Bull Mountain (15 page)

Clayton thought he saw Halford weighing the possibility of what he was saying. He also thought he heard a whip-poor-will singing
through the dead silence that suddenly blanketed his father’s house, but maybe he only wanted to.

“You’ve got guarantees?” Halford finally said.

“Yes.”

“Just me and God’s country, huh?”

“That’s right.”

Hal reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a coin big enough to be a silver dollar. Without looking at him, Hal motioned to the boy still out on the porch, and
he scurried over, the wooden train left abandoned on pine slats. He handed the boy the coin and tousled his hair. “Go inside now and clear my food off the table. I done lost my appetite.” The boy did as he was told and hustled off through the screen door, taking only a second to stop it from slamming again, but once inside, he turned back to Clayton and shot him a bird before disappearing from view.
The two old men in the rockers collected their things and moved off the porch as if they’d just noticed a thunderhead forming and were looking to take shelter. Old men were intuitive like that. Halford thumped down the steps of the porch and stood just inches from Clayton’s face. The sheriff stood his ground. Hal spoke in a low, controlled voice. “Do you know what your problem is?”

Clayton
smelled the pork sausage and gravy on his brother’s breath. “Hal, think about—”

“Do you?”

Clayton let out another sigh. “What, Hal? What’s my problem?”

“You never got it. This isn’t God’s country. It’s
my
country. Mine. It always has been and always will be. God don’t have nothing to say about it up here. You could have been part of it, but you turned your back on us—on your family—on
Deddy. That was your decision.”

“Hal, we don’t need to rehash all this.”

Halford ignored him. “But it ain’t like we all didn’t see it coming. Ever since you were a kid, you walked around thinking you were better than us, and now look at you, strutting around with that star on your shirt, still trying to prove how much better than us you are. If Deddy were here right now, he’d be disgusted
at how you turned out.”

Clayton felt a twinge of anger tighten up one side of his face, and he matched his brother’s low tone of voice. “You want to talk about Deddy, Hal? Why don’t we talk about why he ain’t here? Why don’t you tell me the truth about the fire?”

“I don’t need to tell you shit.”

“You’re right. You don’t. I saw the barn. It didn’t look like no kerosene fire to me. It
looked like the place exploded. What happened, you guys learn to cook that shit through trial and error, and Deddy paid the price?”

Hal’s upper lip curled. “Get off my mountain before I lose my patience and beat you to death where you stand.”

“Why was the old man in there, Hal? I talked to the fire chief, and he paints a whole different story than the bullshit you tried to pass off. Don’t
you think it’s sad? He ran this mountain for seventy years without so much as a scratch and didn’t make it through one when you started making the decisions.”

Both men stood with their heels dug into the dirt, braced, each waiting for the other to swing. “This is your last warning,” Hal said. “Turn around, get back in that truck, and go back to your life, or so help me, Clayton, I will throw
your body in the fuckin’ ravine for the coons.”

Clayton didn’t hear the threat so much, as he tried to remember the last time Halford had called him by his first name. Not since they were kids. He held Halford’s stare and saw nothing in his brother’s eyes but an empty rage churning like the storm clouds those old men on the porch must have seen coming. Clayton had hoped age would change his
brother for the better, for the wiser, but it hadn’t. He had hoped Buckley’s senseless death would have dictated some logic, but it didn’t. Hal was still the same man who could sit and hum a tune while his enemies burned alive tied to a tree less than twenty feet away. Clayton was almost ready to believe his brother could kill him, too.

Almost.

“Okay, then, Hal.” Clayton backed down from
his brother, adjusted his hat, and made his way toward the Bronco, where his deputy was only now able to exhale. Darby pressed the button on the armrest to unlock the doors.

“Nice visit, Sheriff,” Hal said, and started back up the steps. His hands were shaking. It surprised Clayton. He opened the door to the truck, took off his hat, tossed it onto the driver’s seat, and began to unbuckle his
gun belt.

“What are you doing, Sheriff?” Darby’s eyes widened. “Are you crazy? We just got a pass. Let’s get outta here.”

Clayton tossed the belt and sidearm onto the seat and slammed the door. “You want to threaten me, Halford? My whole life I’ve been listening to you talk about what a badass you are, but I’ve never seen you do a damn thing that didn’t involve you telling people what
to do. How about we put all that talk to the test, fat man.”

Darby sank his face into his hands.

Clayton rolled up his sleeves, then unpinned the small tin star from his duty shirt and set it on the hood of the Bronco. A new expression replaced the anger on Halford’s face, one that was rarely seen by his people—he smiled. “Do you know where you are, boy?”

“I know exactly where I am.
I’m on the northern edge of McFalls County, which falls under the jurisdiction of the Waymore Valley Sheriff’s Department.”

