It wudn’t long before our living room was jammed with men. There were so many Mom put out piles of sweet rolls and made coffee in our canner. It was strange how they ate, kind of ripping the bread with their teeth like a dog killing a rabbit. There was a stink too, mixed in with the smell of sweat and tobacco. I’d smelled it before, but I couldn’t remember where. Cigarette smoke was layered out in the living room and parted in swirls as people walked through. Everyplace you looked there was a gun stuck in a man’s belt or a rifle or shotgun beside him. The talk was low, muffled, and constant, mostly about Mr. Mac, who had to show his bandage to everybody. All the close neighbors was there. Mr. Mac, Babe, Mr. Shackelford, Bess, Mr. Dillard, Mr. Lamb, Pers, Alfred, Rags, Mr. Langley, LD’s dad, Ervin, Mr. Hickman, who we never saw much but who lived near the Langleys, and several men I didn’t know.
Somebody yelled that the sheriff’s car was coming up our lane. I ran to the window of my room. There it come, splashes of red and white light flying. As it got near our yard, its high beams showed cars and trucks all over the place. Old Fords and Plymouths and Chevys were standing every which way, and the police car had to twist and turn to make it through. It pulled in beneath the biggest maple, then seemed to sit exploding color every half second. Finally, the door opened and three men got out. I figured the one driving was the sheriff, and the other two were deputies.
As the sheriff and deputies started up the rock walk to our door I raced back into the living room and found myself an empty spot in a corner. Pretty soon the room was jammed again with standing people. You couldn’t move. When somebody wanted coffee, they passed it one man to the next. It was stuffy, and even though a window was open, the air was still.
I had picked a bad place to stand. People filled the area around my corner, and I couldn’t see the lawmen, who were in a little clearing in the middle of the room. I wriggled between one pair of Levi’s-covered legs after another until I was behind a man standing near the sheriff. I could see pretty good if I moved my head when the man moved his legs. Everybody talked at the same time for a while, then the sheriff raised his hand and said that, okay, he wanted to take it from the top, and for the people who had got attacked to step forward.
Mr. Mac pushed into the clearing. His creaky old body looked wore-out next to the broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, young lawman who was wearing crisp brown law pants and brown shirt with a big star on his chest. It hit me then that I’d been attacked too, and I wriggled between the legs of the man in front of me and stood next to Mr. Mac.
“That it?” asked the sheriff, looking around.
“Hit’s ’nough,” said Bess Clark, and he wudn’t grinning like usual.
“Okay, sir,” the sheriff said, talking to Mr. Mac, “what happened to you?”
Mr. Mac looked like he was trying to figure it out, then he said, “Well sir, hit happened s’ fast I hardly even know. ’Bout six this evenin’ Babe went out for groceries and I went out t’ milk. I hung my lantern in the rafters like always and went at it. When I finished milkin’ I left th’ lantern in the barn ’cause I had slops t’ carry back and needed both hands. While I’m on my way from th’ house with th’ slop I hear horses whinnyin’. When I got t’ th’ barn th’ insides was burnin’. I dropped the slops and run t’ open th’ stalls. Fire was ev’rywhere ’cause th’ hay caught fire. Somehow I got th’ stalls open and all th’ animals out, then I run out th’ far end. All of a sudden, through th’ smoky light, I see this . . . thing. It was covered with rags and hair, and the second I see him, he yells, ‘Woe to the wicked!’ That’s what he yelled, and staggered toward me. I managed t’ just make hit a little out th’ way of his big knife . . . blade maybe a foot long and two inches wide . . . come slashin’ down at me and sliced through th’ hide of my chest. I yelled and stumbled around hardly knowin’ what t’ do, then here he come again and I took off runnin’ through th’ flamin’ barn toward th’ house. How I made hit I’ll never know,” and he shook his head. “Flames was everywhere. Only burn I got was on my hand. Think I was just too damn scared t’ burn if y’ ask—”
“What did you do then?” asked the sheriff.
“Why, I run in th’ house and got old Betsy,” and he patted his long pistol.
