Fear, page 39
Roscoe said nothing in reply. He simply glared down at the man with the whip, his eyes full of contempt.
“Now you tell us again!” said the rider who held only a torch, his other hand cinched up in bandages. “Where’s that damned sodbuster who crippled me? Tell me, or I swear I’ll stick this here torch to your pecker and burn it clean off!”
Jeb looked over his shoulder at Sam. The big farmer stared at the man on the horse, that familiar spark of mounting anger growing in his eyes. Jeb knew it was only a matter of time before Sam lost his temper and stepped into the clearing to confront the clan of nightriders.
He turned his attention back to what was taking place beneath the tree. “That won’t do no good,” came the voice of the one named Travis. “That lashing Joe gave him would’ve done the trick if’n he was gonna talk. No, he’s too damned stubborn to give up his buddy. Either that or too stupid.”
“Then I reckon we’re just wasting our time here,” said Joe the bartender. “Goodbye, nigger,” he said, bringing his open palm back over his shoulder. “And good riddance!”
Suddenly, Jeb knew what the man was about to do. A great fear welled up inside him and, without a second thought, he stepped out of the thicket. “No!” he scream at the top of his lungs.
But he was too late. The man slapped the horse sharply on the flank of its rump, sending the animal lurching forward with a startled whinny. Unfortunately, Roscoe stayed precisely where he was. The rope grew taut and the noose tightened around the Negro’s neck. As the horse fled to the far side of the clearing, Roscoe dropped through open air for a second, and then halted with an abrupt jerk. The bluesman strangled and kicked, his feet a good four feet from the ground.
At first, Jeb could only stand there and stare. Then an anger he never knew he had inside him began to fill his brain. “You lousy son-of-a-bitch!” he screamed. He cocked the hammer of the Colt back with both thumbs, and then lifted the big gun at arm’s length.
The one named Joe whirled and, seeing the boy standing across the clearing, brandished his whip and took a step forward. He didn’t take another. There came a thunderous boom and a cloud of gunsmoke left the muzzle of the .45 revolver. The bartender staggered back a few feet, and then dumbly looked down at his chest. There was a hole squared in the center of his breastbone. Amazed, he watched as a crimson stain began to spread, dying his white robe bright red.
“Oh shit,” he muttered softly. “I’ve been shot.”
Jeb turned to a rider who was reining his horse around. The man lowered his shotgun, aiming both barrels at the ten-year-old. Nervously, the boy attempted to cock the six-shooter again, but his hands were drenched with sweat and his thumbs slipped off the spur of the hammer. Jeb stared into the dark muzzles of the twelve-gauge. It was like looking Death square in the face.
Right when he was certain the barrels would go off, blowing him to kingdom come, something whistled over his head. It was a rock the size of a baseball. The stone struck the rider in the side of the skull, rocking him back in his saddle. The shotgun wavered from its aim and discharged, sending twin loads of double-aught buck flying skyward. Another rock, smaller than the one before, cracked the man across his elbow and he lost hold of the smoking scattergun. It spun from his grasp and hit the ground with a clank.
Jeb looked around to see Sam standing there, holding another rock in his pitching hand, ready to let loose once more.
The farmboy turned back to find the other armed rider preparing to finish the job his buddy had failed at. He tossed down the torch and was bringing the butt of his shotgun to his shoulder, when Jeb’s thumbs finally found their grip. He cocked the gun and fired almost as quickly. The barrel was aimed at the ground, but, fortunately, it did the trick. The .45 slug kicked up dirt at the horse’s feet, causing it to buck wildly. The rider had to discard his gun just to keep hold of the reins. Another shot from the Colt sent the skittish horse bolting for the dark forest, taking its frightened passenger with it.
“Let’s get the hell outta here before that young’ un shoots us all!” yelled the one with the bandaged hand.
“I’ve been shot!” moaned the bartender, staggering around and clutching his bleeding chest. “The little bastard’s done killed me.”
The one named Homer galloped over and held out his good arm. “Aw, quit your belly-aching, Joe, and jump on. Do it or I swear I’ll leave you here!”
