Doug DonnanExecutive
Editor GTNW/OMNI-GENRE+MAGAZINE!
by
Doug Donnan
“Let us
endeavor so to live that when we come to die... even the undertaker will
grieve.”
-Mark
Twain
(Poco Madre, New Mexico 1878)
A
bold, waxing moon stared down from the heavens like some giant amber
owl’s eye.
Oddly enough there were only a
scant few pinheads of shimmering silver stars all around and
about in that very same obsidian
midnight sky. With the very next breath, it was also a
decidedly unholy hour for any
ordinary, God-fearing folks to be out and about conducting
any sort of normal business. And
there was certainly nothing normal about the business
that these two feckless fiends
were about. There also wasn’t much to attract anybody in
particular to this Godforsaken helter-skelter graveyard save
for some grieving kinfolk, a sad
brood of holier-than-thou sanctimonious mourners and, just
perhaps, the odd, ghoulish would
be midnight grave robber or two.
For the record
nary a one of the scant and scattered residents of the tiny tumbleweed
town of Poco Madre could ever recall seeing the shady pair
of Hobb and Malachai with
even a hapless stray dog, much less what might be considered
a possible friend or family
member. And so, if for some unknown reason the occasion
might ever happen to arise,
this pair of disheveled ne’er-do-wells would most probably
have been easily singled out
from one of Sheriff Bragg’s ad hoc criminal lineups as the
two most likely candidates for
the latter ghoulish enterprise.
***
“You jist keep on
diggin’ Hobb,” Malachai hushed and then spat a dark unctuous
gob of something over his shoulder. “We gotta’ git that box
under there back to that
damned grizzly mortishun’ Von Poog if we wanna’ git paid.
He’s gonna’ pay us double
what he normally does. It’s one of them fancy schmancy
gilded ones. He says it’s made
owta’ mahognee’ wood. The damn thing is lined in fine
Chinaman silk and filygreed’ with
gold and silver. Sheeyit’ you’d think that only ol' Moses
himself would be laid to rest in a
box like that, not the remains of that ol’ broad in the beam
butt wife of that tin-star Sheriff Bragg.”
“Wadja’ say that
undertaker fella’ does with these here coffins?” Hobb grunted as he
splashed up another spade full of the cocoa colored clay.
“Keep yer’
coyote-callin’ voice down dammit,” Malachai shushed as he slapped at
the arching shovel’s rusty blade. “He’s one shrewd
businessman that one is. He cleans
em’ up inside and out, then secretly ships em’ off by rail
to Cheecago and other such high
falutin’ places. He re-sells em’ then pockets the profits.
The summa’ bitch wears silver
tooled and fashioned boots! Can you believe that? Silver
boots… jist' as pretty as you please.”
“Must be nice,”
Hobb sighed as he resumed his morbid moonlit efforts.
“Yep, the way I
got it figured mi amigo is that the sooner we git that damn box outa’
thiseer’ grave hole, the sooner me n’ you can—
“Lookin’ for
sumthin’…gentlemen?” a voice cut in evenly from off in the shadows of
some of the wind-bent carpentry shop crosses and
moss-covered headstones.
Malachai swung
his kerosene lantern around and crouched down some. He shifted his
squinting ice-eyed glare off into the blackness. “Whoozat?
Who’s out there?” he tried.
“Those oughta’
been my next questions for you amigo?” was the matter-of-fact reply.
It was Sheriff
Bragg. He stepped in close to the open grave, pistol drawn and pointed.
In the dancing glow of the lantern light he appeared as
might some kind of ghost or apparition.
His weathered gray Stetson was pulled down low in the front
almost like a drooping felt
shelf above his rather threatening hawk-like nose. A waxed
onyx handlebar mustache hung
down trim and true, highlighting and framing all of his
other chiseled facial features. Its
decidedly intimidating presence was that of an inverted
wrought iron horseshoe. His
bullet-black-eyed leer was not unlike that of some lithe,
stalking midnight puma or ravenous
mountain lion. “It’s been said by some that one single
picture is worth a thousand spoken
words. Now I ain’t gonna’ fly offn’ no handle out amongst
all those that are tryin' to rest
here in peace. And I ain’t gonna, ask you boys exactly why
you’re diggin’ up my wife’s
chosen spot. But I am gonna’ tell you to stop
what you’re doin’ there, get that dirt back in
that grave and make it back to the way it was…if not better.
