The morning paper screamed at him from the yellow Newspaper box in front of the town hall. Behind him Main Street was busy with traffic. The street bent downhill through a tunnel of summer-green maples, to where the sun played across the blue-green waters of the lake. The headline sucked the air from John's lungs. He felt the blood run cold from his face, tumbling icily through his body. It rebounded as a quiet gasp. It was just what Louis had foreseen.
THREE GIRLS DIE IN SPIRIT LAKE FIRE
the world seemed to tilt and twist away beneath his feet. One of the oldtimers on the bench nearby caught him at the last minute. Big powerful farm-hewn hands held John fast.
“Hey there, fella,” he said, quite concerned. “Having a spell, son?”
“Lost my balance,” John grinned dumbly, then hurried off along the street.
At the corner he lifted his hand skyward and let the sun filter through his fingers. So it was true, he realized. Everything that Louis had predicted had come true. And if that was the case, then what was to say that the rest would not come true as well? There was no reason to believe what he had said about Anna, and about John's death. That said, was there nothing he could do. Was fate a mighty river running inexorably to so unpredictable, but all too certain fate? Was it as small as a flower unfolding in spring or as large as the whole universe? In either case was he a king or a fool to that fate?
A truck turned the corner past the diner. John decided at that moment it was high time to put the issue of fate and Louis to the ultimate test. The truck coughed and lurched through its aging gears. It roared, belching black exhausted and charged up the street in John's direction.
John decided that thinking about it would only complicate things. It was a reflexive action, as he had learned to do in the war. Best not to think about what amounted to organized mass suicide, but rather just throw one's self into the gap once that whistle blew. John took a breath and stepped off the curb at the precise instant when it would be impossible for the truck to stop. He felt hollow and resigned, but more than that, fully at the helm of his own fate, which may or may not have been an illusion. John turned to face the onrushing truck directly and closed his eyes.
There was a rush of wind and the heat of the truck's engine. Tires screeched and a woman across the street screamed. John remained frozen, his eyes still closed. Not tightly closed, but closed. The woman, the birds in the maple trees and the burping exhaust as the truck's motor stalled were distant.
John opened his eyes to the billowy white clouds and summer blue sky. He was vaguely aware of someone shouting, even if he couldn't make them out at first or even cared. He was alone, sealed off and protected from the world. It took a moment before it all came rushing back in on him.
“Damned crazy fool!” shouted the truck driver, shaking his fist in rage. The burly, square-jawed fellow was red faced. Relief and surprise and fury competed alternately upon that red face. “Ought to have your head examined!”
John looked at him for a long moment, as though the driver was an alien creature, and that all of this was an observation or an experiment of some sort. He glanced over at the newspaper box again before turning up the street towards home.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Emmetsburg: Fifty-One
George opened the door and immediately perceived the change in atmosphere. Even in the stale still air of the front office it tasted decidedly less oppressive than the jail cells. Bremer noticed the blood on john's arm and looked at him alarmingly. He pushed past John and went directly to Louis' cell. He was back in the cot, fully surrendered to a deep sleep, as if nothing had happened.
“Everything all right, John?” George's tone was leading, suspecting something out of sorts. John waved his hand in the air. It was warm and pulsing with dull pain, and almost felt dead.
“Healing slowly,” he said unconvincingly. “Don't take much to open her up.”
“George frowned, and looked back at Louis. He didn’t believe him for a moment. “Hope you made your peace. Best you be going now.”
John had made his peace. He felt free of Louis. More than that, he felt he could adequately find the proper perspective for the doubts and questions he'd conjured from all this. He crossed the park, each step lifted by a renewed vigor. He'd never mention word of this to Anna. What a fool he had been to doubt her even for a moment, and if there was one thing he could take from this it would be to cherish her as long as breath remained in his body. There could be no accounting for eternity, but he could account for the quality of his love for her in this life. What else was there? What else could a man hope for?
“Everything all right, John?” George's tone was leading, suspecting something out of sorts. John waved his hand in the air. It was warm and pulsing with dull pain, and almost felt dead.
“Healing slowly,” he said unconvincingly. “Don't take much to open her up.”
“George frowned, and looked back at Louis. He didn’t believe him for a moment. “Hope you made your peace. Best you be going now.”
John had made his peace. He felt free of Louis. More than that, he felt he could adequately find the proper perspective for the doubts and questions he'd conjured from all this. He crossed the park, each step lifted by a renewed vigor. He'd never mention word of this to Anna. What a fool he had been to doubt her even for a moment, and if there was one thing he could take from this it would be to cherish her as long as breath remained in his body. There could be no accounting for eternity, but he could account for the quality of his love for her in this life. What else was there? What else could a man hope for?