Halford laughed hard enough to make his belly shake. “Is that right?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Nobody up here gives a shit about your jurisdiction, Clayton. You’re a joke. An embarrassment.”

“Yeah, I get that, and I made my peace with the way you see me, but
that don’t change the facts.”

Several men in the yard trained their guns on the sheriff, but Halford waved them all down. “Not one of you harms this man,” he said. “Put your guns down.” Slowly the rifles lowered. Hal cracked his knuckles and twisted his head from side to side to pop the bones in his neck. Then he stepped off the porch.

4.

Clayton swung first, but Hal sidestepped it
and threw a solid haymaker into Clayton’s ribs. It hit like a railroad hammer and dropped Clayton to his knees.

“Get up,” Hal bellowed at him. “Get up, boy. Don’t go down with one punch. It’s embarrassing.” He loomed over Clayton with a smile while the sheriff regained his breath. It didn’t take long for Clayton to spring up and go at Hal again. The big man tried to pivot and sidestep the
hit again, but this time Clayton anticipated it, and the second punch connected square on Hal’s jaw. It felt like the knuckles in his hand had exploded. Hal shook it off, grabbed his brother by his tan duty shirt, and pulled him into a head butt. Another explosion of pain followed by bright white light and black spots.

Don’t black out. Don’t black out. Don’t black out,
Clayton chanted in his
mind. Before his vision cleared, Clayton swung both fists like twin pendulums into the sides of Hal’s head. That hurt him. He let go, and Clayton hammered a quick succession of rabbit punches into Hal’s kidney. As the big man buckled over, Clayton brought up his knee and rammed it into Hal’s face. It caught him in the cheek and sprawled him backward flat onto his back. He sounded like an oak tree
falling against the forest floor. Clayton moved in to kick him but noticed all the rifles were back in the air and aimed at him. These men weren’t used to seeing their leader in the dirt. Clayton put his hands in the air and backed away.

“I said put the goddamn guns down,” Hal said, holding his face. He got to his feet and spit some blood into the dirt and gravel. “The first one to fire on
this man dies next.” Hal brushed the dirt from the front of his shirt and trousers and fixed his eyes on Clayton. “You sure this is the kind of fight you want to have?”

Clayton lowered his hands, but only enough to form fists and block his face. “Is there any other kind?”

Hal charged across the lot like a wild boar, slamming into Clayton and lifting him completely off the ground. The
two men barreled into the side of one of the hunting trucks, with Clayton taking the brunt of it to his head and shoulder. Before Clayton could gain his breath, Halford pummeled him with punches to the face and gut. Clayton tried to counter and block, but Hal slapped his hands away like they were flies buzzing around his head. When Clayton finally went down, Halford straddled him, pinning his arms
under his knees. He crouched down on top of Clayton and buried a massive forearm into his throat, crushing his windpipe. The sheriff scratched and clawed at the ground but barely had any strength left to make a difference. Blood from Hal’s busted lip dripped down on Clayton’s face as it started to take on the color of an eggplant. The more Clayton squirmed, the more Hal crushed down. No tap-outs.
No mercy.

A single gunshot rang out. Hal spun his head, still in a feral state, fully expecting to see one of his men had disobeyed him. Instead he saw Deputy Darby Ellis pointing a shaky service revolver at him. He’d managed to sneak past the redneck hordes who were all engrossed in the fight and got himself close enough to actually become a threat. He’d fired the first shot in the air to
get Hal’s attention, like a bell signifying the end of the round. He hoped that was all he’d have to do. “Let him up,” Darby said, then added, “Mr. Burroughs,” then added, “Please.”

Hal turned to face the deputy but didn’t take his arm off Clayton’s throat.

“Or what, Deputy? You gonna shoot me?”

“I don’t want to . . . sir.”

“Look around you, boy. You see all those itchy trigger
fingers waiting for me to tell them to blow your head off?”

Darby nervously scanned the line of barrels that were now pointed at his head. “Yessir, I do.”

“Then drop that gun on the ground.”

“I can’t do that, sir.” Darby’s knees were shaking so bad he could barely stand. “Mr. Burroughs, I can’t let you kill him. It wouldn’t be right.”

Hal didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have
to.

“He said drop the gun,” a voice behind the deputy said, and when Scabby Mike pressed the barrel of a pistol into the back of Darby’s head, the deputy’s gun fell to the dirt.

“I think he’s gonna cry, Mike,” Hal said.

“Yup, I think he might.”

“Please don’t kill me,” Darby said. “I didn’t even want to come up here. I begged him to turn around. I told him this was crazy.”

Hal took his arm off Clayton’s windpipe and the sheriff rolled over, clutching his throat, gulping at the fresh air. Hal was barely breathing heavy. “Okay, kid. Come get your boss here, and take him back down to Waymore. He, or you, ever comes here again, I promise you it’s gonna end different.”

