Fiction: A Killing on a Bridge (4) A historical fiction

Saint Sebastian River Bridge
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all published instalments]

By Roger Owens

April 1922, concluded

The man was probably fifty—like Red had thought, old—and looked more like a hillbilly than a swamp rat. He stood a hair short of six feet, with brawny shoulders and a bit of a belly. He wore jeans so old and dirty they were no longer blue but more grey. A white cotton work shirt and a leather hip coat covered his upper body, and he sported a wide-brimmed, low-topped hat almost like a country parson but with the top stove in.
    His thick shock of dirty white hair hung almost to his shoulders, and he had a long pointy mustache that laid back along his jaw like it was painted on. His eyes were so squinty you almost couldn’t see them, and made him look suspicious, like he didn’t believe a thing a man was saying. He confirmed Red’s figurin’: “My name’s Harlan Middleton. This hyere’s m’ cousin Skeeter Willis, from over Jackass Junction.”
    The other man, Willis, hadn’t said a word the whole time, and hadn’t moved the barrel of his over-under twelve gauge shotgun from dead on the Dedge boys. To Red’s amazement, at this introduction he grinned and lifted a hand to touch his hat, like they were at a Sunday social or something. He was big, six foot three easy, and heavy as a plough horse. He had a round face and no hair on his head at all Red could see under his ragged straw cowboy hat. A five-day scruff of beard, light as sunshine, was on his round, flat face. He wore a long-john shirt under faded overhauls. The grin stayed on his face, and the gun stayed right where it was, too.
    “Now suppose you boys tell us what the hell you’re doin’ out this a’way?” Middleton continued. “I highly disrecommend y’all lyin’ to us, ’cause Skeeter here, well, lyin’ really pisses him off. Ain’t that right, Skeeter?”
    Willis pursed his lips, still grinning, and nodded his agreement. Lying didn’t seem like a good idea to Red right then either, so he just got right to it.
    “Well, we’s a’cuttin’ some cypress to sell to the railroad over Vero way, and we got us a little sow there for camp meat.”
    Middleton looked over at the still and the storage can sittin’ next to it. “Looks like you’re doin’ a little moonshinin’ too, boys. Is it any good?”
    Guy raised a hand then, and said, “Hell yeah it’s good, good as any and better’n most. Our daddy done taught us ’shinin’ since we’as chillun.”

Let’s have us a snort or two

    The two older men looked at each other, and then Middleton surprised them by lowering his shotgun. He took off his hat and said, “So why don’t you boys just leave them guns and let’s have us a snort or two and see?”
    They started to move when Skeeter finally spoke. “Turn ’round and let me see yore backs, boys.” It was no wonder he didn’t talk much, his voice was rough as the bark on an old burr oak.
    A jolt of fear ran through the Dedge boys, but Middleton spoke up. “He ain’t a’gonna shoot ya, boys, he just wants to see if’n you got any guns hid.”
    They did as they were told, holding their hands up without prodding.
    “Lift yore shirts,” the scabbed voice called out, and they did. Satisfied, Willis lowered his over-under and they all went over to the still.
    Guy said, “Wait, we got a jug in th’ truck, onliest one we got. Try to carry as little as we can, don’t’cha see, on account of the weight and all.”
    Willis’s gun went right back up, and he motioned towards the truck with it. “G’one then.”
    Red started to move, and the varmint gun was on him in a split second. “Jus’ him.”
    Red nodded, and Guy went to the truck and brought out the jug.

He let out a long “Ahhh!”