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Emmetsburg: Fifty
George Bremer's office was just up the stairs. With each step John was tearing this moment apart. He wondered what George would say, or if he would think John a fool. By the time he reached the top of the stairs John wasn't certain himself. When he reached the Sheriff's door John was convinced that he was indeed. Despite himself John's hand went out and knocked without confidence on the door. Without awaiting a reply John turned the brass knob and pushed his head through the gap.
The room was a fog of bitter cream-white cigar smoke, carrying herbal chill. It hung as strands and nebulous banks, scattering sunlight [pouring through half open blinds in a rhythm of shadow and light. George sat in the far corner of the room upon a small wooden chair, away from his desk and almost lost to dingy shadow.
The cigar was a mere stub between George's teeth, where it was more chewed than smoked any longer. With the thumb and forefinger George pulled the stub from his teeth. He gave a casual nod and gestured John into the room. John obliged, sweeping a hand before his face and disturbing filaments of smoke there.
“Best close the door, John.” he said with a whimsical quality. “Mildred hates the smell. Like having two wives. Don't imagine how them Arab fellas do it. Got enough on my plate with just one, and Mildred.”
John managed a smile. “Something again air, George?”
“Not as long as I can see it!”
“Don't know, George,” said John, waving at the smoke again. Not that it really bothered him all that much.
George leaned forward in the chair and stretched to tap a butt from the open window. “Wife won't let me smoke at home.”
“Can't imagine why.”
“Never had a taste for the smoke, eh?”
“Never cared for it personally.”
“Cigarettes,” George began, thoughtfully, “are for young boys, the nervous and the condemned, but a cigar, John, a cigar is for the thinking man.”
“That so,” said John.
George popped the cigar back into his mouth, moving it from one side to the other between his teeth. “But you didn't come here to talk about cigars, now did you. What can I do ya for?”
“Need to see Stanton.” John felt as if he had forced the words out, like spitting out something vile and distasteful.
George was immediately against the idea, shaking his head strongly from side to side. “John, I'm...”
“I'm asking this one favor,” John said quickly, almost pleading, at least as much as his ego and soul would allow.
George leaned back, tipping back in the chair and chewing the end of his cigar, as though it helped him to think.
“What's your business with this fella?”
“Can't say.”
“Something that might concern the law, John?”
“Nothing like that.” John looked him square in the eye. “Business between him and me.”
“Nothing to do with that girl?” George asked.
“Nope.”
George studied the cigar in his fingers and pursed his lips. He rubbed his bent brow roughly with a thumb and forefinger.
“Put me in an awful spot, John, anyone should hear of this.”
“Five minutes is all I'm asking.”
Man could get in a lot of trouble in five minutes.” George took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His gaze hovered near the floor a moment. Tapping out a butt, he threw the cigar back between his teeth and looked up at John. “I'll give you two.”
John nodded his appreciation. “Two'll do just fine.”
The room was a fog of bitter cream-white cigar smoke, carrying herbal chill. It hung as strands and nebulous banks, scattering sunlight [pouring through half open blinds in a rhythm of shadow and light. George sat in the far corner of the room upon a small wooden chair, away from his desk and almost lost to dingy shadow.
The cigar was a mere stub between George's teeth, where it was more chewed than smoked any longer. With the thumb and forefinger George pulled the stub from his teeth. He gave a casual nod and gestured John into the room. John obliged, sweeping a hand before his face and disturbing filaments of smoke there.
“Best close the door, John.” he said with a whimsical quality. “Mildred hates the smell. Like having two wives. Don't imagine how them Arab fellas do it. Got enough on my plate with just one, and Mildred.”
John managed a smile. “Something again air, George?”
“Not as long as I can see it!”
“Don't know, George,” said John, waving at the smoke again. Not that it really bothered him all that much.
George leaned forward in the chair and stretched to tap a butt from the open window. “Wife won't let me smoke at home.”
“Can't imagine why.”
“Never had a taste for the smoke, eh?”
“Never cared for it personally.”
“Cigarettes,” George began, thoughtfully, “are for young boys, the nervous and the condemned, but a cigar, John, a cigar is for the thinking man.”
“That so,” said John.
George popped the cigar back into his mouth, moving it from one side to the other between his teeth. “But you didn't come here to talk about cigars, now did you. What can I do ya for?”
“Need to see Stanton.” John felt as if he had forced the words out, like spitting out something vile and distasteful.
George was immediately against the idea, shaking his head strongly from side to side. “John, I'm...”
“I'm asking this one favor,” John said quickly, almost pleading, at least as much as his ego and soul would allow.
George leaned back, tipping back in the chair and chewing the end of his cigar, as though it helped him to think.
“What's your business with this fella?”
“Can't say.”
“Something that might concern the law, John?”
“Nothing like that.” John looked him square in the eye. “Business between him and me.”
“Nothing to do with that girl?” George asked.
“Nope.”
George studied the cigar in his fingers and pursed his lips. He rubbed his bent brow roughly with a thumb and forefinger.
“Put me in an awful spot, John, anyone should hear of this.”
