Pale Horse Coming (41 page)

D
ARK
of the moon was just a few days off. The most important thing, Earl knew, was to let them get used to each other, or as used to each other as such a confabulation of ornery, egotistical old cusses could manage. Audie seemed to settle them down, though each little clique sought him out to join up. But Audie was too much his own man, and Earl was happy to see the youngest man avoid the pitfalls of siding with one or the other, and instead work hard to keep on the best of terms with them all. He was also, though he could find no words to express this, happy to see that no little puppy love thing sprung up between Sally and Audie.

So for two more days, it was more like a convention of old fools than it was any kind of gunfight preparation. They joshed and bickered and needled, and Charlie Hatchison got them all mad at him with his aggression, and Bill Jennings dominated by the steel countenance of his majestic face, and Elmer and Jack sniffed arrogantly around each other, and Ed snoozed gently on the porch, ate the food his granddaughter prepared, and had a pleasant if vague smile for them all. But if he seemed not to know exactly where he was, Earl knew that to be an illusion; he knew exactly where he was and what was set. He was simply saving up his energy.

On the night after the next, Earl finally had to take over and to begin to guide them. He did this by means of a meeting called for 8:00, after the evening meal, when all were most relaxed and before any had gotten too drunk.

Earl had played it quiet till now. He knew these old boys were stars in their own little worlds, and didn’t need a sudden tyrant to bark at them and treat them like shit. They needed guidance more than leadership.

“Okay, fellows,” he said. “I’d like to talk this thing out for all to hear and so that all can comment. Is that fair? Are you ready for that?”

“Earl,” said Charlie, “these boys are too old to retain any information you give ’em. They’re all so close to senile, there ain’t no point. Just shove ’em in the right direction and tell ’em to shoot, and that’s about all as you’re going to get out of ’em.”

“You speak for yourself, you dry old goat,” said Elmer. “I got plenty piss left in my liver, and no dried-up old Texas stringbean Mexican-killer is going to speak for me.”

“Well, yippie ki yi!” yelped Jack. “Mr. Kaye has gotten his back up.”

“Now fellows,” crooned Audie. “Let’s just settle down and listen. You too, Charlie.”

“Charlie thinks when he puts his butt on the toilet it’s candy that comes out,” said Jack O’Brian, from behind his harsh spectacles. “But so do all of you. I’m the only man of whom it’s true.”

“Jack, whyn’t you go fiddle with them biddy-little bullets you like so much?”

“All right, all right,” said Earl, as the bickering threatened to break out and overwhelm them all. “Now look here and see what we got before us.”

He pulled a sheet off something he’d brought to the head of the room and mounted on a couple of chairs, and of course it was a map.

But it was a map like no map they’d ever seen before. It was a high altitude photo reconnaissance map, complete to the tiniest detail of vegetation and architecture. “This is it. Thebes Penal Farm for Colored, as seen from thirty thousand feet by a Banshee photo jet nose camera. Got me a friend who’s a high mucky-muck in naval aviation circles, and he pulled this one out of the hat for me.

“Look at it. It’s got all the roads, all the distances; it’s got all the buildings; you can even make out some of the paths in the woods. You can see the curve of the river embracing it. You can follow the roads. You can, and I know you are all good compass men, take your readings from this map so that when you are on the ground you can orient fast and night-navigate better than the boys who’ve been there ten years. That’s the way they fight wars these days, and that’s the way we’ll fight this one.”

The old men were at last silent. There it was before them, the sweep of the river, the Big House, the Store, the Whipping House, the Screaming House, the prison compound with the four towers around the Ape House, the road out to the levee project, the levee itself holding back the water, the Drowning House, with its scow moored to the dock. Earl could even see the little blasphemy of the coffin out back of the Whipping House.

“These people are heavily armed,” he began. “This will be a gunfight, like I promised. You will prevail on your coolness, experience and shooting skills. These boys have never faced men who can shoot as well as you, have your determination and spirit. That’s why I ain’t training you or running any drills as I would with young fellows.”

“And you don’t want any of these old farts shitting up their pants,” said Charlie.

“Thank you, Charlie, for your observation.”

“That looks like a mighty big setup,” said Elmer.

“It is. But like I say, seven men can take it. Seven against Thebes and it’s finished. You each will have an assignment, and it’ll happen smooth and easy, I swear to you.”

“Earl, put me where I can get the most kills,” sang Charlie. “Got seventeen. Want more. Three things a man can’t have too much of: wives, guns or kills. In a pinch, I could do without the first.”

“You ain’t laid with a damn woman in fifty years,” said Elmer.

“I’ll put you where the shootin’ will be fiercest, Charlie. You will have your goddamn snootful of action by the time this is all over. Anyhow, fifty guards, by my count, all armed with Winchester 07 self-loaders shooting a .351 Winchester round and Colt revolvers. I saw one Thompson and maybe a half-dozen Model ’97 Winchester 12-gauges. They’re housed in a barracks behind the Whipping House. We’ve got to seal them there. That’s one big problem. The other big problem is the four Browning water-cooled machine guns in the four towers, and in each there will be a two-man night crew with spotlights. If those guns get into play, they’re simply going to make matchsticks out of the barracks and kill all the Negroes. That’s their point. They’re Warden’s insurance policy. They keep the boys good at night, ’cause he can kill ’em all in the snap of a finger.