    Middleton took the glass jug, hooked a finger in the neck ring and lifted it over his elbow—just like a hillbilly, Red thought again—and took several gulps. He lowered the jug, shaking his head, and let out a long “Ahhh!”
    Guy’s brows went up at how much he guzzled—it was strong medicine—and Middleton said, “Dayum, boys, that’s mighty fine! Try some, Skeeter.”
    Willis did the same, if anything downing more than Middleton had. He was a big-un, Red thought, he’d make two a’ me with half a’ Guy thow’ed in. Willis handed Guy the jug, letting out an “Ahhh” of his own, only it sounded like a bear growling. What was it with the man’s voice?
    Guy took the jug by the ring and held it in front of him, taking a good slash, but nothing like to two older men. Red took it and tried to give a good account but stopped after two gulps.
    Middleton took it back and hit it again, a little less this time. “Yep, mighty fine, boys.” He surprised them again by shaking their hands, and said, “Now who are you boys?”

“I’m Red Dedge, and this here’s my older brother Guy.”
    Middleton nodded, thinking. “Ain’t heard of no Dedges ’round these parts, y’all got any kin hereabouts?”
    Guy shook his head and Red said, “Nossir, most of our kinfolk is up ’round Jasper, Lake City, and on up into Georgia. We come down here tryin’ to make a start on our own, maybe find us wives. Ain’t neither of us found a girl we fancied up that’a way, so we thought we’d try somewhere differ’nt.”
    Middleton nodded. “So, what you plan on doin now?”
    Red raised his brows and said, “We figure to load up our last two or three truckloads of timber, pack up and go back over Vero way, and get back to farmin’. Another month’ll be time to start picking tomatoes, cukes and okra. The timber’ll hold us over till we can get some produce to market.”

“That’s Ashley territory y’know”

    “Vero, ya say?” Middleton eyed the still. “That there’s Ashley territory y’know. Them boys don’t take kindly to nobody ’shinin in they neck a’ th’ woods. Hear tell they’s mean as a bag of rattlers too. You don’t want to cross John Ashley, that one-eyed son of a bitch’ll kill ya soon’s look at’cha.”
    “No sir, we don’t do no sellin’ over thataway, we heard the same thing.”
    Willis took another snort from the jug, and the boys did too. The bark-voiced Skeeter looked on their woodpile with a gleam in his eye and said, “I’ll give ya a dollar a log right ’chere if’n you’ve a mind. Save you the haulin’ of it.”
    Red shook his head. “All the same to you, Mr. Willis sir, we c’n get two dollars a log over to the railroad, more for the big ones.”
    Middleton took the jug and downed another surprising slug. “Now, Skeeter, let the boys make their pay, they done worked for it, and the fact they snitched it from that bastard Howey just puts icin’ on the cake in my opinion. But,” and he took another shot, “you boys might consider movin’ yore operation up north a bit, over by Lake Helen Blazes and the Stick Marsh. They’s a rail line there called the Cypress and Southern, and cypress is what they do. It’d be a lot less of a haul for you and might pay better than the Flagler boys.”
    Red smiled. “That’s right neighborly of you, Mr. Middleton, sir, but we got us a farm over Gifford way needs lookin’ after.”
    Harlan smiled back. “Boys got manners, Skeeter, c’n tell they’s raised right. I like a feller got a civil tongue.”