“Five minutes is all I'm asking.”
Man could get in a lot of trouble in five minutes.” George took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His gaze hovered near the floor a moment. Tapping out a butt, he threw the cigar back between his teeth and looked up at John. “I'll give you two.”
John nodded his appreciation. “Two'll do just fine.”
Emmetsburg: Forty-nine
Umber. John hesitated at the steps to the jail across from the courthouse in Emmetsburg. It might have been better to leave well enough alone. A weaker part of him felt as though he'd been given a reprieve from the fate Louis described. The better part of him felt sure it was nothing more than the ramblings of a criminally insane man. But if all that was true, why did the questions persist in haunting him so?
How did Louis know about Bert Himmel? That little mystery added an undeniable weight to his ramblings, and had served to call into question so much that he took as unassailable. It plagued and shadowed damn near every thought and action that he might be living his final days, and that Anna would go off and find another love whom she might be just as happy or happier than with him. That specter made every breath and every moment agonizing. More, it caused him to question Anna and the very foundations of a love he prayed was eternal and exalted by God Himself. But if any of that were true, why did Louis not predict his own fate?
It wasn't much of a jail. The dull brown brick building was small, and partly painted in the mottled shade of a crooked oak. There were three cells at the back of the building, with old fashioned bars, straight out of some old Western movie. Most days they went unused, but for the occasional bar brawl, a drunk or two and vagrants coming in on out of town trains. Next to Louis Stanton the most dangerous criminals ever to grace Emmetsburg's jail were a couple out of towner's who, after attempting to blow up the bank at Cylinder, became so lost among tall August corn that they surrendered to the first farmer they came across. John found himself at the top of the step, almost without realizing, as if he was moving in a dream, as if he was a spectator in a foreign body.
John had questions. He had questions about Bert Himmel and how he knew old Bert would pass away that night. What was hardest for John to figure was, if Louis could see the future, why hadn't he predicted his own arrest? And what did that mean for John's fate, at least the one Louis predicted? Was it all the ramblings of a fool, or a con man who could read folks like some back alley Parisian Gypsy?
John went through the heavy wooden door, immediately assailed by the thin stale air within. It felt to him like a crypt, as it the air had not been let out in years, as if it was old and tired but whimsically melancholic. It was warmer inside than out on the street. The windows were up, but it did little for the heat. What it did do was let in the sounds off the street wheich, in that dulcid space, blended to a pale hollow din. On the back wall there were three eight by ten black and white portraits, hung vertically. President Hoover occupied the top spot. Below that was a porttrait of a pompous Vice President Curtis. Last was that of Govenor Daniel Turner. The walls were a faded shade of pale blue. Three heavy metal desks occupied the room, arranged neatly behind the receptionist's desk. All were a soft pea green, each with a pair of cherry-stained chairs set neatly before them. An American flag with dingy gold tassels hung limp on a pole in the far corner beside the stairs leading to George Bremer's second floor office.
Mildred O'connor, the receptionist. looked up from the Underwood typewriter. A report she was working on was being typed in triplicate, each page curling away and separated by thin reused black.sheets of fragile carbon paper.
Mildred had lost her husband the winter before last. Hank O;connor worked a lifetime with the railroad as a signalman. John knew Hank from Hamilton's diner and soda fountain's around the corner, which served the best and cheapest made-rite sandwiches in town. He went quietly in his sleep one night, a heartattack the doctor's said. But grief and the years had done little to diminish a natural beauty, nor an unmistakable enthusiasm that the good Lord put in her body. There wasn't a Sunday John could recall that Mildred wasn't leading the chior at St.Mary's.
Mildred smiled warmly, and invitation to return the gesture John found impossible to refuse. Her sharp blue eyes lit up the moment, further evidence of an uncommon beauty and warmth, neither of which had diminished greatly through the years. The expression darkened to a sympathetic smile, in Mildred's overly dramatic style, when she noticed the bandage on his hand.
“Oh dear,” she gasped. For anyone else such gushing emotion would see fake or condescending. “Looks just awful!. Must hurt something terrible.”
John reached out and gently squeezed her small frail hand. “In the way more than anything, “Miss O'conner.”
“Trust Misses Perkins is taking good care of you?”
He let go of her hand. “Never better.”
“Ah, she's a good soul, just like my Henry was.”
“Th at she is,” he agreed readily.
“You cherish every minute with that girl,” said Mildred.
John nodded smartly. “I do.”
“Gosh,” she beamed cutely, “remember when the two of you were a couple kids. I would say to Henry, now there's a couple meant for each other!”
“Expect Anna would be pleased to hear that.”
“Don't life just go by so fast?” Mildred waxed.
“That is does, Misses O'connor,” said John with a smart nod. “George back in his office?”
“Expect that's what you came in for,” She waved a hand in the air and turned sharply back to her reports. “Look at me, the lonely old widow, babbling on and on.”
