It wasn’t a deer that I had seen. It was the big sorrel mule that I had ridden in on. I guess I spooked him, running down the side of the mountain. I had looped the reins around a branch, and Abner had pulled them loose, gaining his freedom. He had his oversized ears laid back, and when that snarling, snapping pit bull came by, the big mule struck with the agility of a snake and sunk his teeth into the nape of the dog’s neck. Rosie was a pit-bull bitch that must have weighed fifty or sixty pounds, but the mule picked her up, twisted his head sideways, and slapped the dog into the rocky ground in the blink of an eye. I ducked as the chain whipped around and smacked the trunk of the tree that I was lying against. I have seen broncs in the rodeos of eastern Oklahoma that would go straight up and land on all four feet at once: a bone-jarring experience for a cowboy. Abner went up in the air, arched his back, and landed with all four hooves on the stunned dog; the air went out of her lungs like a smashed accordion. The act was so violent that I found myself cringing for the dog. The mule grabbed an ear in his teeth and shook the dog once more, but there was no fight left. The dog was quite dead.
Abner let go and backed away quietly. He looked at me, perhaps waiting for my approval. I spoke to him softly and put a hand out to gather the reins. He calmly reached over and stripped the leaves from a sapling and began munching, seemingly content. I patted his neck and praised him as I led him back up to the trail.
Fish hadn’t moved. He was sobbing as he held the weight of his damaged arm with the good one. He jerked his head up when he heard us coming. The terror in his eyes morphed into anger when he saw that it was me.
“I’m bleedin’ to death, you bastard!”
“You’re lucky she went after me,” I said. “Now shut up and hold still.” I took out my knife and cut one of the leather tie-downs from the saddle. The dog had severed an artery on Fish’s arm. I tied the leather above his elbow as a tourniquet, but he had already lost a lot of blood and was looking pale.
Fish was too weak to walk, so I helped him up onto the saddle. I was hoping that he could hang on until I could get him down to the highway. I was leading Abner, but also counting on the mule to find the way down. The logging road turned back up the ridge.
“Abner, I hope you know the way out. I sure as hell don’t.”
The mule turned and I followed, continuing up the logging road. I walked beside him, holding Fish in the saddle. The man was bent over the saddle horn, barely able to hold on. We came to a small patch of cedars that I thought I recognized from the trip in. The mule pushed his way through the limbs into a small clearing. It was the end of the road. Fish groaned and started to slide from the saddle. I caught him and helped him to the ground.
The forest canopy was replaced by angry, black clouds. The thunder was rumbling again, and the first few drops of rain began to patter on the cedars and the clumps of grass that struggled to survive in the rocky ground. The sky opened up and the rain began to fall as if dumped from a bucket. The sound of it drowned out all the other senses, and I was beginning to relax, thinking we had escaped.
This was when the four-wheeler burst through the trees and skidded to a halt. Tiny stood up on the machine and leveled his carbine even as I pulled Fish to his feet. Abner, spooked by the machine, brayed and ran off through the cedars. Bullets twanged through the branches as I shoved Fish through the evergreens and out of sight of our pursuer. I couldn’t see where we were going as I pushed Fish forward. He began shoving back, clawing at me and screaming. Tiny was running after us now, I could hear him grunting with effort and growling like some kind of animal. Fish was pushing back on me.
I felt Fish’s full weight on the handful of undershirt that I was gripping. I tried to pull him up as I realized that the ground was falling out beneath us. We had broken through the cedars only to find a bluff. The rain was beating down now, but I could hear the river below us. It must have been at least forty feet down, and I had no idea how deep the water was, but I gave Fish a mighty shove, and together we dropped into the void.
I let go of my prisoner during our descent. I found myself flailing my arms, trying to keep upright. It seemed like an eternity in the air. I plunged into the cold water of the stream, a churning, frothy torrent. The water was dark as I clawed my way back to the surface, gasping for precious air.
I broke the surface and heard a cough next to me. I turned to see Fish disappearing beneath the foam. I grabbed at him and managed to snag his long hair. I was vaguely aware of a shadow descending upon us. A mighty kathump! seemed to shake the river itself, as Tiny’s massive bulk slapped into the rocks next to the stream. I caught a glimpse of the big man’s empty stare, his face flattened against the rocks of the riverbank, as the current swept us away. It was not a pleasant sight.
I don’t remember much after that. I guess I managed to keep Fish’s head above water until some kayakers spotted us near the state highway bridge. Two tanned and athletic-looking fellows dragged us out of the rushing water. My teeth were chattering with the cold. Fish didn’t even have enough energy to shiver. One of the kayakers had a signal on his cell and was calling 911.
“Am I gonna make it?” Fish asked. His speech was slurred and his face had a ghastly pallor.
“You better,” I said. I would hate to face Miss Etta Mae if I got her nephew killed. “By the way, Delbert, can you swim at all?”
“Not a lick,” he said, weakly.
“A Fish that can’t swim.” I just shook my head.
Delbert Fish testified at his trial that Seymour “Tiny” Buckman had beaten and raped the girl. The DNA evidence agreed with him. I guess Miss Etta Mae was right that Delbert Fish was not guilty of that crime. She was willing to ignore his culpability on a host of other infractions that sent him back into the Arkansas penal system. She volunteered for a bible study through Prison Fellowship, so she could work with Delbert. I don’t know if Fish ever repented, but I took the two hundred that Etta Mae offered. It didn’t seem like much for what I did, but I got the ten grand in reward money. Besides, the woman had spanked me for something I didn’t even do at a vacation bible school one time. I figured she owed me that much.
The Arkansas state police seemed to appreciate the fact that I had burned down a major methamphetamine lab. They rounded up most of a biker gang that had been distributing the stuff in the four-state area. I went back to the site of the old still to retrieve my .45 semiauto. My dad had bought the gun for sixteen dollars after he got out of the service, and it had sentimental value. The old fellow who owned the store closed it up for a day and took me fishing. That little creek had more smallmouth, and bigger ones, than I had ever seen before. It’s a wonder that Field and Stream hasn’t done a feature on it yet. After a couple of write-ups in the local papers, I got another call from one of those big-time private-detective agencies. It was tempting, I must admit. But how much does a man really need to be happy? I think I’ll just flag down the drink-cart gal for another Budweiser, finish the back nine, and meet Karen, my on-again-off-again girlfriend, at the Nineteenth Hole. I think it’s all-you-can-eat crab legs tonight.
Copyright © 2012 by Jim Davis. Black Mask Magazine title, logo, and mask device copyright © 2012 by Keith Alan Deutsch. Licensed by written permission.
Cover Them with Flowers
by Marilyn Todd
The central characters in this new story, Lysander, head of the Spartan secret police, and Iliona, high priestess of the Temple of Eurotas, also appear in three novels by Marilyn Todd set in the fifth century B.C.E. The most recent book, Still Waters (Severn House/April 2011) was praised by Publishers Weekly for its “solid puzzle and... intriguing lead character.” Booklist applauded “Todd’s knack for painting antiquity with a spectacularly suspenseful brush...”