Fistful of Feet (22 page)

   Betty said, “Why didn’t they attack us? Looks like they broke into every building, every house but they didn’t come in here.”

   “I don’t know and frankly, I don’t give a shit just as long as they don’t come back.”

   Stacklee said, “So, we ready?”

   Everyone agreed and then Calamaro said, “I’m staying.”

   “Shit, are you that stupid?” Sheriff Doyle said. “We have a better chance of getting out alive if we’re in a group. You stay by yourself here, you’re bound to meet up with those redskins or some other tribe that wants to loot the town.”

   “I’m staying, that’s all.”

   Stacklee walked up to Calamaro, taking him aside. “You know the sheriff’s right. It’d be foolish as hell to stay.”

   “Then call me foolish. I’m staying and I wish you all the best of luck.”

   “Shit, man.” He patted Calamaro on the shoulder. “Thank you for everything.”

   “You’re the one who should be thanked. Betty is lucky to have a man like you working for her.”

   They shook hands and then the group got ready to leave. Betty and Calamaro exchanged no more words, only another deep kiss.

   Bluford approached Calamaro and said, “Thank you for saving my life.”

   Calamaro nodded.

   Doyle said, “We ready?”

   They went out the back door, slowly and careful not to make any noise just incase there were still Indians hiding, ready to ambush.

   As they walked, Bluford heard a sound coming from the church. “What the hell was that?”

   They all listened and heard the same sound.

   “Shit,” Doyle said. “Let’s just go. If anyone’s in the church, they can’t see us. So let’s hurry up. Go!”

   The four of them ran through the sand and out of town. Betty looked back at her brothel and let herself cry for her girls one last time.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

   In his frenzied escape, Tom Duma thought the church was the only place he’d be safe from the Indians. Though never much of a religious man, he still held the opinion that the church itself would be untouched by the red pagans simply because God himself would protect it.

   He went into the church and found it empty except for broken pews and scattered bibles. On the wall behind the altar scrawled in green paint was a scripture verse. Tom walked up to it.

   “Gold is the devil with the broadest shoulders,” he read. “Jonah 7:25.”

   He waited a long time while the Indians attacked the town. Then the noise lessened and he knew that they were leaving. He had been spared.

   But then the sound of footsteps echoed through the room and a small Indian boy appeared in the doorway. He wore a stove pipe hat made out of cactus needles and human teeth.

   Tom Duma turned around. He stared at the boy and said, “This is a place of God. Do you understand that? This is a holy place.”

   The boy stood silent and held up a pink pistol.

   “Your people are more savage than I ever imagined,” Tom said. He was about to pick up a bible and hand it to the heathen when a bullet went through his eyeball and out the back of his head. He screamed and put his finger to the wound and thought it felt like the inside of a wet pussy. Then he ran to his left and jumped out of a window, landing in the church graveyard.

   A coffin broke Tom’s fall. He found himself in an open grave. With his eye bleeding profusely, he stood up and tried to climb out. He was too heavy for the coffin to hold and the wood broke. Tom looked down with his good eye and saw that there was no corpse in the coffin.

   There was gold.

   Hundreds of gold coins.

   For a few seconds, Tom Duma thought himself a rich man. Then the Indian boy appeared above him, grinning and pointing his pink pistol.

   A second bullet destroyed Tom’s other eye. This time, instead of screaming, he covered his head and whimpered. “Don’t break the glass dolls, mother.”

   The Indian boy put his hand under his hat and pulled out a pink tentacle as long as a bullwhip.

   Now blind, Tom didn’t see the Indian’s new weapon. He only heard the cracking of the whip.

   “Oh please, please, please, please spare me! Please!” Tom blubbered but the Indian had no intention of sparing him.

   With another crack of the whip, the top of Tom’s skull was sliced off, exposing the brain underneath. The Indian jumped down into the grave and finished the killing with a sharpened oyster shell.

   Tom Duma’s blood and viscera soaked the gold. The Indian boy reached down, picked up a blood drenched coin, and put it into his mouth. His eyes watered in ecstatic joy. The taste of blood and gold was intoxicating.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

   “Hey Sheriff,” Bluford said. “I have to tell you something.”

   “Yeah?”

   “Stacklee already knows and maybe Betty, too. I just think I’d feel better if I was honest about it.”

