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“What Grandpap?'

Grandpap's eye homed in on Travis', tears an' all. 'It kills me ta tell ya this, son, but what they did was this: those devil, dag-bastards pulled yer maw outa the car an' they—they—well, Chrast, son. They tored her clothes off, butt-fucked her each right there on the hood'a the car, an' then they... Aw, God, it pain's me so ta say it! They had thereselfs a header, boy. Those Cracker bastards done head-humped yer maw!'

Travis cried an' cried, he did, an' when there weren't no more tears left, he just up an’ passed out right there on the porch, screamin’ in his dreams 'bout what the blasted Caudills did ta his maw an paw, but specially his maw. Head-humpin’ her! The lot of 'em!

Those dog bastards head-humped my maw! Travis wailed in his sleep fulla the awfulest dreams...

........

Next day, Travis weren't much fer talkin', no he weren't. Grandpap neither, 'cos recitin’ last night's story put a case'a blues on him somethin’ fierce. 'I'se sorry, son,' was the only thing he said ta Travis. 'I'd'a tole ya sooner, 'ccpt it didn't seem right ta say such horrible things to a man just out the clink. What's done's done, I figured. But now I see's the truth. Now I'se see I should'a tole ya 'mediately 'cos you gotta right ta know what went on fer real.'

'I'se 'preciate it, Grandpap, an' I'se understand. An' I'se love ya fer it.' Travis said, liftin' the bucket pole ta take down the creek. An' then he left, he did. An' while's he were trudgin' down the creek, he couldn't help but 'member what his grandaddy tole him last night, an' what were worse was that he couldn't do nothing 'bout it. Caudill's two boys was dead, one'a the fudge-packer disease, an' the other'a hippie drugger, and Caudill hisself were now livin' up'n a big fancy mansion in Pulaski, an' Pulsaki were so far, his grandpap's truck wouldn't get there halfways 'fore it throwed a rod or busted the crankshaft. So Travis felt mighty useless indeed, an' as he trundled those buckets down the creek, he closed his eyes an' fairly prayed:

God, I knows full well I ain 't been much of a worthy servant, an' I’se heart-lee sorry fer my worldly sins, but—holy ever-livin '-shit, God!—if You on high'd give me the chance ta get my proper revenge fer what the Caudill done ta my fine paw an' lovin' maw, I swears to ya, I'd be a better servant to you an'yer holy needs. I would.

An', wouldn't ya know it! It wouldn't be more'n 15 minutes 'fore God Hisself'd answered Travis Clyde Tuckton's prayers.

........

Grandpap kept'a bangin' out those soleprints, hand made each an' ever one. Was hard work, but hard work made men good, he'd heard. So’s he's was sittin' there in his wheelchair, workin' on his fine boots an' shoes, when the door done swunged open.

An' in the doorway, backed by the grand sunlight, he were standin' there, his Rolls Royce viserble behind him in the dirt drive.

It were Thibald Caudill.

'Hey, ?l’ pappy.' he greeted, all's decked up in his citified charcoal-gray suit an' queer Eye-talian shoes. ''Member me? I'se bet'eha do.'

'Thibald Caudill.' Grandpappy acknowledged, seethin' on the inside, an' tremorin' in his gut. 'Why's you here?'

'Ever now an' then, ya knows, I like ta drives 'round the old homestead, ya know? Ta shows me where I comes from. So's I thought I'd drop by.'

'Ain't no reason fer ya ta drop by here, Caudill,' Grandpappy croaked.

'Aw, shee-it, Grandpappy Martin!' Caudill, then throwed his head back an' laughed, he did, the sun glarin' offa his mostly bald head with gray tricklin’ down his ears. 'I see's ya still got yer dander up on account'a that foolhearty story 'bout me'n my boys killin' yer kin. Shee-it! Ain't no truth ta that. Pappy! My word!'

Yer word. Thibald Caudill, ain’t worth two squirts 'a piss from a dead dog's dick, Grandpappy thought. 'Er two squirts'a puke, neither.