The wounded man did as he was told. Soon, he was perched on the rump of the horse and the two were close behind the others, heading east the way they had come.
After the lynchmen had vanished into the forest, Jeb turned back to Roscoe. The Negro was still dangling at the end of the rope, his kicking and struggling growing weaker by the moment.
“Quick!” he screamed. “We gotta get him down from there!”
He and Sam ran to the tree, looking for some way to release Roscoe from his noose. It was Sam who reacted first. He grabbed the bluesman around the knees and lifted him up a foot, easing the tension on the rope. “Climb up on my shoulders and cut it!” he told the boy.
Jeb followed his instructions and, soon, was balanced on his father’s broad shoulders. He fumbled through his overall pocket and found his folding knife. He released the longest and sharpest of the blades and went to work. It took some sawing, but finally the rope parted, strand by strand, and Roscoe’s bald head lolled limply to the side. “Okay, I got it!” he called down to the man beneath him.
Gently, Sam lowered Roscoe to the ground. Jeb jumped from the farmer’s back and was soon crouching next to the old man. Roscoe’s wire-rimmed spectacles dangled from one ear and his eyes were nearly bugged from their sockets. The bluesman gasped and wheezed, as if his lungs fought to draw the tiniest breath of air.
“What’s wrong?” asked Jeb, tears forming in his eyes. “Can’t …” struggled Roscoe, his mouth working like a fish out of water. “Can’t … breath. Can’t find … no air.” With a trembling hand, Jeb laid his hand on Roscoe’s throat. The man’s Adam’s apple—which had once protruded so prominently—was gone now. His windpipe had been completely crushed by the lynching noose.
“Oh, Roscoe,” moaned Jeb. “I don’t know what to do!”
Roscoe’s voice was scarcely more than a harsh whisper. “Nothing much … you can do. That rope they hung me with … it’s cut off my wind. I’m suffocating … to death.”
“No!” cried Jeb. Tears rolled down his cheeks and dripped off his chin. “We can fetch a doctor. We can get you some help.”
Roscoe’s ragged gasping turned into a tiny wheezing as his injured throat began to swell. “Ain’t a doctor … within ten mile … of here, boy. And … even if there was…they wouldn’t be able…to do nothing. Them nightriders…they’ve done gone…and killed me.”
Jeb wanted to deny the truth of Roscoe’s words, but he simply couldn’t. It didn’t take a trained physician to tell that the black man was fading away fast. “I shot one of ’em, Roscoe,” Jeb told him. “That one that tended bar back at the beer joint. I shot him smack-dab in the chest.”
“Did you … kill him?” Roscoe managed.
“I don’t rightfully know for sure,” Jeb had to admit.
Helplessly, Jeb and Sam knelt next to the dying man, tearfully watching as his breathing grew more and more shallow. Blindly, the bluesman reached out with both hands. The boy and his father quickly took the man’s hands in their own and held on tight.
“Some kinds of evil …” muttered Roscoe so softly they could hardly hear him. “They’re the same … no matter where you go.”
Jeb nodded, trying to fight down the sobs that shook him from head to toe. The boy looked over at Sam. The brawny farmer was blubbering like a big baby. Even Buckshot sensed that something was terribly wrong. The dog laid his speckled head on Roscoe’s belly and whimpered pitifully.
“I want … ya’ll … to promise me … something,” said Roscoe. “Please … don’t bury me here … in this wicked place. Lay my bones to rest. .. when you get to Mangrum. It’s only … a mile or two further. Will you…grant me that?”
“We promise,” said Jeb. Sam simply nodded, unable to speak.
“You’re good boys,” said Roscoe, closing his eyes. “Both of you. And I … was proud … to have known you.”
Jeb wept, his throat growing sore from crying. “Roscoe?” he whispered.
“Yes?” asked the Negro. The rise and fall of his chest was so shallow that it was almost nonexistent.
“I love you, Roscoe.”
The bluesman grasped the youngster’s hand tightly. “I love you, too, Jeb.”
Then, with a gentle smile and a sigh, he was gone.