   Sheriff Doyle shrugged. “So spit it out. What?”

   “I’m a cheat,” he said. “A card cheat.”

   The sheriff shook his head.

   “Boy, do you think I give a good goddamn about that now?”

   Bluford blushed. “What do you mean?”

   “We were attacked by Indians for Christ’s sake and you’re confessing that you’re a cheat? You think I’m going to arrest you now?”

   “No. I mean, I think it’s just my conscience having to be cleared,” Bluford said. “And I thought maybe that this whole thing was God’s way of punishing me, sending those pagans to attack the town I was in. Maybe I brought it all down on us.”

   Sheriff Doyle said, “Bluford, you think God really thinks that much of you?”

   “What do you mean?”

   “You think out of all the people in the world, God’s going to put a bull’s eye on you just because you’ve been cheating at some cards or something? If there really is a God, we’re all just insects to him, like scorpions. Hell, even lower than scorpions because we can’t even sting him. We’re like scorpions with no tails. So I assure you he doesn’t give a shit about you pocketing some aces in a poker game.”

   Bluford dropped his head. “Well….”

   “Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter now,” Doyle said. “In the long run, we’re all just insects.”

   Bluford thought of Lily. It was a strange feeling finding the mutilated body of a woman you had just screwed. He felt uneasy over the fact that he was the last man she had been with. A woman shouldn’t die right after being intimate with a stranger. She should die of old age in her own home after being with her husband. The whole thing was heartbreaking.

   The group was silent as they walked. Bluford was about to ask Stacklee how it came about that he was working for Betty when he saw something up ahead.

   Three men.

   He pointed and said, “Look.”

   The sheriff squinted in the sun. “Don’t look like Indians.”

   “Survivors, then?” Bluford said.

   “I don’t know. Maybe.”

   “So let’s go see.” Bluford walked over. The others reluctantly followed him.

   When Bluford got close enough, he recognized the men. He had seen them in Betty’s place and talked to the tall one, Sergio. When he got in earshot of the group, Bluford said, “Hey.”

   Sergio, Clayton, and Leonard looked at him but didn’t respond.

   When Bluford looked at Sergio’s face, he could tell that he made a mistake in approaching them. There were tears in the man’s eyes. He looked as if he’d just been through hell, even more hell than a bunch of crazed Indians attacking the town.

   The sheriff said, “Who are you?”

   He got no response.

   Bluford said, “That’s Sergio. I talked to him back at Betty’s.”

   Then Sergio and his two partners all looked at the canteens that Bluford and Betty were holding.

   Sergio grunted. “Water.”

   There was even more tension in the air as Sheriff Doyle took a couple of steps to put himself in front of Betty. “Yeah, it’s our water.”

   Clayton drew his pistol. None of the others even saw his hand go for it. He was that fast.

   “Hey, hold on a minute,” Stacklee said. “No need for the gun. We can give you a sip of water if you need it.”

   Sheriff Doyle said, “No, Stack. We’re not giving them shit.”

   “Oh?” Clayton cocked his pistol, aiming it at Doyle.

   “You heard me.” The sheriff drew his gun and aimed it right back at the bastard in the donkey mask. “You want to play bullet for bullet, that it?”

   Sergio said, “Hey.”

   The sheriff moved his eyes and saw that he had another gun aimed at him. What a bitch it would be if he got shot down right after surviving a goddamn Indian attack.

   Stacklee pulled his gun out from his waistband and aimed it at Sergio’s head.

   As they all stood there waiting for someone else to make the first move, Betty said, “You know he’s the sheriff, right?”

   Sergio let out a grunt that intended to be a laugh. “Sheriff? I just killed your mayor and you think I’d hesitate to kill your sheriff?”

   “You killed the mayor?” Betty said. She wasn’t upset but it was still shocking to hear that Mayor Douglas was dead and that the man standing in front of her had done it.

   “Yeah,” Sergio said. His gun hand was as still as stone.

   More silence.

   Everyone stared at each other. It was as if lifelong enemies were facing each other for the last time despite there being no history between them.

   Finally Doyle spoke. “Put your guns down. I won’t arrest you.”

   Clayton chuckled. “You think we’re worried about that?”