He wondered if he’d stepped in it

Red took one more snort, and his head began to ring. The drink must have made him bold; he spoke without thinking. “Heard tell you killed a feller come fishin’ on your property. Kind of a surprise you bein’ so nice an’ all.”
    Middleton’s squinty eyes narrowed, and Red wondered if he’d stepped in it. Guy looked at him like he’d lost his marbles.
    “Now son, you oughtn’t go believin’ ever’thin’ you hear. It’s true I killed that man, but only after he pulled a derringer and shot ol’ Skeeter here in the throat when we told him to get off our land. We come up on him nettin’ in Fisher’s Creek, not just wettin’ a line. Takin’ commercial amounts of fish, steppin’ right in my dinnerplate. We told him he was trespassin’, didn’t even throw down ’cause he looked to be unarmed, told him plain and simple he had to leave, and wasn’t takin’ the hunnerd or so pounds of fish he had with him off our creek neither. That’s why Skeeter sounds like a ripsaw bitin’ into a nail, on account of that skunk tried to kill us.”
    Red looked down, his face burning. “I shore am sorry Mr. Willis, sir.” Just then Guy slammed him on the shoulder with a heavy hand, sending him stumbling forward. “Y’arta be!”
    The men fell back, and Skeeter Willis started to strangle, or at least Red thought so. Then he saw Middleton grinning and he realized that awful noise was Skeeter laughing.
    Middleton brayed like a donkey, slapping his thigh, for all the great world just like a mountain man, Red thought drunkenly, then he was laughing too. Guy was hugging his shoulders laughing now, that good ol’ White Light’nin had struck and they commenced to falling about the place.
    Middleton pounded Willis’ back, Willis wheezed on fit to burst, Guy threw a headlock on Red and Red reversed it, then threw him out of it. It was a good move, they’d practiced it just to impress. Now, they did it for fun.
    When they’d all had a good laugh, Middleton got down to business. “Don’t worry ‘bout talkin’ up what happened t’ Skeeter, he don’t care, never talked much anyway, ain’t that right Skeeter? Boys, like I said, I don’t mind y’all takin’ timber ner anything else off of ol’ Howey, kind’a like it to tell the truth. But they do have agents, come ’round every so often to check on things, and they’s some mean-ass snakes. Hard cases runnin’ from the law, some renegade Seminoles, some just drunk tough boys. Fact is, they’s legitimated to shoot trespassers, and if them trespassers have anything worth stealin’, reckon they’re worth more dead than alive.” He looked at Skeeter.
    “It strikes me that they might very likely shoot the two of you. So, I would highly recommend y’all take my ad-vice about movin’ up by the Cypress and Southern, at least for now. ‘Bout time for them boys to be comin’ ’round for the spring check. Lookin’ for squatters planting beans or some shit on their precious land. Hell this land’s only good fer growin’ fish and ’skeeters, right Skeeter?”
    Red understood the timing, thinking they’d been lucky not to get caught out before. Some of them bark-skinned boys set to lookin’ for the likes of him and Guy had farms too, and if he and Guy were done weedin’, ploughin’, and plantin’, then so were they, some good few weeks back. Which would free them up for the season, to go hunt trespassin’ timber thieves like him and Guy. His understanding of the world grew a little right then, and his respect for what Middleton was doing grew with it.
    “Now you boys g’on’n load up yore goods, come back an’ git th’ rest, it’ll be here. Try up by Lake Helen Blazes, I hear they’se buyin’ ever’thing you c’n cut an’ more.”
    Red grabbed Guy’s arm and dragged him before the old man. “Mr. Middleton, we shore do appreciate you doin’ this for us, don’t we Guy?” Guy nodded, “Yessir, yessir we do…”
    The sun was showing way off to the east.

“You boys prob’ly oughtta get some shut-eye, shit, Skeeter, we done got ’em drunk on they own shine, ’fore noon too, now that ain’t right…”
    Skeeter nodded, and pulled a wad of greenbacks from his front pocket. Red’s eyes went wide as he peeled off a couple twenty-dollar bills.

“He’d like to buy what you got”

    “Reckon Skeeter’d like to buy what you got in that store can from the still.”
    Guy took the lead. “Jus’ let me get my jug full,”—Red’s hand cracked across the back of his head—“half full for our ride home…”
    Skeeter nodded, seeming to think this was only prudent. When it came to it, there was nothing to put the ’shine in, some six and a half gallons of it, that was left to sell after Guy had his jug three-quarters full, so Skeeter peeled off another ten dollars. “I’ll take the can too…” that gravel voice ground out.
    Guy’s eyes went big at that, the man was offerin’ them fifty dollars for a couple gallons of ’shine and a copper can. It was more than twice what they could have got for the ’shine and the can.
    He had the right answer as he took the money from Skeeter’s hand. “Much obliged, Mr. Willis.” He went to help lift the ’shine up, but Skeeter gathered up the can like it was a baby, clutching its bulk happily to his chest without the slightest sign of effort.

Copyright © 2022 by Roger Owens