“Not at all, hon,” said John. “Always a pleasure.”
How did Louis know about Bert Himmel? That little mystery added an undeniable weight to his ramblings, and had served to call into question so much that he took as unassailable. It plagued and shadowed damn near every thought and action that he might be living his final days, and that Anna would go off and find another love whom she might be just as happy or happier than with him. That specter made every breath and every moment agonizing. More, it caused him to question Anna and the very foundations of a love he prayed was eternal and exalted by God Himself. But if any of that were true, why did Louis not predict his own fate?
It wasn't much of a jail. The dull brown brick building was small, and partly painted in the mottled shade of a crooked oak. There were three cells at the back of the building, with old fashioned bars, straight out of some old Western movie. Most days they went unused, but for the occasional bar brawl, a drunk or two and vagrants coming in on out of town trains. Next to Louis Stanton the most dangerous criminals ever to grace Emmetsburg's jail were a couple out of towner's who, after attempting to blow up the bank at Cylinder, became so lost among tall August corn that they surrendered to the first farmer they came across. John found himself at the top of the step, almost without realizing, as if he was moving in a dream, as if he was a spectator in a foreign body.
John had questions. He had questions about Bert Himmel and how he knew old Bert would pass away that night. What was hardest for John to figure was, if Louis could see the future, why hadn't he predicted his own arrest? And what did that mean for John's fate, at least the one Louis predicted? Was it all the ramblings of a fool, or a con man who could read folks like some back alley Parisian Gypsy?
John went through the heavy wooden door, immediately assailed by the thin stale air within. It felt to him like a crypt, as it the air had not been let out in years, as if it was old and tired but whimsically melancholic. It was warmer inside than out on the street. The windows were up, but it did little for the heat. What it did do was let in the sounds off the street wheich, in that dulcid space, blended to a pale hollow din. On the back wall there were three eight by ten black and white portraits, hung vertically. President Hoover occupied the top spot. Below that was a porttrait of a pompous Vice President Curtis. Last was that of Govenor Daniel Turner. The walls were a faded shade of pale blue. Three heavy metal desks occupied the room, arranged neatly behind the receptionist's desk. All were a soft pea green, each with a pair of cherry-stained chairs set neatly before them. An American flag with dingy gold tassels hung limp on a pole in the far corner beside the stairs leading to George Bremer's second floor office.
Mildred O'connor, the receptionist. looked up from the Underwood typewriter. A report she was working on was being typed in triplicate, each page curling away and separated by thin reused black.sheets of fragile carbon paper.
Mildred had lost her husband the winter before last. Hank O;connor worked a lifetime with the railroad as a signalman. John knew Hank from Hamilton's diner and soda fountain's around the corner, which served the best and cheapest made-rite sandwiches in town. He went quietly in his sleep one night, a heartattack the doctor's said. But grief and the years had done little to diminish a natural beauty, nor an unmistakable enthusiasm that the good Lord put in her body. There wasn't a Sunday John could recall that Mildred wasn't leading the chior at St.Mary's.
Mildred smiled warmly, and invitation to return the gesture John found impossible to refuse. Her sharp blue eyes lit up the moment, further evidence of an uncommon beauty and warmth, neither of which had diminished greatly through the years. The expression darkened to a sympathetic smile, in Mildred's overly dramatic style, when she noticed the bandage on his hand.
“Oh dear,” she gasped. For anyone else such gushing emotion would see fake or condescending. “Looks just awful!. Must hurt something terrible.”
John reached out and gently squeezed her small frail hand. “In the way more than anything, “Miss O'conner.”
“Trust Misses Perkins is taking good care of you?”
He let go of her hand. “Never better.”
“Ah, she's a good soul, just like my Henry was.”
“Th at she is,” he agreed readily.
“You cherish every minute with that girl,” said Mildred.
John nodded smartly. “I do.”
“Gosh,” she beamed cutely, “remember when the two of you were a couple kids. I would say to Henry, now there's a couple meant for each other!”
“Expect Anna would be pleased to hear that.”
“Don't life just go by so fast?” Mildred waxed.
“That is does, Misses O'connor,” said John with a smart nod. “George back in his office?”
“Expect that's what you came in for,” She waved a hand in the air and turned sharply back to her reports. “Look at me, the lonely old widow, babbling on and on.”
“Not at all, hon,” said John. “Always a pleasure.”
Monday, March 1, 2010
Emmetsburg: Forty-eight
The Government inspectors climbed into one car, piloted by a State trooper. The pale sedan crept forward towards the farm and the ready line of men waiting there. It was flanked by troopers, truncheons at the ready, like a somber funeral procession, like a mafia phalanx for a fallen thug, scowling for retribution. Their faces were carved in stone, spirits hardened fo the inevitable battle. It was more than their duty.. The law was the sovereign of these men, and they had fully taken that realm into their hearts.