For a long time, they knelt there and grieved the passing of their friend. Jeb, most of all, seemed to have difficulty accepting the death of the rambling musician. For he knew, if anyone was responsible for the success of his trip to Fear County, it was Roscoe Ledbetter. The old bluesman had risked his neck many times over to help Jeb locate the magic he had gone there to find. And, before it was over, he had paid for that loyalty with his life.
Chapter Forty-Two
Sacred Ground
The sun of a new day was only a couple of hours high in the cloudless Tennessee sky when Jeb and Sam reached the line that separated Mangrum and Fear counties. The moment the farmboy stepped across the invisible border, he knew he was home again. The forest of shadowy thicket and dark earth abruptly gave way to colorful wildflowers, soft grass, and dusty red clay. He closed his eyes and listened. The warbling of songbirds echoed from the treetops, as well as the reedy call of cicadas and grasshoppers hidden from view. The noises that greeted him failed to cheer the boy, however. He still had a job to do, and it wasn’t one he was looking forward to.
He turned and looked at the man behind him. Sam Sweeny followed a few yards away, the limp body of Roscoe Ledbetter slung over his shoulder. They had taken a wool blanket from the bluesman’s knapsack and wrapped him up, cinching it tightly with a pair of Roscoe’s old suspenders. Sam wore the Negro’s brown fedora as if it were a timeworn crown. Jeb hadn’t protested the farmer’s inheritance of the battered hat. It seemed to relieve some of the hurt Sam felt at the old man’s loss. Jeb wished he had a similar balm for his grief, but he didn’t.
“Are we here, Jeb?” asked Sam, his eyes hopeful.
The boy breathed deeply. That stench of underlying decay that had permeated the air of Fear County was no longer present. Now there was only the warm scents of July; the fragrance of goldenrod and dandelion, as well as the dry odor of clay dirt stirred by walking feet. “Yeah,” he finally said. “We’re here. We’re home again.”
“So,” said Sam, shifting the weight of Roscoe across his right shoulder. “Where are we gonna do it?”
Jeb looked around and spotted a bed of soft clover beneath the shade of a hickory tree. “There,” he said, pointing. “I think he’d like to be over there, outta the sun.”
Together, Jeb and Sam walked to the patch of clover, followed by Buckshot. Sam gently laid the man on the ground, careful not to disturb the blanket around him. They searched for something to break earth with and found a rusted hubcap that had fallen off the wheel of someone’s Studebaker. Just finding the object told them that they were only a short distance from a road or highway.
It took some elbow grease, but they finally managed to chisel a hole from the earth, three feet deep and twice as long. Sam tenderly rolled the body of their friend into the grave, a solemn expression on his broad face. Then, both boy and man covered his remains over, packing the earth down firm.
When they were finished, Jeb took something from the duffle bag. It was the broken neck of Roscoe’s flattop guitar. The boy put his weight against the length of inlaid wood and ivory tuning keys, driving it into the ground and turning it into a makeshift headstone.
They stared at the mound of earth for a long moment, unsure of what to do next. “I reckon we oughta say some words,” said Jeb. “Pray or something.”
Sam removed the fedora from his head and, closing his eyes, bowed his head. “Jesus … this here’s Sam talking. We’ve just buried our friend Roscoe in this earth of yours. He was a mighty good man. We’d be obliged if you’d look after him up there in heaven, the same as he looked after us down here. Amen.”
“Amen,” echoed the boy, staring at his father in amazement.
With nothing more to be said or done, they left the grave and walked toward the north. They stepped through a thicket a few yards further on and found themselves standing on the shoulder of the main highway. Jeb looked to the west and was surprised to see where the railroad crossed paths with the main road. He didn’t exactly know how, but they were only a few yards away from where they had first begun their journey into Fear County,
They were about to head down the highway, in the direction of Pikesville, when Jeb noticed several objects scattered around his feet. The trash consisted of an empty Coca-Cola bottle, an apple core stripped clean down to the seeds, and the greasy page of a newspaper someone had wrapped their lunch in, a baloney and mustard sandwich from the smell of it.
