FRANK AND CROCK BATTLED their way uphill, slogging up a muddy creek. Their boots scraped on moss-slick stones and their elbows were bloodied, their knees capped with mud. It was too steep for the carrying pole, so they took turns hauling the canvas-wrapped Gatling gun on their shoulders or against their chests, fighting every step of the way, foot after foot, inch after inch. A string of miners followed them with the tripod, magazines, and ammunition boxes.
At times, Frank could see little for the sweat burning his eyes. All he saw was Crock’s giant, muddy rump hovering over him, the man’s haunches quivering with exertion. Frank’s lungs felt like fiery wings inside his chest, and he thought again and again of the Guyandotte he’d crossed that morning—how dark and green and cool. He’d drunk mightily from the river and now it was pouring out of his skin.
He wondered how Crock was still going. The man was ox-strong but fleshy, like he’d never passed up a plate of fatback or funnel cake. Heat rash had broken out beneath his armpits and he was red-cheeked as Santa Claus in those tin Coca-Cola signs.
“Hey, Crock, anybody ever tell you you look like a likker-crazed Saint Nick? You come down from the North Pole to hand out hot lumps of lead to the naughty, that it?”
Crock paused and set his back against a tree, his boots propped on the wet roots squirming down the creekbank. He was cradling the canvas-wrapped parcel in his arms like a hundred-pound baby, the TEUFELSHUND tattoo heaving up and down on his hairy chest. He grinned. “Know what my daddy used to tell me?”
Frank shook his head. “What?”
“Daddy, he used to say, ‘Son, in this world, a ugly man’s got to be double tough compared to a handsome one. But you, my boy, you best be bulletproof.’”
They broke out laughing, cackling on and on like madmen, tears streaming down their cheeks. Frank fell forward on his hands, laughing so hard he could barely breathe, his body aching with the effort, while Crock was sneezing and snorting, the big gun bouncing against his belly. Below them, the others looked wide-eyed at one another.
Frank was glad to know if he were going crazy, he wasn’t going alone.
When he and Crock had recovered, they continued climbing, reaching a little flat spot on the creek where they found a likker still. The copper pot and spiral worm were well-built, not the cruder work of the blockaders around Lick Creek.
“Likely one of the Czar’s,” said Crock.
Sheriff Chafin was rumored to run a thriving whiskey trade out of Logan County, a well-financed operation.
“You jealous, Crock?”
The big mountaineer had made it clear that loading coal wasn’t his only vocation. He huffed. “Shit, t’ain’t but popskull compared to my doublings.” He set down the gun and fished his flask out of his bib pocket and sucked off a pull, hissing fumes through his dark teeth. He held out the flask to Frank. “Go on, get ye a slug of that.”
Frank looked at the proffered flask, the spigot still wet. He couldn’t in his life remember a white man offering him a drink from the same bottle or cup. They might work together in the mines, live on the same streets in the company towns, but certain lines stayed firm. He wasn’t much of a drinking man, but it would be a grave insult to refuse.
He took the glass flask and had a pull. A white-hot meteor roared down his throat, a blazing fist. His own breath scorched his nose hairs coming up. “Got damn, Crock. You trying to kill me?”
Crock sniggered. “That there’s my Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat run. It’ll drive ye car, straighten ye pecker, and burn ye neighbor’s house down, all in the same night.” He grinned like a proud father.
Almost noon when they finished setting up their shooting emplacement, pulling stones from the creek and mortaring them with mud. They mounted the Gatling gun on its tripod, loaded it with a fresh magazine, and swiveled it toward the enemy trenches two hundred feet below.
Their work had paid off—they’d flanked the defenders’ front line of trenches. They could now shoot nearly sideways along the enemy lines. It didn’t look like there was any spot along this spur flat enough to erect such a position, but Crock had seen something in the creek that told him there was a stilling site up there—enough flat ground to set up the gun.
He squinted down the barrels and elbowed Frank. “Now we’ll see how yon sons of bitches like a little something we call enfiladin’ fire.”