The men opposing them were cousins of a different sovereign. Their king was an ambiguous notion of freedom, filtered through flawed hearts. They saw themselves as defenders to the ramparts of their individual fortresses. The lawmen were alternately enemy and ally. In moments such as this, when the law waved the enemy banner, it was impossible to see that it was the law that maintained peace when the ramparts encroached upon their neighbor.
They met in the road, pausing for a moment, crushing the air between them so that it was explosive and alive. It was inevitable, the battle, and as brutal and calamitous as promised.. On cue, as if it had all been choreographed, truncheons rose in the heated air on the lawman's side. This, this was the moment where law and liberty could not be reconciled, and would be defined in violence and blood.
Clubs met fists and fists and two by fours. Men cried and fell and bled, as the tempo of battle rose. At first numbers and determination favored the famers. Still the lawmen pressed forward, driving their adversaries steady back across the ditch. The battle spilled into the yard where it degraded into individual grudges.
C.W. was in the thick of the fight. Struggling against neighbors and old friends, he found the whole mess utterly obscene and decided it was enough.. Seizing Stan Pickett by the collar, C.W. shook him hard, hoping to wrestle enough sense that together they might stop all this. For a moment he truly believed it was in the power of a single man to stop the fight by no more than strength of will and charcter. When an axe handle came down upon the crown of his head all reason disappeared in a cold white flash of pain and gushing blood.
The sound of solid wood meeting skull momentarily stopped the fight. It sounded like a gunshot, and might have brought down a lesser man. Instead it set C.W. on fire with anger. Pouring blood down the front of his body, C.W. tore the two sides apart, with the ease of an autumn twister smashing a path through tall harvest corn. Opening his arms wide, as though he might embrace the troopers in those massive arms, C.W. herded them back to the ditch, all the while shouting at the farmers to retreat.
On both sides the injured and bruised gathered themselves up and rejoined their ranks. It created a sudden vacuum he was quick to seize upon. C.W. went across, straight to Stan. Avery pushed his way through the line and strode right up to Stan Pickett. The men closed ranks quickly behind Stan. Avery Lysander pushed his way forward, standing beside Stan.
“Your boys had enough, C.W?” said Avery, fighting to catch his breath.
“Pipe down, Avery,” said Stan, sympathetic to the wounded man before him. “Ain't suppose to be how neighbors settle things, C.W.”
“Then put an end to this, Stan,” said C.W. “No point in seeing anyone else get hurt.”
“Afraid I can't. Stand my ground and defend my family.”
C.W. looked at him a good long time, trying to figure another way. Stan, Avery and the others had dig in their heels, and there was no other way but the hard one. He turned and rejoined the troopers. The moment he reached them they started forward in a line towards the seething anxious mob opposite. This time Avery was out front.
“Send 'em to hell boys!” he cried, before the end of a police club caught him in the gut and then across the shoulders.
The troopers now enveloped the farmers like a glove. Stan Pickett led them forward at the center of the police line, but it was a trap. The line curled around, forming an unbroken circle. One by one the farmers were hauled from that circle to a spot where they were forced to sit at gunpoint.
“Sit still, boys. Sure would hate to pull this here trigger,” cautioned one of the troopers, holding a twelve gauge. It was loaded with salt pellets and not lethal buckshot, unknown to the momentarily defeated farmers.
Was predictable that the inspectors would find several sick cows among the herd. It was enough to condemn them all. Herded together, three State troopers went from animal to animal and put a bullet in their head. That done the carcasses were doused with gas and set alight. The smoke rose straight into the calm air, like a call to war that could be seen for miles. C.W. watched it from the floorboard of his auto as a trooper patched up the wound on his head.
“Took a wallop there, Sheriff.” By now most of the men had been released. C.W. thought better of arresting anyone, most especially Avery Lysander. Not that he didn't have ample cause. The gash in his head was enough to send someone to the penitentiary. C.W. did not want to give them the power that would accompany an arrest. It seemed such an action would only enflame the fears and emotions running like a wildfire through the hearts of men.
“Got a good hard head,” C.W. said, not taking his eyes off the column of smoke.
“Think maybe folks will get the idea we mean do uphold the law,” said the trooper.
“Nope.” He knew better. “Bad day's coming. This won't stop till blood gets shed.”
This wasn't a victory, by any measure. There was no room for satisfaction, and affliction he fought to hold at bay. This was a tragedy, pure and simple. Any man who saw it any differently had a hard reckoning to make with the Lord one day.
“Looks like you shed a fair amount yourself, Sheriff.”
C.W. Ignored him. He closed his eyes and groaned slightly, “Bad day is coming.”
The men opposing them were cousins of a different sovereign. Their king was an ambiguous notion of freedom, filtered through flawed hearts. They saw themselves as defenders to the ramparts of their individual fortresses. The lawmen were alternately enemy and ally. In moments such as this, when the law waved the enemy banner, it was impossible to see that it was the law that maintained peace when the ramparts encroached upon their neighbor.