'So's let's put alls that behind us, huh. pappy? Seein' that yer an inverlid now. what with no feet, I figured I'd come up here an' make a deal. See's. I gots me a fair load'a black buck yardhands, pick my weeds, mow my lawn an' the like, an' theys all need new boots, good 'uns, an' I'se figured you still make those fine handmade, handstitched workboots like ya used ta. So's that's why I'se up here.' Caudill reached inta his jacket an' withdrew a right fat wad'a bills. 'I got's six yardhands, I do, an' I figures boots as good as yours ain't gonna come cheap, so's I'll take six pair fer a hunnert dollars'a pair. How's that, ol’ man?'

Caudill slapped the money down. It were a right lotta money, it was, but Grandpap felt it'd he a gross injustice ta take green cash from the same man who kill his daughter'n son'n law, so's he said instead. 'Take yer fuckin' money an' yer devil-butt-lickin’ self outa here. Thibald Caudill. 'fore I'se up an' kill ya!'

Caudill chuckled. 'Who? You, ol' man? Don't'cha make me bust a vessel laughin’, will ya? What'cha gonna do? Beat me ta death with those slinky stumps ya got where yer feet should be?' An' then Caudill throwed his head back agin, an' let loose with a fresh burst'a laughter so loud it'd probably wake up half the folks layin' in Beall Cemetery.

It were mighty embarrassin', it were, fer Grandpappy, ta have this rube walkin' inta his home an' makin' a mockery of him. But, lo, there weren't nothin' Grandpap could do, not confined ta the blasted chair an' with no feet!

'Yeah. I’ll’se bet'cher still humpin' dogs, ya old cracker, huh? So poor out here ya probably got's ta blow yer nose in yer hand whenever ya git hungry? Ain't gots nothin' but crusty sticks fer feet, ain't got no life 'cept ta sit here starin' at the wall. Why don't'cha do the world a favor, ol' coot, an' dig yerself a big hole an' buries yerself.'

Caudill's fat face gleamed in the sunlight, an' turnt fairly pink from the next round'a laughter. An’ ol’ Grandpap Martin, right then he could'a put a gun ta his head was how low and disgraced he felt. But then—

Then-

Then front door swang open.

An’ it were Travis who walked in.

........

Cummings parked in a wooded dell just off of the old Governor's Bridge. Just after noon. Gloved, now, he very carefully wiped down each bag of cocaine with isopropanol to eradicate his prints in the event anyone found the empty bags. Then he slit each bag—all 10 of them—and dumped them over the side, where they splashed gently into the burbling creek below. There's going to be some high fish in Russell County today, he thought. Keeping the cocaine would've defied even his ethics. Even if he did have a way to sell it. he didn't want to contribute any more to the denigration of America. The money would be enough. And killing Spaz and Dutch?

Fuck them, he rationalized. They were drug dealers.

Next, he knew, he'd have to stash the money, give that fire he'd set, as well as its potential consequences, plenty of time to cool off. He wasn't too keen on the idea of driving around in a federal police car with a trunk full of $100 bills. But where could he make the stash?

The sky, bright, cloudless, gorgeous, beckoned him. He pulled out of the dell and eventually cruised back to the Route. The afterimage of what he'd done remained surprisingly neutral. Killed two guys, burned a shack, dumped 10 keys in the drink, and walked with enough cash to fix the state deficit. Cummings shrugged. But it was all for something more important, wasn't it? It was for Kath. It was for the kind of life she deserved. And those two dealers? The world wouldn't likely miss them.

He pulled over around the next bend: a girl in ragtag clothes was limping along the shoulder. A hill girl. Give her a ride, he thought. It was easy to be charitable when you had a bag of c- notes in your trunk.

'Howdy,' she said. 'Thanks much.'

'No problem.'

“I'se—' Then she stalled. The car, true, was unmarked, but Cummings himself wasn't, not in his navy-blue police tunic and gold badge, and not with a gunbelt around his waist. 'Relax.' he said. 'I'm not looking to hassle anyone.'

“You're ATF, ain't ya?' she said.