At this speed? We’ll run aground.
Speed, sir? My gracious! You call this speed? Walton threw open his arms. Evolution is moving faster than we are!
Meanwhile, the deputies learning to write had been smudging “Walton” in asbestos on the side of the boat. While they worked, chewing their lips like giant, frightening children, Ambrose plucked a pencil from his Afro and saw how many littler words he could make from “Walton.” He listed “wal,” “ona,” “alton” and “walto” (except for “w” and “l,” he drew the line at single-letter words). He added “lto” to his list then looked up and noticed that Loon seemed to have a condition where he spelled all his words backward; so when he copied the Christian Deputy leader’s name in his large, uneven characters, it caught Ambrose’s attention.
Mister Walton, he said to his commander. You ever noticed what ye name is wrote backerds?
Great Scott. It’s “not law.”
The men, keen of ear, began to watch him murderously. They clattered to their feet in an asbestos cloud. Since the reading lesson, a plot of mutiny had circulated among their number. They’d decided that to earn any respect as a gang they had to kill somebody, Walton the logical choice. Ambrose next.
Not law, they chanted, coming forward drawing out their swords. Not law, not law, not law.
Deputy Ambrose! Walton whispered. Do something. That’s an order.
Not law, not law, not law…
Red Man! the Negro called.
Everyone stopped saying “Not law” and looked at the tall Indian.
Ambrose jabbed his finger up in Red Man’s face. Didn’t you say ye Injun family and other ones like it ’d keep as keepsakes the clothes of—yer own words here—of “massacred white mens and womens and childrens”?
Yes, Red Man said. Why? Then his face sagged. Oh shit, he said.
Mister Walton done tole you bout cussing, Ambrose said, and without a moment’s hesitation the stocky second-in-command drew his long-barreled revolver and shot the Indian in the forehead. Red Man stood for a moment, cross-eyed, then fell straight back, his bow toppling after. A plug of his head splashed in the water barrel.
Oh, Walton said. I may faint.
Yet the deflecting tactic worked, and as the blood pooled about the dead Indian’s neck the remaining deputies forgot about Walton’s backward-spelled name and the plot to murder him and, to a man, except Red Man, went back to their reading lesson, though visibly distracted.
That nigger better not kill me, a deputy said.
Nice work, Walton whispered to his second, once it was clear the danger had passed.
Ambrose eyed the men as they bent over their work. Can I shoot me a white ’n next?
Certainly not, said the leader. But you can “cover” yon captain so that he complies with my order.
Right, boss. Ambrose crossed to the steering platform and jammed his revolver in the man’s ribs. Nigger with a gun, he whispered. Only thing missing is a reason.
There, called Walton, pointing to a small peninsula overhung with trees, jutting out into the river at a bend. Bank us there!
Kiss now, boys! the captain shouted. Here comes the end!
They exploded onto land. Ambrose flew overboard. Timbers splintered like gunshots. Bleating livestock flew past. The heavily packed mule crashed braying into the river, pulling a pair of horses with it. The men on the ship were too busy to watch, scrambling out of the way of sliding ponies and airborne barrels.
Walton used the forward momentum to his advantage, however, and, arms akimbo, pirouetted from the deck and grabbed a lowhanging limb. Those ballet lessons had done a bit of good, after all.
From the tree, he called out instructions. Deputies staggered about rubbing their heads, removing splinters. Two were swimming for the other side of the river. Deserters. If he could’ve spared the manpower, Walton would have sent after them. Meanwhile, a soggy Ambrose dragged ashore picking leeches off his arms and neck. The horses and pack mule at the bottom of the river were dead.
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.