Then we’re all gonna’ head
into town and have us a serious meetin’ in my office
regardin’ all this goolishness… comprende?”
“Whatev…whatever
you say sheriff,” from a stammering, wide-eyed Malachai.
“Yeh, we don’t
want no trouble,” from Hobb as he scrambled out of the hole and
began frantically scraping dirt back in.
“It’s a little
late for that I’m afraid,” Bragg replied evenly as he cocked back the
hammer of his Colt six shooter. “Besides, I got sumthin’
back at the jailhouse I think you might
wanna’ see.”
***
Due in large part
to Sheriff Bragg’s prompting pistol, the tidy wee hour parade
consisting of the sheriff atop his sauntering spotted
Appaloosa and the ragtag singular
mule powered buckboard of the grave robbers Hobb and
Malachai arrived at the Poco
Madre jailhouse in nothing less than short order. The
patiently descending blonde moon now
appeared to be stuck just on the pinnacle of the town’s
white washed clapboard church
steeple a piece-ways down the stone and clay main road. A
family of wandering sagebrush
laden tumbleweeds wafted past the trio of late night riders
as if the ghostly rolling
anomalies might be late for some terribly important meeting
or clandestine appointment.
“You boys just go
on in first,” Bragg said as he carefully dismounted his snorting
stallion there at the post just above the water trough.
“Deputy Hopper’s waitin’ inside
there somewheres and he’s got him a scattergun, so don’t
ya’ll try nuthin’ that might get
ya’ blown into the middle a’ next week. I’ll be along
drekly’.”
“Gotcha’
sheriff,” from the jittery Malachai. “We’ll hang around with yer’ depity till
you git back.”
“Hmm,” from
Sheriff Bragg with a sardonic smile as he tied off his horse. “You truly
missed yer’ callin’ my grave robbin’ friend. You coulda’
been one of them gypsy fortune
tellers in a travlin’ circus sideshow. Now git' on in there
n’ shut yer’ goddam mouth!”
***
“You boys jist'
come on in and have a seat on that bench over there,” Hopper more or less
ordered from his seat behind the sheriff’s oaken desk.
Deputy Hoppper was a long and
tall drink of water with dull wrinkly tip boots and a
stained, tilted khaki hat that resembled the
sheriff’s hardy Stetson in a scant few ways. His wispy
attempt at a mustache only made his
slightly off center pug nose that much more noticeable. The
young deputy’s jug-handle
pink ears protruded out at almost forty-five degree angles
on either side of the pushing
sides of that decidedly oversized hat. Overall he resembled
an elongated blue denim-
legged hog wearing a big hat with an almost translucent
caterpillar rather awkwardly
positioned beneath its snout. His lanky legs were crossed
atop the desk. The aforementioned
double-barreled shotgun was nestled across the jutting arms
of the high back wooden chair.
An out of town jailhouse visitor might have easily mistaken
him, albeit only briefly, for
someone in charge of something that mattered or was even
remotely important.
“Sure, sure
depity,’ Malachai replied softly as he and Hobb performed a kind of sand
crab like shuffle around the desk and over to the bench by
the back door. “Say depity,
whataya’ think that there sheriff of yers’ aims to do with
us?” Malachai tried.
“Lemee’ give you
a piece of free advice amigo,” Hopper offered back coolly. “Don’t
speak unless yer’ spoken to, but since you asked I can
tell you this for a fact. In this
here state of New Mexico grave robbin’ is jist about as
serious an offense against the law
as horse stealin’. Here shortly, we’re gonna’ do exactly
what is required by the law.”
“Izat so,”
Malachai replied softly as though he might be mulling something over.