“What did you do next?”
Mr. Mac looked at the sheriff like he was crazy or something. “Headed back out t’ th’ barn. I was gonna blow his ass off. Just as I got t’ th’ yard gate, here come Babe in th’ Ford goin’ like sixty. He was headin’ straight toward th’ fire. I went runnin’ toward him hard as I could, yellin’, ‘Babe . . . Babe . . . look out, Babe, there’s a crazy sonamabitch out there with a knife, son.’ When I got up t’ Babe, he grabbed me and yelled, ‘Pa, you’re bleedin’ like a stuck hog.’ I looked down, and by God, I was. Babe yelled, ‘Let’s get t’ Zilkner’s, and get some help!’
“I jumped in th’ car and we went racin’ over, me holdin’ some rags against th’ cut. When we got to th’ pike, here come Morse, roarin’ down his lane in his Ford t’ help us. I leaned out the window and yelled hit was too late ’bout th’ barn and I’d been stabbed by a crazy man and needed help. He yelled t’ go on up th’ house and Liz and Naomi would work on me and that Samuel was missing and for Babe t’ go down toward th’ Little Bend bottoms lookin’ after he dropped me off, and he’d drive down th’ Dry Branch Road.”
“What happened then?” asked the sheriff.
“Well, they patched me up some while Babe and Morse did what they was s’posed to. Short time later, Samuel come home. When Morse didn’t find him, he come back here t’ check. Then Babe called and Morse sent him and others to warn th’ neighbors. Morse called you ’bout then. Reckon you know th’ rest.”
When Mr. Mac said that everybody started talking to each other, at first just muttering, then it started getting louder.
“What happened t’ you?” the sheriff asked, looking at me, and the room got quiet again.
My heart sank as I thought about Ben. I couldn’t answer for a moment, then I blurted out, “I was comin’ back from fishin’ and th’ crazy man tried to stab me with a knife this long,” and I held my hands about two foot apart.
The sheriff’s eyebrows rose. “Where?” he asked.
“In th’ heart, I think.”
Everybody laughed, and th’ sheriff said, “Naw, I mean where’d this happen?”
I told the story, being careful not to mention Ben but still not lie. It was hard and a couple times I got the feeling that the sheriff smelled a rat, because his face looked like he was kind of wondering as I talked. That scared me and my voice started shaking and my knees got jelly. I kept thinking he knew I wudn’t telling it all and he was gonna get Ben. Dad was beside me like a shot with his arm around my shoulders.
The sheriff stared at me for a while, then he turned back to Mr. Mac. “Sounds like he hit you first then caught th’ boy while he was makin’ his way back t’ wherever he holes up.”
“Shit, that’s down my way,” muttered Mr. Hickman, who had been cleaning his long, dirty fingernails with a pocketknife. His eyes were wide now, and his black sailor beard tilted sideways as he squenched his mouth and twisted his big heavy shoulders, causing the straps of his bib overalls to wriggle. Muttering started again and was getting louder.
“A body could hide out forever in some of them Big Bend cliffs,” Mr. Langley said, and people shook their heads yes. “Them cliffs got a cave ever hunnert foot.”
Bess Clark had been standing with his back against the wall not moving anything but his eyes while the different people spoke. When Mr. Langley finished, he stroked his mouth and chin with his hand and spoke to Mr. Mac. “Wha’d he look like, George?”
People stopped talking.
“Just by God awful,” Mr. Mac answered. “Must’ve been six-foot-four or -five and had a chest on him an ax han’le across. Hair everywhere. Face like a bear. Rags just hung offa him ’n’ stink, goddamn!”
“Yeah, I smelled him too,” I broke in, suddenly remembering. I could still smell it, but nowhere near as strong as at the fence. Nobody in the room seemed to notice but me.
Bess lit a cigarette and kept looking at Mr. Mac as he blew out smoke. “You say he staggered, and Samuel says he fell. Either of you see how he walked?”
Mr. Mac shook his head. “I was tryin’ t’ stay alive! Wouldn’t of knowed if he flew.”