“Yessir,” Darby said, and rushed over to help Clayton to his feet. “We’re gone.”

Hal picked
up Darby’s revolver and stuck it in his waistband. He looked at Darby for an argument. “You got a problem with that, Deputy?”

“No, sir. It’s yours.”

Scabby Mike walked over to Hal, with Clayton’s gun belt over his shoulder. He must have taken it out of the truck when Darby decided to play hero. Hal took the gun, dumped the contents of the cylinder on the ground, and tossed the whole rig
next to Clayton. Mike also tried to hand Hal the badge Clayton had left on the hood, but Hal didn’t want that, either.

“Nah,” Hal said, “he can keep it. I think it might have peppered his grits a little.”

Mike walked back and tucked the tin star into Darby’s shirt pocket.

“You be sure he gets it, when he feels better,” Mike said.

“Yessir, I will.”

5.

Clayton’s lip was cut
down the middle and a dark yellow swell was forming under his left eye, but nothing was broken, and with a little help, he could walk. Darby practically threw him into the truck and slid behind the wheel. Three seconds later the young deputy had their asses in the wind. He watched through the dust cloud in the rearview as the crowd of hillbilly gunmen laughed and waved.

“Well, boss, that didn’t
go too well.”

“No, Darby, I would say it did not.” Clayton pulled a bandana out of the glove box and dabbed at his lip. It hurt to talk. His whole body throbbed. He’d toted an ass-whuppin’ before, but his ego had never taken one this bad. Every man on this mountain who believed the sheriff was a joke just had his sentiments reinforced. Maybe even including Clayton’s own deputy.

“Darby
 . . .”

“You ain’t got to say it, boss. It’s in the rearview and we’re both breathing. That’s good enough for me. I can’t believe you went at him like that, sir. I know he’s your brother and all, but he could’ve killed you.”

Clayton pulled the door-mounted mirror inward toward him and examined the bruised flesh puffing up under his eye. “Damn,” he said. “Take a left at this fork up here.”

Darby squeezed his eyebrows together and gave Clayton a concerned look. “Is that the way we came in? Because that don’t look like the way we came in.”

“We got another stop to make.”

“Are you being serious right now? We need to get our butts off this mountain. That’s what the man said. That’s what I told the man I’d do. We’re getting off this mountain, Sheriff.”

“We’re taking a left
up here.
The man
can kiss my ass.”

“I ain’t got a gun, boss. You know he kept my gun, right?”

“You don’t need it.”

“Well, I strongly object.”

“Noted. Now go left.”

Darby felt his guts tighten back up as he turned the wheel in the opposite direction of the way his brain was screaming at him to go, and pointed the truck toward the Western Ridge.

“Why didn’t he keep yours?”
Darby asked.

“My what?”

“Your gun. He kept mine, but he gave yours back. Why?”

Clayton picked the silver Colt up from the seat between them and ran a finger over his father’s initials engraved on the handle
.
“I don’t know, Darby.”

CHAPTER

G
ARETH
B
URROUGHS

1973

1.

Gareth cracked the seal on a jar of North Georgia’s finest and sat down on the steps. He’d been back from Florida for only two days with the solution to one problem before everything
else fell apart. With Annette gone, the nursemaidin’ of these youngsters fell on him alone. He’d known he’d be coming home to a house without her, but the knowing didn’t make it sting any less when he crossed through the door. He could hear the baby crying in the house, so he picked up the jar and walked toward the tree line. It didn’t matter how far he walked, that sound would follow him
to the end of the earth and he knew it. He drained a quarter of the jar and stared up at the stars. The night was clear, but nothing else seemed to be. He knew he’d have to go in and tell those boys their mama wasn’t comin’ back. They’d be all right. He’d be all right. He had to be. There was too much to lose if he wasn’t. He watched his oldest son, Halford, step out on the porch and look around for
his father. “Deddy?”

“Over here,” Gareth said.

Halford looked out into the darkness toward Gareth. “I can’t get Clayton to stop crying.”

“I’ll be in in a minute. You and your brother get cleaned up for supper.”

“Is Mama coming home tonight? She can get Clayton to stop.”

Gareth lit a cigarette and noticed the glow of headlights coming up the drive. Halford saw it, too. “Is that
her, Deddy? Is that Mama?”

“Git in the house and do what I told you, boy.”

Halford opened the screen door and reluctantly faded back into the house.

2.

Jimbo pulled the truck up next to Gareth’s and got out. “Gareth, we got a problem.”

“With the guns?” Gareth said, and took a drag on his smoke.

“No, man, Val took care of that. Everyone is on point with the guns.”

“Then
what’s the problem?”

