We’d gone about half a mile when we began to hear a terrible shrieking up ahead. There was no pause to it, and as we drew closer, Witliff said, “Them’s mules.” I’d been told Witliff was at Angola for burning down his ex-wife’s house while she and her new husband were in it. They’d both survived but the story was they would’ve been better off if they hadn’t.
The teamster, Wakefield, said mules was what it was. He said he and Musial, the other driver, were on their way back from delivering a load of wood to camp and were turning onto the levee road when Musial took his wagon a little too wide and the shoulder gave way. The wagon went over on its side and slid down the levee, dragging the mules with it, then slammed into the muddy bottom of the slope and overturned completely. The mules were tangled up in the harness and screaming with the pain of God knew how many broken legs. Wakefield had gone down and found that Musial was still breathing, but he was unconscious and his legs were pinned under the wagon. There’d been nothing he could do but come get help.
“I don’t know if six’ll be enough to shove that heavy sonofabitch thing off him,” Wakefield said.
When we got to where the wagon had gone off the road, the screaming of the mules was the worst sound I’d ever heard. They were trying to get up, but even if they hadn’t been twisted up in the traces, they never could’ve stood on those legs that were showing broken bone through bloody hide. Musial was on his back with his eyes closed, his legs under the capsized wagon.
“Christ’s sake, man,” Garrison said. “Put them jugheads out of their misery.”
“Shut up, Red,” the Harlins guard said. He was already cocking his carbine and taking aim. He shot one of the mules in the head and the animal went into a greater frenzy of lunging and shrieking.
“Shit,” Harlins said.
If the guards back at the riverbend heard the gunfire they wouldn’t have thought anything of it—the gun bosses were always shooting snakes or crows or at turtles in the river or hawks flying overhead.
Harlins levered another round and shot the mule again and it jerked and bellowed and both of the animals were even more panicked now and thrashing with their broken legs like they were insane.
“Christ’s sake,” Garrison muttered with heavy disgust.
Then Ogg shot the mule and it fell still.
“About time,” Garrison said.
“I told you shut your damn mouth,” Harlins said. He shot the other mule and didn’t kill it either. The veins stood out on his forehead. Then he and Ogg fired at the same time and the mule slumped dead and the following silence was a relief.
“I guess we know whose bullet did the job,” Garrison said.
Harlins jabbed him in the face with the carbine butt and Garrison went backpedaling off the end of the wagon.
“Hey, man!” Yates said, and took a step toward Harlins.
Harlins chambered a round and leveled the carbine at him from the hip. Yates half-raised his hands and the rest of us hustled to the other side of the wagon.
“All right, Connie—all right now,” Ogg said to Harlins the way you’d talk to a growling dog. “You shut up that redhead good. Let’s see to the teamster now, all right?”
Harlins eased down the hammer of the carbine and said, “Asses off,” and we all got down from the wagon. Garrison was back on his feet and trying to stem the blood running from his broken nose. He glared at Harlins, who didn’t even look at him.
We scrabbled down the levee and checked Musial. He was still alive and still unconscious. But the wagon was lying at an angle that wouldn’t allow for using the mules and ropes to drag it off him from up on the road without crushing him under it. And even if we could get the mules down to the bank without either one breaking a leg, we weren’t sure they could make it back up the muddy slope again. There was nothing to do but unhitch the dead animals and try heaving together. But the wagon was so heavy and so fast in the mud that we could barely budge it, never mind lift it enough for Wakefield to pull Musial out from under.
“We could use you up here,” Garrison said to Wakefield. His voice had gone deeply nasal and his eyes were bloodshot and already showing dark rings. He licked at the blood still oozing from his swollen nose.
“Do it,” Ogg told Wakefield. “I’ll grab onto Musial.”
Wakefield set himself with the rest of us along the wagonside and Ogg handed his carbine to Harlins and squatted down and took hold of Musial under the arms.
“All right,” Garrison said. “Heave!”
This time we raised the thing a little but still not enough for Ogg to pull him out. Musial groaned without opening his eyes.
“One more man here and we might can do it,” Dupree said, giving Harlins a look.
“Come on, Connie,” Ogg said. “Lend a hand.”
“This is bullshit,” Harlins said. “We need more guys, what we need.” But he propped the two carbines against a large piece of driftwood a few yards away and joined us at the wagon.
He was setting himself and trying to find a proper handhold when Garrison bolted for the weapons.
Harlins started after him but Witliff tripped him down on all fours. Ogg jumped up and Yates tried to grab him but he jerked away and backstepped into me and I punched him hard in the kidney and he grunted and went to his knees.
There was a gunshot and a yowl and I spun around and saw Harlins curled on his side, crying and gripping his thigh with both hands, blood running between his fingers.
Garrison chambered another bullet and stepped over to him. Holding the carbine like a pistol, he put the muzzle up close to Harlins’ temple and said, “Shut me up now, cocksucker.” And shot him. A bright thin cord of blood arced from his head and fell away and that was that.
“Oh Jesus,” Ogg said. He was sitting back on his heels and holding his side, starting horrified at Harlins.
Garrison racked the lever and an empty shell flipped out. He smiled at Ogg and said, “You wanna see Jesus, convict? Off you go.”
The carbine cracked and Ogg flopped over backward with his legs in an awkward twist.
“Whooo!” Witliff said. He’d grabbed up the other carbine and was grinning like he’d hit a jackpot. Yates was all teeth too. But Wakefield looked scared and Dupree looked angry. Chano the Mex was off to the side, cutting his eyes from Garrison to Witliff. It was almost dark now and the rest of the camp would be coming back this way very soon.
“Well boys,” Garrison said, “it’s nothing but the noose for me now. But if a nigger could run this levee I can too. You all do what you want but I’m gone.”
He turned and started off at a trot and Witliff and Yates hastened after him.
Dupree looked from Wakefield to Chano to me. “No sir,” he said. “I seen many a one try it, me, and seen they all look like after. No, thank you.” He sat down crosslegged and stared off at the river.
I hustled past him, hearing Wakefield and Chano right behind me.
We got a great turn of luck before we’d been on the run an hour—a storm swept in, the kind you don’t usually see till later in the year, full of blasting thunder and snake-tongue lightning and a cold wind that shook the trees and slung the rain sideways to sting our faces and chill us to the balls, and it was in no rush to be done with. Not man nor dog could track us in that weather. We figured they wouldn’t even start the dogs till the rain quit coming down so hard, and we picked up our pace, trying for the biggest lead we could get before they set out after us.