Diane had loved Eugene when they married, but fifteen years of life with him had laid that love in an unmarked grave. She had endured the marriage for the sake of the children until the day Eugene’s occasional verbal abuse turned physical and he slammed his fist into the wall beside her head, breaking three knuckles and creating a fairly large hole in the wall. Then he had stormed out of the house.
He had returned three days later feeling sheepish, a feeling that intensified exponentially upon his discovery of a totally empty house. Diane and the boys were gone, as was the furniture, the carpets off the floor, and the light bulbs from the fixtures. Eugene contemplated the sorry state of affairs while consuming a fifth of bourbon and arrived at the conclusion that it was no longer possible to find a good woman, one who would stick by a man. Then he burned the house down. When Diane heard the news, she was surprised to discover that she really didn’t care. Her life with Eugene was over. It had ended during the fight when she saw Eugene’s fist change trajectory ever so slightly right before it whizzed past her left ear. His gaze at that instant was lethal, as if his eyes were made of cobalt.
“How did the visit go?” A.J. asked Diane. “You didn’t shoot out his tires again, did you? I loved that.” He smiled and punched her softly on the shoulder.
“No, I didn’t have to shoot anything,” she replied. “He behaved himself all day. We rode up there last Saturday on Jackie’s horses. The boys were really excited about seeing their father.”
“I don’t
“You know for a fact I didn’t want to go up there,” she replied, shrugging. “But I can’t keep the boys away from him forever. It was a strange day. He actually spoke to me a little, and he was good with the boys the whole time. They went fishing down in the canyon, and later on he showed them how to shoot. Do you remember his matched pair of shotguns? The ones he bought in Memphis? He gave one to each of the boys. Later, when we got to the bottom of the mountain, Cody handed me an envelope. He said his daddy told him to give it to me after we were down.” She looked over at A.J. “There was five thousand dollars in that envelope and a note telling me to make sure the boys had a real good Christmas.” She shook her head. Her long hair blew gently in the breeze.
“You’re sure you were at Eugene’s place?” A.J. asked. “Maybe you went up the wrong mountain.” A.J. thought it was unlikely, but so was the Big Bang, and it had certainly received its share of the press.
“No, it was him,” she replied. “I know the face. He looked bad, though, like maybe he’s been sick.” They were quiet for a moment. Then she spoke again. “I’m just not used to him acting nice. It hasn’t come up that often.”
“Maybe he’s trying to win you back,” A.J. suggested. “A girl could do worse than a nice cabin, two custom shotguns, and envelopes full of money lying around everywhere.”
“The cabin is not that nice, there are not enough envelopes in the world, and I’d end up using both shotguns on him. No thanks.” She seemed adamant.
“Well, I guess that’s your choice,” A.J. said dubiously. He shrugged. “So, what did you do all day while Eugene played with the boys?”
“I sat on the porch and read my book. Rufus sat and watched.” The book in question was Diane’s dog-eared copy of
“Rufus was there?” A.J. asked. He disliked Rufus and had heard he was dead. He was disappointed to hear it wasn’t so. “You’re lucky that dog didn’t drag off one of the horses.”
“I don’t know why you don’t like Rufus,” Diane replied, opening the car door and climbing in. “He’s really a pretty good dog.”
“Call me sensitive,” A.J. said, shutting the door for her. “I don’t like him because every time I see him he tries to kill me.” It was true. Rufus had been the scourge of the food chain up on Eugene’s Mountain for a long, long time, but the only human he ever bothered was A.J. Small children could ride the dog like a pony, but he transformed into the Hound of the Baskervilles if he ever caught A.J.’s scent.
“He
“I’d rather just keep on hating him,” A.J. said. “We’re both used to it, and I don’t like new things.”
Diane waved and motored off.
A.J. crossed the cracked concrete in front of the garage. He raised the lid of the old cold drink box, dropped in two quarters, and retrieved a grape Nehi that was mostly slush. He sat on the weathered bench in front of Billy’s to sip and consider. A.J. put a lot of store in fate, and as fate would have it, the bad blood with Eugene had been heavy on his mind. He had already decided prior to his encounter with Diane that a visit to his old friend was in order. It was time to bury the hatchet.
CHAPTER 2
I see a new preacher in your future.
– Excerpt of posthumous letter from Eugene Purdue to the deacons of the Hog Liver Road Baptist Church
A.J. STOOD UNDER THE HANGING-TREE AT THE FOOT of Eugene’s Mountain on the early autumn Saturday morning. It was cool, almost brisk, and the sky that could be seen through the canopy of trees was clear. He leaned the Louisville Slugger up against the hanging-tree and lit a cigarette. For whatever reason, he had decided to go see Eugene.
The hanging-tree was a huge old oak with a large limb jutting perpendicular to the trunk about twenty feet from the ground. Legend had it that two Yankees had gotten themselves hung there back during the unfortunate period of time when William Tecumseh Sherman, the Anti-Christ, was burning Georgia to the ground. A local farmer and his wife had been murdered, and two young men unlucky enough to be wearing blue and unwary enough to be sleeping away from their weapons had been apprehended by several of the local worthies and charged with the murder. The fact that both men and their regiment had been fighting sixty miles to the north at Chickamauga when the crime was committed did not alter the outcome of their trial, although a pause of several seconds occurred when the information was revealed.
The dilemma was resolved by Spartan Cook, unofficial prosecutor at the affair. He had acquired a great deal of legal expertise during his many court appearances, and even though he had always been on the receiving end of justice, he was deferred to on matters of law at the current proceedings. It was decided the two villains had no doubt murdered several farmers and their wives up in Chickamauga, and they surely would have committed the local crimes, as well, if someone had not beaten them to it. The fair and speedy trial had concluded shortly thereafter.
A.J. began his slow journey up to Eugene’s cabin. The battered but proud Louisville Slugger was his walking stick as he made his way. He moved silently through the north Georgia mountains, as quiet as a stolen kiss. It was a talent he had always had, to pass unseen and unheard through the wild places. His father attributed the knack to the trace of Cherokee blood flowing in A.J.’s veins, and a rustle and a shadow were all that marked his passage. As he reached the midpoint of his journey, he tightened his grip on the bat and swung it up on his shoulder. He was sure Rufus was already stalking him and had no doubt his perennial foe would join him presently. He listened carefully, and as he rounded the bend in the old road he heard a twig snap. He whirled and assumed the batter’s-up position. Running straight at him from behind was Rufus. Their eyes met, and they froze.
“Come on over here, boy, and get some of this,” A.J. said quietly, not taking his eyes off the hound for an instant. Rufus lowered to a crouch, teeth bared. His eyes emanated malice. Then he blinked and lowered his head to his front paws, conceding the round to A.J.
Rufus’s specific lineage was unclear, but he appeared to be a cross between a Great Dane and a bear. He was
