Look here, Ambrose said. Red Man lay in a heap where he’d been catapulted from the ship.
Walton watched his lieutenant kick him over. Underneath were small foot tracks.
Yep. It’s him, said Ambrose. The pre-vert we’re after. I’d know that sign anywheres. Reckon he come out the river barefoot, then took off.
They looked at Red Man’s body, birdcalls piercing the human silence like bright arrows.
That, deputies, Walton said at length, is dedication. To discover “sign” even after death. Perhaps you oughtn’t been so “trigger-happy,” Deputy Ambrose.
But Mister Walton—
No excuses, please. Your pay is hereby docked.
Ambrose grumbled under his breath as Walton assembled the men for an inspirational talk on Red Man’s service to his country. By now all the horses were ready save the ones dead in the river—for which the Christian Deputies observed a moment of silence—and leaving two eager volunteers to bury their fallen comrade, Walton and his men mounted up and were off.
Within an hour they’d spotted dozens of buzzards circling in the sky. At the edge of a parched cornfield they gazed upon four dead men, a gory scene which Walton characterized in his logbook as a “carnage of Old Testament vicissitudes (sp?).”
The crows had given way to buzzards, slick reeking ungainly flesheaters, summoned by death like family members called home. The large sneering birds were everywhere, tubercular frowns pasted in the sky, leaning malignant growths of tumor in the limbs of trees.
The deputies dismounted in unison as they’d been instructed and drew their revolvers and aimed them all about, some men kneeling, one on his belly, as the drill called for. Walton came forward proudly, stepping over the prone man. Excuse me. He crossed the ground and knelt beside the jaw-shot veteran. The leader removed his glove then slid his goggles onto his forehead and pinched his nose shut at the horror, studying the body. Where was its member? Ill at the sight, he looked about and inspected the other three men, dispatched by precise shots. Their members, while all taken out of their pants, remained intact. Walton gagged. The buzzards had been having a “fiesta.” The dead men’s eyes had been picked out and were grotesque purple festers now.
The leader belched and turned away. What do you make of this, Deputy Ambrose? Anybody see the missing, er, part?
Naw, said the Negro, but I’m gone fuss less bout these here goggle-ma-jigs.
Walton belched again and replaced his own eyewear. Fan out, he said, his voice nasal.
The deputies unclenched their stances and pretended to look. Two began to vomit from the odor. Walton himself had begun gagging again. Another fellow was whistling, hands pocketed, walking backward toward the river.
Shew, said Ambrose. Stink don’t it. He peered inside the blind. No pecker to report, Mister Walton, but they was here all right. Our pre-vert amongst em, look. Here’s his tracks. They was waiting on something, looks like. Or somebody. You can see where they guns was laid. Here and here and here and here and here. And here and here. Here. Stink so bad from they farts you can smell the rabbit they’d eat for supper.
Walton clapped his hands. Guns, Deputy Ambrose. That’s it! Guerilla warriors is what we have. Which explains the uniforms of these dead. Perhaps left over from the War, lo all these years later. “Sore” losers, these guerillas. Mis-perceived as heroes. Men unwilling to march out of the past. Praise God, we might just get a shot at testing our mettle in actual battle.
Battle? cried Loon.
Let me tell you what else I suspect, Deputy Ambrose. I suspect that somebody in their own party shot them. A traitor!
You mean didn’t the pre-vert we after kill em, don’t ye?
Listen. The reason I suspect a traitor, is that whoever killed these fellows could have never attacked head on. This place is a bunker.
A what?
Walton half-smiled. “Bunker.” I’m circulating it as a new word here in the Southland. It’s a secret club I and several of my old college chums originated. As social experiments, we coin new words and use them with authority. See if they catch on.
Ambrose pushed his goggles up on his forehead. You can’t be doing that.
Oh, I can’t, can’t I?
You gots to be a lingrist or something. A senator. The word gots to be around a long time. Work its way into convocations. Official. Folks got to agree.
So why can’t you and I agree? I’m practically an aristocrat, nearly a blueblood, and in addition to that a northerner. In other words entitled. You’re a darky but one who can read. You’re fairly well mannered, except for your propensity for profanity. I propose that you and I name the word and use it, Deputy Ambrose! “Bunker!” Such a stout word, I predict it catches on, especially if you’ll employ it among your dusky pals when you return home on leave.
Ambrose thought about it. Why not. So that crow blind yonder’s a bunker, and the pre-vert we’re chasing killed them fellers?
Walton blinked. Exactly.
The men had begun howling with laughter; a deputy had been caught masturbating in the blind.
Walton called a meeting and informed the men that this deputy would now have the nickname “Onan.” He described the Biblical masturbator, which caused a few sniggers among the troops.
Self-abuse, the Philadelphian admonished, is no laughing matter. Onan, your pay is hereby docked.
The men grew solemn.
Their leader clasped his hands behind his back and began to study the brown-stained grass for traces of further evidence. In the last few weeks, he had been trying to create descriptive nicknames for each deputy in hopes that it would bring them closer together and help him, Walton, tell the fellows apart. “Loon” and “Red Man” had caught on quickly and tipped him that these aliases must be psychologically and/or physically descriptive; if they were mildly insulting as well, the humorous aspect further aided the men’s memories. The head deputy imagined that his subordinates bandied secret nicknames for him as well. “Sarge.” “His Majesty.” He wondered if they had conversations about him. They must. Aside from alcohol, tobacco, gambling, whores and a taste for mindless violence, what else did they have in common but Phail Walton? Often at night, as they bivouacked under the stars, he pretended to sleep, even committing counterfeit snores so that he might hear what they said about him. He’d recruited them from everywhere. Bums, mostly. Drunks. Criminals. Men “on the lam.” While they suffered in steadfastness, loyalty, courage and obedience, they were cheap and easy to replace.
Look here, Ambrose called. Tracks go this a way. Peers like he made off with one of these fellers’ horses. Stole the guns and this one’s boots. Look how little his feet is. Like girl feet.
Add thievery to the list, Walton said. Mount up!
Shouldn’t we bury these fellows here? Loon asked.
Shall I describe a certain pervert? Walton said. We’re in pursuit? Besides, I think our last two grave-digging volunteers have joined their fellow deserters. I’m onto that “scam” and we’re fast losing men.
But it ain’t Christian, Loon persisted. I was brung up to bury folks. My daddy was a gravedigger and my granddaddy before him was too and my great-granddaddy and all my uncles and so forth was. My brothers was and one tomboy sister a bull-dyke. We all gravediggers is what I’m saying. We dig good ditches and privies, too. So I’m jest making a point. You got a man with a talent, me, it’s a dang shame not to let him exercise his God-give gifts. What you think there, there, you, nigger—what’s ye name agin?