“Now I ain’t gonna’ press the issue too much Depity Hopper
and it ain’t even crossed my
mind to disagree with a man in your position around this
here town, but I’m jist' curious
how you seem to know so much about me and my friend heres’…
predicament? I mean
the sheriff ain’t even been inside here jist' yet.”
Before Hopper
could even formulate a proper indignant reply Sheriff Bragg burst in
the back entrance. The whole room immediately snapped to
attention as if they were all
responding to a trumpeter’s early morning reveille
blast.
“Sun’s comin’
up,” he announced as if he were now in some court of law. “Grab that
ol’ bible outa’ my top drawer there Hopper. These boys jist'
might have enough time to
find religion ‘fore they go.”
“Go,” Hobb
snapped back. The equally perplexed Malachai remembered the sheriff’s
initial order out front. He decided it would behoove him, if
not the simpleton Hobb, to
remain silent. “Where we goin’ now sheriff? Hell, we only
jist' got here!” Hobb pressed as he
folded his stubby arms across the mud and wrinkles of his
tattered, khaki rawhide coat.
“We’re all gonna’
step out back here on the deck my little dirt slingin’ friend,” Bragg
replied with a sinister scowl as he swung wide the back
door. “I tol’ you boys that I got
sumthin’ for you both to see…remember?” he cupped a
massive hand around each of
their shoulders and then slowly ushered the two grave
robbers just outside as though he
might be escorting them to some type of special event or
dedication ceremony.
***
The golden disk
of the powerful morning sun was just peeking over the lofty slats of
the jailhouse’ sturdy yellow-pine plank and slat fence. At
intermittent intervals, certain
fractured cracks and
hummingbird-sized knotholes allowed in its candescent blazing rays.
Somewhere, far off beyond the ubiquitous cactus covered
undulating mesas, a duet of
competing banty roosters took turns cock-a-doodle-dooing
their first light-of-day calls.
Deputy Hopper had taken the three steps down to the muddy
backyard, leaving them there at
the decks’ wooden railing shielding their eyes from the
blinding sun. He crossed over just
beneath them and headed for the east side of the broad open
yard. Hobb eventually saw
his bobbing hat below from the right corners of his
squinting pigeon-button eyes.
“Where in tarnashun’ is he goin’
sheriff? Seems to me you oughta’ at least tell us…
Jesus Christ! What’s all that about over there?” he
shouted out as he studied the large
ominous oaken stage frame that was jutting out from the
eastern side of the fenced in
area. The dark platform was rudimentary at best, consisting
of a massive overhead
crossbeam supported on either side by two buttressing
upright wooden pillars or spars.
There were three long, broad, neatly tied lengths of ship’s
rope spaced out and suspended
from the looming triple channeled crossbeam. From the middle
position of the platform,
just above its own tripped and open trap door, now very
slowly twisting round at the end
of that particular rope's fully tightened slipknot, hung a
lanky burlap-bag hooded
body dressed in a coal-black ankle length
Sunday-go-to-meetin' altar cassock.
“Holy Mother of
God,” from Hobb. “It’s a damn gallows! You fixin' to hang us sheriff?
Just like that…without no trial or nuthin’?”
Sheriff Bragg handed
him the little Bible he had gotten from Hopper. “Better say sumthin’
quick to yer' maker son. Maybe he might be a touch more
forgivin’ than yers’ truly here.”
“Damn sheriff, I
reckun’ you caught us red handed alright out there in that boneyard,
but ya’ gotta’ tell me before ya’ string us up…how in
hell did ya’ know what we was up to?”
“Somebody turned
on ya’ amigo,” Bragg smiled and then looked over at the gallows.
“We caught up with him out at the train depot. It
didn’t take too much convincin’ on our
part to shake the rest of the beans out of his dirty can.”
Malachai elbowed
the little cowering gravedigger sharply in the ribs. “His feet ya'
damn fool, check out that swingin’ bastards Goddam
feet!”
The mighty golden
sun had now topped the surrounding fence with all its power and
glory. Its magnificent phosphorescent white light kissed and
sparkled off the toes and
trimmings of the slowly twisting figure’s dangling boots...
the beautiful gleaming boots.
.
_____ The End _____
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