Fiction: A Killing on a Bridge (78) A historical fiction

Saint Sebastian River Bridge
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By Roger Owens

Thursday,
January 10, 1924,
5:00 AM

As the column of cars and trucks crawled through the predawn darkness along the raised marl and sand roads heading into Gomez Grant, with water on either side, Red Dedge was skeptical.
    This was the third raid against the Ashleys he’d been on, two with Saint Lucie County John Merritt, who was not one damn bit happy with his latest volunteer. The memory of losing a lawsuit to this young man, or rather buying his way out of it, was too fresh.
    They’d found stills, and busted them up, while loading up any and all liquor that could be carried away but for what they drank on the spot, and shot three dogs. But not one man had been caught tending either still, one in the swamps of Fellsmere and one off Eleven-Mile Road, west of Fort Pierce.
    The locals, the Sloans, Rawlersons, Rices, Sutherlins, the Storeys; all were on the lookout for John’s business, ready to warn his workers off at the sight of lawmen.
    Red, already pissed off he hadn’t got to shoot any Ashleys or even their workers, wasn’t too happy about the dogs. He was never a dog man, but it didn’t seem right shooting a man’s dog like that, just from spite. They were just barking, chained up, couldn’t a’ bit nobody if they’d wanted to.
    This raid, which he hoped would be more productive than the earlier ones, was with Sheriff Bobby Baker in Palm Beach County. Rather, it was with his deputies; not that Bobby Baker lacked gumption, no sir. Bobby wasn’t there, because he’d chased down so many gun thugs and bootleggers that one of them had finally turned on him and shot his foot damn near off. His days of actually chasing them down personally came to a screeching halt.

Sheriff Bobby Baker had grit

    But Sheriff Bobby Baker had grit. He had will and determination, and Red Dedge, recognizing similar qualities in himself, admired that, especially in a man who had been maimed, somewhat like Guy had. He didn’t quit.
    He also had one more thing Red Dedge valued: he had a long-time, personal beef with John Ashley, and wanted him dead as of yesterday. In this, the Sheriff and the young farmer were of one mind.
    The road led south to an area with more dry land, and before the sun was up the carloads of men pulled off in a clearing and got out. The sounds of men checking and loading weapons made small clicks, scrapes and taps of metal on metal, barely audible above the birds singing for the dawn to come.
    Men coughed, farted, lit cigarettes, and slurped coffee prepared by their wives from vacuum bottles called “Thermoses”. Invented by a Scot named Dewar, the device and the name had been patented by three German glassblowers in the 1910’s and were an instant hit.
    Red had no such bottle, but one of the Palm Beach Sheriffs, a man Red would learn later was Fred Baker, the Sheriff’s cousin, gave him a cup. He sipped it up quick, tossed the dregs and handed the cup back. “Thank you, Deputy.”
    The man shook his head. “No, son, thank you. We appreciate y’all comin’ to help out. These are some bad boys out here.”
    Red nodded. “Don’t I know it. I want them dead,” and the Deputy raised his eyebrows; this young volunteer clearly had no sympathy for the gang.
    There were five more men who had volunteered, and seven Sheriff’s Deputies. All carried rifles, shotguns or handguns.
    Red saw Parkers, Ivar Johnsons, Colts, Winchesters. Police and Military revolvers, Army surplus .45 automatics, and a few 1903 Springfields, rifles from the Great War. Red carried the Gewehr ’98, plus the late Roy Matthews’ .45 in his waistband. He wore a short-sleeved plaid shirt over his union suit, and overhauls with his pockets loaded with extra magazines for the rifle and the pistol.
    The Deputy who’d given Red the coffee whistled softly and the men gathered around.
    “The story is,” he started softly, “the gang has a camp and still up this road about a quarter of a mile.”
    One man farted loudly, sparking light laughter.

“Wha’d that asshole say?”