Jimbo took out his own cigarettes and lit one up. He was rubbing his knuckles. It was a nervous tic. It meant he had bad news and wasn’t looking forward to telling it to the man whose wife had just run out on him and left him with two little boys and a new baby. They smoked in silence for nearly a full minute, and Gareth thought Jimbo might rub the skin on his knuckles
clean off. He dropped his cigarette and put it out with his boot. “Just spit it out, Jimbo.”

“Cooper done run off again.”

“So? He’ll show back up. He always does.”

“I don’t know, man. It’s different this time. He’s getting worse and worse. Ernest was keeping watch on him while we was gone and he said the old man was spouting off all kinds of crazy shit.”

“That ain’t nothing new.”

“No, but since we been back he’s been acting worse than normal. Ernest said yesterday he locked his self in his room for damn near twenty-four hours, banging shit around, not letting anybody in. This morning he come out all bruised up on his arms and face like he whupped his own ass.”

“Why didn’t anybody call me?”

Jimbo looked back at the house. The baby was still crying. “Hell, man,
we know what you’re dealing with here, we didn’t want to put anything else on your plate.”

Gareth took a swig from the jar and passed it to Jimbo. He took it and drank deep. “Goddamn, that’s good.”

“How long’s he been gone?”

“I don’t know, boss. Ernest called me an hour ago saying he left the house talking about going to make things right with Rye. Ernest said he took a rifle with
him.”

“You didn’t think to ask him how long ago he left?”

“Sorry, boss, I just rushed out here.”

Gareth sighed and capped the jar of shine. He handed it to Jimbo. “I know where he is.”

“Well, tell me where and I’ll go get him.”

“No. He’s my problem. I’ll go get him. You mind staying here and looking after the boys ’til I get back? I shouldn’t be that long.”

“You got it,
man.”

“I haven’t told them about their mama yet. They think she’s off visiting a friend in Waymore.”

“I won’t say a word.”

“All right, then.” Gareth opened the door to his truck.

“Gareth?”

“Yep?”

“There’s something else.”

“What?”

“When Ernest called me he said Cooper wasn’t wearing no clothes. He said he left out of there with nothing on but some tighty-whiteys
and a pair of boots.”

“Jesus,” Gareth said. “Ernest should’ve called me this morning.”

“I reckon so, boss.”

“You tell him we’ll talk about it when I get back.”

3.

Gareth pulled the truck up to the cabin at Johnson’s Gap and turned off the engine. The front door was open and he knew he’d find his father inside passed out drunk on the floor. Most likely having pissed himself,
and he’d have to clean him up before he could put him in the truck and drive him home. This wouldn’t be the first time Gareth had found him here, but it was getting to be a hard road to hoe. Cooper built this family, but this kind of thing was no good to no one. Gareth got out of the truck and climbed the steps. He picked up the lantern from the table on the porch and lit it.

“Come on, old
man, let’s go home.” He shined the light inside, but there was no one there. The cabin was just a wide-open room, so the light from the lantern filled every corner. He put his hand near the wood burner and felt the warmth. The back door was open, too, and Gareth stepped out.

“Deddy!” he hollered into the darkness. “Come on, Cooper, I’m here to take you home.”

He turned to go back into
the cabin when he heard the shot. It wasn’t too far away. “Deddy!” he yelled again, and bolted into the woods. He knew the path. He’d been out here before. He killed his first buck in these woods. “Deddy!” he kept yelling. Still nothing. Then he saw it. Something white on the ground about thirty feet in front of him. He ran and tripped over an exposed root. He hit the ground hard on his knees, scraping
up his hands. “Goddamn it,” he said, slowly getting back to his feet. He’d dropped the lantern, so he moved cautiously by the moonlight toward the white thing in the distance until it started to take the shape of an old man—his old man. He could see Cooper’s body well enough to know it was him but stopped cold before he could see him well enough to see what he’d done to himself. The rifle was
on the ground next to him. His pale naked body was luminous in the moonlight, and all the blood looked glossy black. Gareth fell back down to his knees. “Aw, Deddy, what did you do? What did you do?” Gareth knew what Cooper had done. Suddenly he was very aware of all the things his father had done in these woods. He stayed there on his knees, recalling it all. He thought about his uncle that day.
He thought about the hole Cooper had made him dig. He didn’t cry. He sat down in the cool grass and reached into his pocket for his smokes. He lit up and pictured his uncle lying in the woods only a mile or so from where his father was lying now. He thought about Annette. After a while he got to his feet and looked down on his father’s naked, feeble dead body. Cooper used to say there was no dignity
in birth or death. You entered the world helpless, naked and alone, and you were more than likely to go out the same way. Gareth didn’t necessarily agree with that, but there was no shortage of indignation in these woods.

“Well, old man. I guess that’s that.”