They met in the road, pausing for a moment, crushing the air between them so that it was explosive and alive. It was inevitable, the battle, and as brutal and calamitous as promised.. On cue, as if it had all been choreographed, truncheons rose in the heated air on the lawman's side. This, this was the moment where law and liberty could not be reconciled, and would be defined in violence and blood.
Clubs met fists and fists and two by fours. Men cried and fell and bled, as the tempo of battle rose. At first numbers and determination favored the famers. Still the lawmen pressed forward, driving their adversaries steady back across the ditch. The battle spilled into the yard where it degraded into individual grudges.
C.W. was in the thick of the fight. Struggling against neighbors and old friends, he found the whole mess utterly obscene and decided it was enough.. Seizing Stan Pickett by the collar, C.W. shook him hard, hoping to wrestle enough sense that together they might stop all this. For a moment he truly believed it was in the power of a single man to stop the fight by no more than strength of will and charcter. When an axe handle came down upon the crown of his head all reason disappeared in a cold white flash of pain and gushing blood.
The sound of solid wood meeting skull momentarily stopped the fight. It sounded like a gunshot, and might have brought down a lesser man. Instead it set C.W. on fire with anger. Pouring blood down the front of his body, C.W. tore the two sides apart, with the ease of an autumn twister smashing a path through tall harvest corn. Opening his arms wide, as though he might embrace the troopers in those massive arms, C.W. herded them back to the ditch, all the while shouting at the farmers to retreat.
On both sides the injured and bruised gathered themselves up and rejoined their ranks. It created a sudden vacuum he was quick to seize upon. C.W. went across, straight to Stan. Avery pushed his way through the line and strode right up to Stan Pickett. The men closed ranks quickly behind Stan. Avery Lysander pushed his way forward, standing beside Stan.
“Your boys had enough, C.W?” said Avery, fighting to catch his breath.
“Pipe down, Avery,” said Stan, sympathetic to the wounded man before him. “Ain't suppose to be how neighbors settle things, C.W.”
“Then put an end to this, Stan,” said C.W. “No point in seeing anyone else get hurt.”
“Afraid I can't. Stand my ground and defend my family.”
C.W. looked at him a good long time, trying to figure another way. Stan, Avery and the others had dig in their heels, and there was no other way but the hard one. He turned and rejoined the troopers. The moment he reached them they started forward in a line towards the seething anxious mob opposite. This time Avery was out front.
“Send 'em to hell boys!” he cried, before the end of a police club caught him in the gut and then across the shoulders.
The troopers now enveloped the farmers like a glove. Stan Pickett led them forward at the center of the police line, but it was a trap. The line curled around, forming an unbroken circle. One by one the farmers were hauled from that circle to a spot where they were forced to sit at gunpoint.
“Sit still, boys. Sure would hate to pull this here trigger,” cautioned one of the troopers, holding a twelve gauge. It was loaded with salt pellets and not lethal buckshot, unknown to the momentarily defeated farmers.
Was predictable that the inspectors would find several sick cows among the herd. It was enough to condemn them all. Herded together, three State troopers went from animal to animal and put a bullet in their head. That done the carcasses were doused with gas and set alight. The smoke rose straight into the calm air, like a call to war that could be seen for miles. C.W. watched it from the floorboard of his auto as a trooper patched up the wound on his head.
“Took a wallop there, Sheriff.” By now most of the men had been released. C.W. thought better of arresting anyone, most especially Avery Lysander. Not that he didn't have ample cause. The gash in his head was enough to send someone to the penitentiary. C.W. did not want to give them the power that would accompany an arrest. It seemed such an action would only enflame the fears and emotions running like a wildfire through the hearts of men.
“Got a good hard head,” C.W. said, not taking his eyes off the column of smoke.
“Think maybe folks will get the idea we mean do uphold the law,” said the trooper.
“Nope.” He knew better. “Bad day's coming. This won't stop till blood gets shed.”
This wasn't a victory, by any measure. There was no room for satisfaction, and affliction he fought to hold at bay. This was a tragedy, pure and simple. Any man who saw it any differently had a hard reckoning to make with the Lord one day.
“Looks like you shed a fair amount yourself, Sheriff.”
C.W. Ignored him. He closed his eyes and groaned slightly, “Bad day is coming.”
Emmetsburg: Forty-seven
“Between a rock and a hard place, ain’t that what they call it, C.W.?” Stan Pickett stood alone in the dusty dirt road with the Sheriff near the gate to his farm. They were like two pauper chieftains negotiating terms between two opposing armies. Except these two armies could find no terms, and instead seemed poised, even eager for battle.
