of the little squealing runt running through my memories, the less weight I give such an idea. If it was a real and true thing, then it was just a trick of the devil. Undeserved favor is near the most evil thing I could imagine in this world of endless want and need.

The advance man arrived at the haze of sunrise. He didn’t have no get-up in his go. His spotted horse broke the tree line in an easy ramble. Like they was let loose from a breath from the woods. The pony passed the lot of us at the edge of the patty with nothing but a nod for a greeting from the rider. Douglas scowled back. Charles focused on the slush before him, and I watched the advance man with a wonder I can’t explain. His size and demeanor give the notion that he was a knight from olden times. I’d read many a-book that described the likes of Mr. Stockton. It was like he’d rode right off them pages, leaving his joust and armor behind.

Daddy come out the barn with a pistol in his britches. It was a showpiece for him. To give rattle to the advance man.  

The knight rode by him without a word nor shutter.

“You can tell your boss it’ll get done tonight.”

Not a word back nor break in the horse’s stride.

They rambled on to a paddy at the back of the property where Tate didn’t find no favor in his labors.

Again, no words was spoke. Tate simply handed up his leatherbound journal, and Mr. Stockton stuffed it in his saddlebag before cajoling his mount to loop around and retrace its waddle back to the woods. When he come to Daddy, he didn’t even look down.

“You hear me, Mr. advance man. It’ll get done tonight.”

“Got no idea what you’re talking about.” The horse give a snort as if to say Daddy annoyed the piss out of him.

“You’ll know tomorrow. That’s for damn sure.”

Horse and rider kept going. When they reached the tangle of the woods, it was as if they was breathed back in by the towering hemlocks and squat of ferns and thorny brush.

We toiled on. Backs breaking all the while. When lunch come, Daddy told Momma to give us double. We ‘et it up good and fast. Then we was rushed to find a piss or shit if needed. When none of us found need, Daddy and we boys made our way back to the barn where Tate had readied our two rigs for us, one loaded with the crate of guns and dynamite. Douglas and Charles climbed up into the bench of the rig at the rear, and I set down next to Daddy. If undeserved favor was God’s Grace, I wouldn’t have no piece of it on the ride to Galtville.