The bottle and apple core didn’t interest Jeb in the least. It was the page of newsprint that caught the boy’s eye. Slowly, Jeb bent down and picked it up. It was the front page of the Pikesville Gazette, dated only two days ago. His heart began to pound when he noticed a boldfaced headline at the right side of the page. It read: “TWO MORE CHILDREN ABDUCTED—COUNTY SHERIFF STILL MISSING.”
Jeb stood there for a moment, feeling a cold chill run down his spine. “It’s gotten worse,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else.
“Where’re we going first?” asked Sam. “To see Grandma?” Jeb knew then that he had a decision to make. He thought of his grandmother in the upstairs room of Claudine Johnson’s house, suffering from the cancer inside her. She was safe there and well taken care of. He couldn’t say as much for the prisoners of the riverside cave, though. Jeb could picture the walls of the cavern, decorated with children locked in cocoons of tough snakeskin. He could imagine their terror, too, as the snake-critter awoke from her slumber, that insatiable hunger for blood shining in her reptilian eyes. He could also picture Mandy Rutherford, pale and nearly drained of life, clinging to one last shred of hope … and that was Jeb’s promise to come back for her.
Finally, he turned toward Sam, his eyes determined. “No,” he said. “I think we oughta go to the cave first. Grandma’ll be all right for a while, but those young’uns in the cave, they ain’t got much time. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Disappointment showed in Sam’s eyes, but he reluctantly nodded his bandaged head. “Yeah, I reckon you’re right. That snake-critter, it’s had ’em long enough.”
“That’s right,” said Jeb. He set down the duffle bag he had been carrying since they left the hanging tree and dug through its contents. After a moment, he found what he was looking for.
He held up the pint jar that the Snake Queen had given him. Sunlight played through the vinegar that sloshed around inside, making the leathery egg appear much blacker than before. It resembled a nasty pill of some sort; a poisonous pill, or so Jeb hoped.
The boy returned the jar to the bag and closed the draw-strings with a tug. “Are you ready?” he asked.
The farmer didn’t look too sure. “I reckon so.”
“Then let’s go kill us a monster,” said Jeb.
Together, the two started along the highway, heading toward Pikesville and the bridge that spanned the Cumberland River. In the shade of that bridge, they would find a hole in the side of a bluff. A hole that housed terror and despair, as well as an evil that was almost too horrible to comprehend.
Part Six
Slaying the Dragon
Den of Darkness—Reunion—The Bitter Pill
Chapter Forty-Three
Den of Darkness
“I’m scared,” said Sam.
Jeb swallowed nervously. “Yeah, so am I.”
It was high noon when they finally reached their destination. They stood on the lip of the bluff that towered along the Cumberland’s southern bank, knowing what they had to do, but hesitant to do it. Jeb recalled the two times he had crossed paths with the snake-critter—in the hollow out back of the Sweeny property and in the cave below their feet little more than five days ago—and he was surprised that he had escaped with his life then. Now they were going to deliberately confront the beast with the intention of doing it in. It would be a wonder if they survived their self-appointed task, but Jeb knew they had to at least try.
Both man and boy steeled their nerves and began to make preparations. Jeb opened the duffle bag and took out the mason jar that contained the ebony egg. He studied it for a moment, and then stuck it in the side pocket of his overalls. He checked to make sure he had other articles that might come in handy; his Case knife, slingshot, and lucky buckeye.
When Sam took out the flashlight, the boy shook his head. “I took the flashlight the last time I went in there and it didn’t shed light worth spit,” he told him. “That cave’s mighty dark. I think we oughta try something else this time.”
He went to the sycamore tree that grew at the edge of the bluff and yanked off a good-sized branch. Then he took one of Sam’s old chambray shirts from the duffle bag, along with the can of lighter fluid Roscoe had carried in his knapsack. The ten-year-old stripped the branch of its leaves, wound the shirt tightly around the end, then saturated the cloth with fluid. When he was done, he slipped a box of matches in his pocket and looked over at Sam. “Well, I reckon it’s time to do it,” he said.
“But what about the gun?” asked the farmer. “Ain’t we gonna take it with us?”
