Lost Cause by J.R. Ayers Page A

Calvary
accompanying them. Jack stretched out on the floor of the wagon and
Campbell and the other man a private named Baker sat on side
benches and complained about the rough road and the lack of padding
on the seats. “These ambulances were built for short distances,”
the driver explained. “I’ll do my best to navigate the deeper ruts
for you but I fear it’s going to be a bumpy ride.”
    “How far is it?” Campbell asked.
    “Around fifty miles.”
    “Damn.”
    As they passed the northern edge of town Jack
looked out the back of the ambulance and saw the new graves in a
garden west of the river. An old black civilian sat near the adobe
wall making crosses out of cedar planks while a woman wrote on the
completed ones the names, rank, and regiment of the dead men.
    “Wish we was going to Corsicana instead of
Corpus Christi,” Campbell was saying. “I got kin up there, we could
stop by for a home cooked meal and sit under a shade tree for a
while and breathe some air that ain’t tainted with gunpowder and
yellow dust.” Jack tucked his right hand behind his head and
said,
    “I only understood about half of that. How
are you feeling, Carl?”
    “Not bad for a man with half his face
missing. Does it look bad?” He lifted the bandages and leaned in
close. Jack made a show of peering intently at Campbell’s face then
shook his head.
    “You never was very pretty, Carl, I don’t see
as how that little scratch has downgraded your overall appearance
any.”
    “Don’t make fun, Saylor, it hurts to
laugh.”
    It was hot in the wagon and dusty and smelled
like iodine and sweat with a subtle undertone of death. The flatbed
wagon was constructed of oak planks secured to an iron frame
sitting on tandem axles made of cold rolled steel and brass. There
was a door in the back and two windows on the side and one smaller
window in the front that opened to the driver’s seat. The driver
was a civilian contractor named Collins, a large man with a long
red beard and eyes the same color as the two mules pulling the
wagon.
    “You’re going to have to grow a beard now,
Carl,” Jack said. “There’s no way you’re going to get a razor
around those holes in your face.”
    “If a man wants to grow a beard then I figure
he can,” Campbell said. “Why don’t you grow a beard, Jack? Might
cover up some of that ugliness.”
    “I’m not old enough to grow a beard.”
    “Bull, you’re thirty if you’re a day.” It
sounded to Jack like,
    “Bah, you’re burbee if you’re a bay.”
    “The girls don’t like beards,” Jack said.
    “You mean Miss Hayes?”
    “I mean any woman.”
    “So, how many women have you kissed?”
    Campbell was beginning to drool and Jack
could tell by the pain in his eyes he was becoming increasingly
uncomfortable moving his jaw. Jack figured talking was good for
him, though. Conversing made him feel normal, almost as if the
terrible wound had never happened.
    “More than I can count,” Jack said. “So, tell
me more about this kin folk up in Corsicana.”
    They chatted for a while then Campbell
stretched out on the bench and drifted off to sleep and Jack looked
out the window and thought about Marie Hayes.
     
     
    Two days later they arrived in Laredo late in
the morning and went directly to the Texas Central rail yard. It
was a bad trip most of the way with a two hour layover in Edinburg
due to a broken wagon spoke. Collins paid for the repair declaring
that someone in power had, “damn sure better reimburse me, post
haste.” Campbell got sick at one point and threw up on the floor
but it hardly mattered because Baker had been sick on the floor on
several earlier occasions.
    They unloaded at the rail office and sat on
benches in front of the office and the escort said goodbye and
headed back to Brownsville and Collins drove off in search of a
provost officer in hopes of collecting twenty-three dollars and
twelve cents for the wagon wheel he’d purchased in Edinburg.
    A young boy and