Just down the road a line of thirty-some State troopers in blue stood ready near where an old Maple beside Stan’s big red barn bent her shade over the road and a cluster of vehicles. They were thirty of the biggest, meanest, hardest looking men the governor knew, picking ech man personally. They faced a bigger number of farmers gathered tensely to the entrance to Stan’s farm, a small drive across a weedy drainage ditch. Behind them Stan’s wife stood on the wrap-around porch of their white-washed two story home with their three children. A number of the other wives joined her there, some eager or more eager than their husbands to join the fight.
C.W. and Stan stood at the fulcrum of this moment, hands in their pockets, talking calm and low, as if they might discuss the rising heat of the day or Wes Ferrell’s no hitter against the St. Louis browns, Chaplin’s new movie or Hoover’s ineptitude. Neither was fooled by the gravity of all this. They knew only too well that what gentlemanly agreement they might come to in the middle of that road would dissolve in the face of inevitable history and raging emotion.
Forty men stood at the entrance of Stan Pickett’s farm. They stood in the road, running in a ragged line down across the ditch and halfway across Stan’s yard. Forty men had filled their hands with clubs and shovels, some of them. Others rolled up their sleeves, and spit into their hands, prepared to send those troopers back to Des Moines and the governor as a lesson. Backed into a corner there was nothing else they could do as men but stand and fight.
“That what they call it, Stan?” C.W. rubbed the moist back of his neck. “Rock and a hard place?”
“It’s something.” Stan tugged a rag from his pocket and dabbed the sweat from his face. He looked at the men in his yard and back at C.W. Both man regarded the troopers or a long worrisome moment.
“It’s something all right.”
“Like Sittin’ Bull and Custer out here,” Stan smiled weakly.
“Both know how that turned out.”
“Question is, which of us is Custer and…” his words trailed away Stan pushed the rag back into his pocket.
“Good question.”
Stan looked C.W. squarely in the eye. His expression suddenly stark and grave. “Know I can’t let them inspector near my cattle.”
C.W. groaned. He’d played checkers with Stan Pickett and half the others a thousand times out front of Bert Himmel’s place over the years. He recalled the night his wife had complications delivering their third child, the small boy hovering t his mom’s apron on the porch. He raced Stan and his wife to Emmetsburg in the back of his truck. When the boy was born healthy later the next day he and old Stan celebrated by getting good and lit at a local watering hole.
“And you know I've got to uphold the law, Stan.”
Stan scratched the top of his head and shrugged, resigned to the events rolling across his farm like an avalanche. “Different ways of looking at the law.”
“Don't have that luxury.”
C.W. stared coldly at Stan, whose gaze was away across the fields and his herb dotting the yellow green hillside opposite. He tried to imagine himself in Stan's place, and wondered if he wouldn't react the same. The moment evaporated. Stan nodded sharply and pursed his lips.
“Expect I should be getting back.”
C.W. Nodded fatally and frowned. “God help us, Stan.”
Just down the road a line of thirty-some State troopers in blue stood ready near where an old Maple beside Stan’s big red barn bent her shade over the road and a cluster of vehicles. They were thirty of the biggest, meanest, hardest looking men the governor knew, picking ech man personally. They faced a bigger number of farmers gathered tensely to the entrance to Stan’s farm, a small drive across a weedy drainage ditch. Behind them Stan’s wife stood on the wrap-around porch of their white-washed two story home with their three children. A number of the other wives joined her there, some eager or more eager than their husbands to join the fight.
C.W. and Stan stood at the fulcrum of this moment, hands in their pockets, talking calm and low, as if they might discuss the rising heat of the day or Wes Ferrell’s no hitter against the St. Louis browns, Chaplin’s new movie or Hoover’s ineptitude. Neither was fooled by the gravity of all this. They knew only too well that what gentlemanly agreement they might come to in the middle of that road would dissolve in the face of inevitable history and raging emotion.
Forty men stood at the entrance of Stan Pickett’s farm. They stood in the road, running in a ragged line down across the ditch and halfway across Stan’s yard. Forty men had filled their hands with clubs and shovels, some of them. Others rolled up their sleeves, and spit into their hands, prepared to send those troopers back to Des Moines and the governor as a lesson. Backed into a corner there was nothing else they could do as men but stand and fight.
“That what they call it, Stan?” C.W. rubbed the moist back of his neck. “Rock and a hard place?”
“It’s something.” Stan tugged a rag from his pocket and dabbed the sweat from his face. He looked at the men in his yard and back at C.W. Both man regarded the troopers or a long worrisome moment.
“It’s something all right.”
“Like Sittin’ Bull and Custer out here,” Stan smiled weakly.
“Both know how that turned out.”
“Question is, which of us is Custer and…” his words trailed away Stan pushed the rag back into his pocket.
“Good question.”
Stan looked C.W. squarely in the eye. His expression suddenly stark and grave. “Know I can’t let them inspector near my cattle.”
