his hands all over the woman until she finally slapped him in the face. Huey Jenner told Sloan to go back home, that he was a sloppy drunk, and that he had long worn out his welcome. All three of them passed curses and insults: Sloan, the woman, and the one-eyed barkeep. The woman moved to a stool at the other end of the bar and sat down beside a different man. Sloan threatened the barkeep, said he’d climb over the bar and knock him in the head unless he learned to respect his betters.
The barkeep reached beneath the bar and pulled out a crudely fashioned stick made from a cypress knee as big around as a baseball bat at the grip and as thick as a stovepipe on the end. “I’ll beat you to death with this lion tamer if you as much as sneeze in my direction,” he said. Then he braced himself with it as if to hit Sloan like a batter on a baseball diamond. But Sloan laughed in his face. Then he turned and looked directly at James Luke for a moment, scowling. James Luke stared back long enough to put Tom on edge, despite the beers he’d consumed.
Sloan staggered toward the woman at the other end of the bar. The jukebox wailed the Hank Williams song, “Settin’ the Woods on Fire.”
About this time, a tall redheaded man came from near the jukebox and grabbed Sloan by the back of the collar. The big man had muscles like hills on his shoulders, mounds of flesh on his arms, and he seemed to squeeze the life out of Sloan with his meaty hands.
“Don’t hurt him,” the one-eyed barkeep called out, “he’s the judge’s grandbaby. He’s just a big-mouthed sissy. He don’t mean nothing by it. I can handle him all right.”
But the big man continued to drag Sloan by the collar. Sloan hollered every step.
“What the hell is going on?” Tom asked.
“That’s Red Tadlock, and he’s going outside to give somebody a migraine. Let me go pay the tab and you follow Sloan,” James Luke said.
The patrons were scrambling, folks moving in different directions, most heading toward the door.
Tom followed them out to the parking lot.
Men were swinging and staggering, fighting and hollering, beer bottles flying like falling stars. It was a fracas, and Tom did well to avoid being hit by a fist, a boot, or a bottle.
“I’ve damn near had enough of you,” the big man yelled at Sloan as he threw his whole body into the Scout cab and shut the door, telling him not to ever come back to the barroom.
Then the big man turned back to the melee and began knocking out teeth, busting heads, blows that sounded like timber cracking.
Sloan cranked the engine, revving it to a loud scream. He shouted obscenities from the open window.
James Luke joined Tom in the parking lot after he handed the barkeep three dollar bills.
“Parnell’s leaving,” Tom said.
A pair of fighting men fell into Tadlock who began to beat both of them like schoolboys. At the same time, the Scout tires threw rocks and oyster shells across the parking lot, the tires squealing when they touched the blacktop road. James Luke and Tom made it to the pickup and followed Sloan into the roadway.
Tom reached for the cotton sack that was on the seat and took out Sloan’s derringer. The pistol was about the size of his palm. After they were on the blacktop nearly a mile, Tom rolled down the truck window and threw the pistol into the roadside with enough force to send it across a fence and into a thicket.
“What the hell did you do that for?” James Luke asked.
“Piss on him and his little gun,” Tom said, staring toward the red taillights of Sloan’s International Scout up ahead of them.
“Man, you should have kept it as a souvenir or sold it for a few bucks.”
“I don’t need anything he has.”
James Luke picked up the .45 automatic from the seat between them and then put it back down absently. “I guess he’s headed to his old man’s camp on the river,” he said.
“I bet that’s where he’s going,” Tom answered.
They trailed the Scout on
The barkeep reached beneath the bar and pulled out a crudely fashioned stick made from a cypress knee as big around as a baseball bat at the grip and as thick as a stovepipe on the end. “I’ll beat you to death with this lion tamer if you as much as sneeze in my direction,” he said. Then he braced himself with it as if to hit Sloan like a batter on a baseball diamond. But Sloan laughed in his face. Then he turned and looked directly at James Luke for a moment, scowling. James Luke stared back long enough to put Tom on edge, despite the beers he’d consumed.
Sloan staggered toward the woman at the other end of the bar. The jukebox wailed the Hank Williams song, “Settin’ the Woods on Fire.”
About this time, a tall redheaded man came from near the jukebox and grabbed Sloan by the back of the collar. The big man had muscles like hills on his shoulders, mounds of flesh on his arms, and he seemed to squeeze the life out of Sloan with his meaty hands.
“Don’t hurt him,” the one-eyed barkeep called out, “he’s the judge’s grandbaby. He’s just a big-mouthed sissy. He don’t mean nothing by it. I can handle him all right.”
But the big man continued to drag Sloan by the collar. Sloan hollered every step.
“What the hell is going on?” Tom asked.
“That’s Red Tadlock, and he’s going outside to give somebody a migraine. Let me go pay the tab and you follow Sloan,” James Luke said.
The patrons were scrambling, folks moving in different directions, most heading toward the door.
Tom followed them out to the parking lot.
Men were swinging and staggering, fighting and hollering, beer bottles flying like falling stars. It was a fracas, and Tom did well to avoid being hit by a fist, a boot, or a bottle.
“I’ve damn near had enough of you,” the big man yelled at Sloan as he threw his whole body into the Scout cab and shut the door, telling him not to ever come back to the barroom.
Then the big man turned back to the melee and began knocking out teeth, busting heads, blows that sounded like timber cracking.
Sloan cranked the engine, revving it to a loud scream. He shouted obscenities from the open window.
James Luke joined Tom in the parking lot after he handed the barkeep three dollar bills.
“Parnell’s leaving,” Tom said.
A pair of fighting men fell into Tadlock who began to beat both of them like schoolboys. At the same time, the Scout tires threw rocks and oyster shells across the parking lot, the tires squealing when they touched the blacktop road. James Luke and Tom made it to the pickup and followed Sloan into the roadway.
Tom reached for the cotton sack that was on the seat and took out Sloan’s derringer. The pistol was about the size of his palm. After they were on the blacktop nearly a mile, Tom rolled down the truck window and threw the pistol into the roadside with enough force to send it across a fence and into a thicket.
“What the hell did you do that for?” James Luke asked.
“Piss on him and his little gun,” Tom said, staring toward the red taillights of Sloan’s International Scout up ahead of them.
“Man, you should have kept it as a souvenir or sold it for a few bucks.”
“I don’t need anything he has.”
James Luke picked up the .45 automatic from the seat between them and then put it back down absently. “I guess he’s headed to his old man’s camp on the river,” he said.
“I bet that’s where he’s going,” Tom answered.
They trailed the Scout on
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