   Leonard said, “Okay. Looks like we got a stalemate here. Two guns against two guns. Do you know how we solve that?” He pulled his gun and pointed it at Stacklee.

   Betty stiffened. She was truly scared. The men looked like seasoned killers. Sheriff Doyle, on the other hand, didn’t seem as comfortable holding a gun. His hand trembled just enough to make her worry about the outcome.

   “You’re not getting the water,” Doyle said. “Not alive, you’re not.”

   Sergio grunted.

   The tension broke.

   Gunshots exploded as triggers were pulled.

   A bullet hit Stacklee in the shoulder, knocking him down. Another bullet hit Sheriff Doyle in the chest, sending him backwards onto a cactus. Bluford and Betty jumped to the ground, hiding behind a small boulder.

   Sergio was hit in the gut. He doubled over and squeezed another shot off, hitting the sheriff in the leg.

   Clayton’s head was blown away. His donkey mask fell off and was now covered with blood and brains. Through the gore, Betty saw a truly handsome face. It was sad that it had belonged to such a bastard.

   Though he didn’t want to admit it, Leonard knew that his old age had delayed his reflexes. He only managed to get one shot off that hit the Negro in the shoulder before he felt a red hot bullet tear through his stomach. Leonard turned his head to see Betty holding a gun. The bitch had shot him.

   Betty said, “Next man that moves gets a bullet.”

   No one moved.

   A few seconds of heavy breathing and bloody groaning and then Sergio slowly raised his gun. He aimed it at Betty.

   Before Sergio could get a shot off, another bullet exploded from Betty’s gun and his neck exploded.

   Leonard shouted. “Sergio!” He was feeling lightheaded and regretted having raised his voice. He would need all the energy he had in order to stay alive. Old age and bullets didn’t mix. So he whispered. “Don’t kill me.”

   “I wasn’t going to,” Betty said.

   “Shoot him, Betty,” the sheriff said. He was still draped over the cactus like a ragdoll.

   “No,” she said.

   Leonard was fading into death. He saw giant scorpions guarding a fiery gate. They smiled venomous grins, pointing their stingers at him like vicious rapist cocks. Leonard raised his gun. He wanted to blow those ugly bastards away. He wasn’t going to Hell without a fight.

   Betty watched Leonard’s eyes became milky as he raised his gun.

   She said, “Don’t do it.”

   Leonard heard only scorpion-babble as aimed his trembling hand.

   Stacklee pointed his gun at Leonard and pulled the trigger, killing the delirious old man. He didn’t enjoy it but he wasn’t about to stand by and let Betty get hurt.

   “Hey,” Doyle said. His voice was weak.

   Stacklee and Betty walked over to him. They started pulling him off the cactus but stopped when Doyle screamed in pain.

   “We got to get you off here, sheriff,” Stacklee said.

   Doyle shook his head. “No, forget it. I’m done.”

   “No, you’re not.”

   “Yeah, Stack. I am.” Sheriff Doyle’s body became limp but his eyes were still open and aware. “Listen. Just wanted to tell you before I go. I never had any hard feelings towards you. Never had a problem with you being a Negro or anything. I just wanted you to know that. I think you’re a good man.”

    “I appreciate that, sheriff.” Stacklee unexpectedly felt tears well up in the corners of his eyes. “I think you’re a good man, too.”

   Sheriff Doyle chuckled. “I’m still going to Hell, though.”

   “Even so, I imagine God won’t make it too hot for you.” He watched as the sheriff’s head turned to the side, his eyes gazing out at the desert. Betty took a step forward and kissed Doyle on the forehead.

   The sheriff didn’t feel Betty’s kiss, however. He was looking at Calamaro who was standing in the dust. Doyle didn’t believe it. Hadn’t he stayed back in town? Why was he now standing in the desert smiling at him?

   The image of Calamaro said, “When you’re about to murder a man, what do you look at?” He lifted his hands. “I’ve asked this question so many times and you know what everyone says? They say they look at the man’s hands. You know what I look at?” He pointed to his face. “I look at his eyes.”

   Then Calamaro burped, scorpions crawling out of his mouth and onto the ground. The sheriff thought that was strange. The scorpions rushed forward until they reached the bottom of the cactus that was holding Doyle. The creatures began to hum.