Horrible Harvest

Douglas, he’d taken a hard turn to the Lord. Gladys had done yeoman’s work to coax the sour and fire out of him. I hated the holy hell out the fella he used to be, but I tell you true, hanging out with a man turnt extra Christian is ‘bout as relaxing as sitting with a rattle snake. You never know when that sumbitch is going strike out with a declaration you’re going against Jesus by doing this thing and that. He give me a correction on one thing and then another ‘fore I give him my own correction. Shut the hell up about the Bible. I read it long ago, and far as I was concerned, it was missing an eleventh commandment. Though shalt not prattle on endlessly about the bullshit in this here book because don’t nobody give a goddamn. Keep it to your ownself.

Once we hit Jackson, I was fit for a drink. I had my pipe and my medicinals to stuff in it, but sometimes you just need the good burn of whisky to settle your nerves. Douglas had got on my last, so I needed a drink to calm myself.

He’d found temperance, and he’d also found the need to judge me for not inviting sobriety into my own life.

“Life has happier moments with a clear head and clean living.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Well, my heads clear now, and I’m fucking miserable listening to you go on and on about clean living.”

“You’ve too much Tennyson in you, little brother.”

“Cure for that is to chase it away with more drink and less talk.”

“I’m full of the Lord, and I’m duty-bound to share the Word.”

I pulled a heavy fold of cash from my pocket and handed him enough money to buy Jackson entire. “Find the nearest general store. Buy sundries for the train.”

“What kind of sundries.”

“Jerky, sweets, cigars – Whatever will occupy that mouth of yours to keep it from yapping.”

He grinned. “How ‘bout I buy you a pocket Bible to guide you to better ways and brighter days.”

“Douglas, I’m telling you right now if you come back with a Bible, I’ma knock you out cold again, tie you to a hitching post and leave off for the Dakotas without you.”

He turnt away from the saloon we were approaching and said, “I’ll make a believer out of you soon enough, little brother. And do you know when soon enough is?”

“I don’t give a good goddamn.”

“Soon enough is whenever the Lord says. You see how that works. I ain’t worried a lick about you ‘cause that’s how the Lord does his business. On his own time, in his own way.”

“Good for the Lord,” I said, stepping inside the saloon.

The drinking warehouse was a collection of thieves, all around reprobates and loose women. My people. My church.

I wasn’t three steps inside ‘fore the barkeep asked me, “Beer or whisky?”

“A good deal of both,” I said.

By the time I reached the bar, he’d poured the beer and was headed for a bottle of liquor setting on the counter three drunks down the way.

When he returned, he set a glass in front of me and give me a generous pour.

“First round comes without question or introduction. Everybody’s nobody far as I’m concerned. And nobody deserves a good stiff drink,” he said with a smile.

“Whatever you say. How much?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“How you answer my questions hereafter. It defines you. Makes you a somebody then, and this bar, it ain’t for everybody. Some somebody’s pay this amount, and other somebody’s pay another amount, and then there are still other somebody’s who are asked to leave.”

“Your little speech there needs some rewrites. It’s confusing as hell. Go on then. Ask your questions.”

“You fight in the war?”

“Didn’t everybody?”

“Every poor bastard with no more than a nickel to his name, sure.”

“I did,” I said after taking a plentiful draw from my whisky.

“Rebel or bluebelly?”

I give his question some thought. “Every poor bastard in a war’s the same, ain’t they?”

“How do you mean?”

“We’re all fighting and dying so a rich man can keep his money, and senators and kings can keep their gavels and thrones.”

He shrugged. “S’pose there’s something to that, but that ain’t what I’m getting at.”

“Then what is it you’re getting at?”

“You for free niggers or not?”

I took a sip from my mug of beer. “I’m for drinking in peace, is what I’m for.”

“That answer tells me you’re Yankee. This establishment ain’t for you.”

“Mister, I had a long haul ‘fore I walked into this saloon, and I ain’t talking about the two days it took me to get here. I’m talking about the travels I’ve had since the day I popped out my momma’s chute. I’ma tell you plain. A place like this, one full of dumbass crackers, that smells of hard drink and stale piss, it’s for me. You know why?”

“I said it ain’t for you – ”

“I asked you a question. Do you know why this place is for me?”

“I said it ain’t – ”

I unholstered my Gunnison and placed it on the bar. “Ask me.”

His mouth went dry. “What is it – I mean why?”

“I ain’t clear on what you’re asking me.”

“What do you mean? You said to ask you.”

“Ask me what?”

“Why – You said this place is for you. I’m to ask you why? You said.”

“Oh, that.” I drank the rest of my whisky. “Another.”

He poured out another whisky with a shaky hand. “Ain’t you gonna say?”

“Say what?”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“This place – Why is it for you?”

“Jesus, you’re a nosy sumbitch.”

“You said to ask.”

I gulped from the fresh pour ‘fore saying, “Because I say so, that’s why.”

“Fine. Okay. There ain’t no cause to keep your gun out.”

“I got cause. Ask me why.”

The door to the saloon swung open and in walked a man the turnt every head in his direction. Fable Jack Tatum.