C.W. groaned. He’d played checkers with Stan Pickett and half the others a thousand times out front of Bert Himmel’s place over the years. He recalled the night his wife had complications delivering their third child, the small boy hovering t his mom’s apron on the porch. He raced Stan and his wife to Emmetsburg in the back of his truck. When the boy was born healthy later the next day he and old Stan celebrated by getting good and lit at a local watering hole.
“And you know I've got to uphold the law, Stan.”
Stan scratched the top of his head and shrugged, resigned to the events rolling across his farm like an avalanche. “Different ways of looking at the law.”
“Don't have that luxury.”
C.W. stared coldly at Stan, whose gaze was away across the fields and his herb dotting the yellow green hillside opposite. He tried to imagine himself in Stan's place, and wondered if he wouldn't react the same. The moment evaporated. Stan nodded sharply and pursed his lips.
“Expect I should be getting back.”
C.W. Nodded fatally and frowned. “God help us, Stan.”
Emmetsburg: Forty-six
“George,” John nodded.
The deputies stopped behind, and just to either side of Bremer, like over-protective sons than public employees.Both of them were young and baby-faced.. At least that's how they appeared to John, serving only to make him feel a bit ancient. One of them was tall and well built, the other short and a little on the doughy side.His name was Ray. His parents ran a tailor shop downtown. None of the men were armed. Ray held a set of wrist irons. He nervously shifted them from hand to hand. George nodded respectfully and motioned to John's wound.
“John. How's that hand?”
“Help you fellas?”
“Hope you'll forgive the intrusion, but we've come for him.”
John scrtached the back of his head trying to figure why Louis didn't seem immediately surprised. Then all at once his expression changed, as if it was manufactured or contrived.
“John, I swear I don't...” Louis began before Bremer cut him off.
“Best you not say another word,son.”
“What's this all about, George?” asked John.
Bremer went over and laid a hand gently upon Louis' shoulder.. “I think your guest knows.” His eyes met Louis with a judicious quality. He patted the man's shoulder almost sympatheically. “My deputies here trust you won't be any trouble.”
The deputies were patient as John pulled Bremer aside. They had known each other for almost their whole lives. George Bremer was the first person John had seen the day he stepped off the Milwaukee line from the war. John led him over to the cellar door.
“What's this all about, George?'
Bremer kept his voice low. His brow was tortured. The words fell heavily. “A wrecker pulled his car out of the creek. John, there was a body inside, a white woman.”
“George, I was all over that car, if there'd been...”
“She was in the rear compartment. Her hands and feet were bound. There was a rope around her neck.”
Both men looked over at Louis. John felt a shiver of dread that he had left Louis alone with Anna. He felt betrayed by Louis. It raged red hot in his veins.
“You're sure?”
“Afraid so.”
“Who was she?”
“Don't know.”
“He says his name is Louis, Louis Stanton.” John hesitated. “About all I've been able to get out of him.Like they both fell out of the sky.”
“Folks just don't fall out of the sky.”
.
The deputies stopped behind, and just to either side of Bremer, like over-protective sons than public employees.Both of them were young and baby-faced.. At least that's how they appeared to John, serving only to make him feel a bit ancient. One of them was tall and well built, the other short and a little on the doughy side.His name was Ray. His parents ran a tailor shop downtown. None of the men were armed. Ray held a set of wrist irons. He nervously shifted them from hand to hand. George nodded respectfully and motioned to John's wound.
“John. How's that hand?”
“Help you fellas?”
“Hope you'll forgive the intrusion, but we've come for him.”
John scrtached the back of his head trying to figure why Louis didn't seem immediately surprised. Then all at once his expression changed, as if it was manufactured or contrived.
“John, I swear I don't...” Louis began before Bremer cut him off.
“Best you not say another word,son.”
“What's this all about, George?” asked John.
Bremer went over and laid a hand gently upon Louis' shoulder.. “I think your guest knows.” His eyes met Louis with a judicious quality. He patted the man's shoulder almost sympatheically. “My deputies here trust you won't be any trouble.”
The deputies were patient as John pulled Bremer aside. They had known each other for almost their whole lives. George Bremer was the first person John had seen the day he stepped off the Milwaukee line from the war. John led him over to the cellar door.
“What's this all about, George?'
Bremer kept his voice low. His brow was tortured. The words fell heavily. “A wrecker pulled his car out of the creek. John, there was a body inside, a white woman.”
“George, I was all over that car, if there'd been...”
“She was in the rear compartment. Her hands and feet were bound. There was a rope around her neck.”
Both men looked over at Louis. John felt a shiver of dread that he had left Louis alone with Anna. He felt betrayed by Louis. It raged red hot in his veins.
“You're sure?”
“Afraid so.”
“Who was she?”
“Don't know.”
“He says his name is Louis, Louis Stanton.” John hesitated. “About all I've been able to get out of him.Like they both fell out of the sky.”
“Folks just don't fall out of the sky.”
.
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