    “Wha’d that asshole say?” somebody quipped.
    “All right, keep it down. We don’t know who we might find here, but we’re hoping for some of the main bad boys, maybe even John himself.”
    Another low whistle, and a different Deputy said, “Watch your asses, boys, he’s a good a shot as anybody I ever saw.”
    That produced a rustle, some men bristling in anger, some shuddering in fear, all the same in the dawn shadows.
    “All right, check your loads, boys, don’t go cocked, I don’t want somebody tripping over his dick and shooting me in the ass.”
    More chuckles, and the tiny noises of guns being checked again.
    Red jacked a round into the Gewehr, and two men jumped at the distinctive double click.
    “Where the fuck’d you get a German rifle, boy?” one asked, angry. It had clearly scared him, reminded him of the war.
    Red didn’t give a damn. “Long story.” He started up the road, the leader by default, and the rest followed as the sun shone through the trees on the eastern horizon.
    With that sun on their left, it was easy to spot the sandy trail to the right, headed west. The lead deputy signaled the group that way, but Red put a hand on his arm.
    “Turns out I’m pretty good with this thing, an’ I c’n stalk a hog so’s he never hears me ’til it’s too late. I want to go out to the right and see if I c’n get the drop on one of ’em from there. You just tell the boys not to shoot me in the ass, either.”
    The deputy raised his eyebrows again, but just nodded.
    Red crept north, got out about twenty yards, and began advancing along the direction of the path. The smell of woodsmoke in the air thickened, then the sweet, rotten smell of cane squeeze cooking came on the breeze.
    Red spotted the canvas roof of an Army Surplus tent, a big one, with a wooden frame. Kind of place you could spend some time, like a hunt camp. Or a moonshine still.

This was too easy

    Something began needling the back of Red’s brain, making his eyes squint and his neck hairs rise. This was too easy. They should never have got within a hundred yards of this place. Didn’t these hard boys have enough sense to put out guards?
    The Deputies and most of the volunteers were making enough noise, in Red’s opinion, to wake the dead over in Naples, across the Everglades. Apparently, someone else thought so too—the two volunteers who’d started at the sound of his rifle were between him and the rest coming in on the trail—and the one who’d braced him nodded at his silent approach.
    Obviously a veteran, he indicated with a finger Red should go out to the right a bit farther, while he and his partner would advance but not enough to cross his line of fire.
    Two fingers at his eyes and a finger at the Army tent got a nod from Red, telling him the boy had seen it. Red then melted into the bushes and took up a lead that would put him on the flank of the attack if the shooting started.
    The utter silence had about convinced Red Dedge this raid was another dry well. They’d bust up a still, the civilians would likely get drunk, maybe the Deputies too, and they’d haul off a ton of illegal liquor, every man taking all he could for himself.
    He just hoped nobody would shoot any dogs. The mood he was in, having missed his chance at them God damn Ashleys for the third time, he might just belt somebody in the mouth for shooting a tied dog. Once the damn thing barked, all surprise was gone, so what was the point?
    Red looked back to where he expected the veterans, saw them crouched behind some downed pine trees, a tangle of rotted logs that would provide cover and concealment.
    The Deputy in charge, Fred Baker, was behind some palmettos, and Red wanted to warn him they wouldn’t stop a bullet. Concealment, but no cover. If John Ashley laid eyes on you, you were a dead man.
    Right then was when the dog started barking.

Someone shot the dog

    Someone shot the dog, and it screeched in pain.
    Red cursed out loud. “If the poor dog ain’t woke ’em up, you sure just did, you dumb son of a bitch!”
    The dog continued howling, then sank to whimpering, sure to put blood in the eye of his owner.
    He saw the veterans shaking their heads, and they started firing at the tent. All the Deputies and the other volunteers let loose at the same time.
    Red held off, still hoping to play the sniper. Just like shooting hogs, keep quiet ’til they showed themselves.
    Despite the blasts from the guns, he heard shouting from the tent, and more from off to the far side on his left, to the west. More than one group, then, or maybe that other voice was just one man tending to the still. Had to keep that fire going just right, keep that temperature just below boiling, to get the best ’shine.
    That’s what Guy always said, anyway, and Guy made some damn fine liquor. Often sat up night and day, drunker’n Cooter Brown, to keep that fire just right.
    Gunsmoke drifted through the trees, the stink mixing with that of the distillery, but as yet no firing came from the other side. Red still didn’t like it.

Copyright © 2022 by Roger Owens