Bess looked from Mr. Mac to me and I shook my head too.
“What you gettin’ at, Mr. Clark?” the sheriff asked.
“Well . . . I was wondering if he was lame. A fisherman few years back said he was chased out of th’ Little Bend bottoms by a wild man with a limp. They’s always been strange sightin’s down there . . . tracks and things . . . some of ’em crooked. Especially around that water pool they call th’ Blue Hole. We were close to it when we went huntin’ for that sheep killer. That’s the place they found the Collins woman and her two little girls.”
Suddenly, everybody was talking. The sheriff held up his hands and Bess stopped. “I never heard any of this before. Who are th’ Collinses, Mr. Clark, and what happened t’ them?”
“They were bottom farmers,” Bess answered. “Lived just before th’ Little Bend turn of th’ river. They built a house above th’ flood line . . . leastways that’s what everybody thought until one spring ten, twelve year ago there was a flood. The river crested short of their cabin, then some terrible rains come upstream. A wall of water musta hit th’ Collinses in th’ dead a night. Looked like they lashed themselves together and tried t’ swim for hit. They found th’ woman and kids and th’ loop that went around Ralph in that Blue Hole, but they never found Ralph. Since that time, strange things have happened on that stretch of river.”
“Like what, Mr. Clark?” asked the sheriff, and he had to hold up his hand again because everybody started telling him about things that had happened.
Bess thought for a moment, then said, “Well . . . like animals have left there. Couple years later two people drowned in th’ Blue Hole. Two, three years after that an old trapper claimed he was chased up th’ cliff by somebody callin’ in th’ name of th’ Lord. Said he was almost had when this guy fell back down th’ cliff.”
“Where’s this old man now?” the sheriff asked.
“Aw, he died three, four year ago,” said Bess.
Mr. Shackelford laughed. “Shit, Bess, old man Hackett was crazier’n a hoot owl. He was always talkin’ about findin’ that Dutchman’s mine out West, and bushels of gold, and Indians doing sacrifices by cuttin’ people’s hearts out. He even claimed he talked to th’ Devil.”
The sheriff raised his eyebrows, and Mr. Shackelford said, “Yeah! Crazier’n hell!”
“I don’t think that’s crazy, Mr. Shackelford,” come a voice from the rear, and without looking I knew it was LD’s dad.
“Aw, come on Zack. That wudn’t no Devil out there tonight,” said Bess.
I turned around and saw Mr. Howard standing near the kitchen door. He raised his right arm and pointed at Bess. “You don’t know what it was,” he said, his voice rising. “I say that place in th’ Little Bend bottoms is evil. It’s got th’ mark of Satan. I’ve tried t’ get th’ people in this community t’ have a prayer meetin’ at that Blue Hole and float a Bible and a cross on hit, but everybody’s too scared or has too little faith. They’d rather make th’ Devil’s brew.”
I turned and saw Bess Clark lurch forward. He spoke quick. “Now, you just wait a goddamn minute, what other folks do is none of your bus—”
“Hold it, boys. Hold it,” said the sheriff. “We’re trying to catch a suspect who is still at large and dangerous and we can’t do it fightin’ among ourselves.”
Bess relaxed some, but ever’ now and then he glared at Mr. Howard. The sheriff went on. “I want to know if any of you have any hard evidence that a dangerous man lives on that stretch of river. Now, I want real evidence. First, did any of y’all see those two drowned people and if you did was there any evidence of foul play?”
There was movement in the back of the room and a skinny man who was just a little taller than Dad worked his way forward. His hair was straight and black and hung to one side like he’d taken the time to comb it. His denim pants and light blue work shirt were neat and clean. When he got to the center of the room, he stopped and spoke to the sheriff. “I seen ’em,” he said real soft. “I found ’em. I had some stock out and saw buzzards circling down that way. Thought some of my animals might of died there.”
The sheriff looked at the skinny man for a moment. “Who are you, sir?”
“My name’s Lafe Miller. I live down on th’ Little Bend bottoms.”