“So do you see it yet?”

There was silence. Then it was Jack, the intellectual, who spoke.

“I see it.”

“Tell them.”

“The weakness is that everything is geared to keep the prisoners
in.
It’s not to keep us
out.
”

“That’s it exactly. The forest and the swamp, and the long dark river: that’s what they’re counting on for their protection. And that’s why I can get teams in there and up close without detection, and strike fast and hard. We have to trap them in their buildings. We don’t want them roaming about, because then we’re hunting targets all around us, and they’re hunting us. If we got them in their buildings, we win, easy.

“So this is it: first off, our Irish invasion. Mr. Ryan and Mr. O’Brian will land here”—he put a marker pin on the map—“move across the fields in darkness, and hit the towers. That is your job. I’ll give you a compass reading, and track you a path in away from populated buildings. You won’t have no problems. You will get into one of the towers, take it over, and from that vantage point, Jack, you will pick off the other gunners. Then, Jack, you will remain in the tower as a kind of backup. You will scope the action, and wherever you see targets, you will deal with them.”

“Got it,” said Jack.

“Audie, over here is ’ho town, as they call it. It’s where the women who work the prison kitchen and laundry live, and they’s known to take in visitors from the guards at night. You have to clear that. Can you do it with that German gun?”

“Think I might,” said Audie.

“Meanwhile, Elmer and Bill are going to be at the guards’ barracks. They are going to do that one fast, in the second after Jack and Audie go into action. When he finishes his job, old Charlie will join them. I will come over from the Whipping House, which is my special place. We will hit them, and hit them hard, and burn them out. Most of the guards will be in the barracks, which is where the armory and the kennels are, and we want to hit them before they can release them goddamned dogs. If they don’t give it up, they will go down hard. We may have to burn ’em out.

“Now Charlie, here’s your play. You will be in the woods, ’bout a mile out. That’s where the sheriff’s deputies are quartered. You’re going to light that place up and shoot any men that don’t surrender. Then you join up with Elmer, Bill and I and work on the guards’ barracks. Then the four of us join Jack and Audie, take over the compound and let the prisoners go. Then y’all head for the river, where you will deal with any remaining guards, but by that time, with the Negroes free and the place burning, most will have gone. You head for the levee. Audie, you got military demolitions skills?”

“I had to destroy some bridges, Earl. I learned how to blow things up right nice.”

“I worked on engineering projects in my youth,” said Jack. “I can blow up anything.”

“Well, that’s something I didn’t know,” said Earl. “It sure comes in handy. It ain’t a bridge you’re blowing. It’s just dirt. You blow the levee and head back onto the river. While you’re doing that, I will head down the road to the Screaming House. There is some business there I have to take care of. I will meet you all in the morning by the river.

“Now let me tell you who to watch for special. They got one man there I will honestly tell you I fear. Kill him, and the job is ninety-five percent over, for he is the guts and strength of Thebes. His name is Bigboy; he runs the place. Guard sergeant. Big white boy, so white he glows. He’s an albino, but that doesn’t make him weak and scared. It makes him tough as hell and twice as determined. He will rally his men, he will bring fire, he will fight a hard fight. So I am warning you, he is not to be trusted. See a big white man glowing in the dark, strong as a bull, he’s the one you drop first, you hear?”

“If I bring his head, Earl,” said Charlie, “will you give me a nickel and a piece of bubble gum?”

“Mr. Earl?”

It was Sally, sitting next to the old man.

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Grandpap wants to know his job.”

“Grandpap will be in the town. I will get grandpap in the town and he will set up at a little bar they have there. That will draw a bunch of deputies, I know. He will deal with them. In fact, that’ll be the start of the whole thing. When the deputies come to arrest Mr. Ed, Mr. Ed will take care of them.”

Mr. Ed listened politely. Then he whispered something to Sally.

“How many?” she repeated, louder.

“Five, I’d say.”

Agitated, the old man whispered something again to Sally.

“Grandpap says that since he’ll have six bullets, what’s he supposed to do with the extra?”

After the laughter died down, Jack had a question.

“Earl, if everything goes to plan—”

“It won’t.”

“I know. And I know that all evidence we leave behind us goes under the river, so there’s nothing to trace anybody by.”

“That’s right.”

“But my question is, we’re supposed to burn all these buildings down. Are we supposed to carry torches? Can’t see running through the dark with torches while hillbillies are shooting at me.”

“That’s a very good question. My answer is: Who wants to watch a cowboy picture?”

There was silence.

“I have Hoppy, lots of Hoppy. I have Sandy the singing cowboy, and Buck and Hoot and even some William S.? Who’s interested?”

Again there was no answer.

“Well, look here,” he said, and pulled out an Italian canteen.

“Know what this could be? A World War I canteen. But it ain’t full of water. No sir, it’s full of chopped-up cowboy picture.”

Stupefaction reigned.

“Come out on the porch with me.”

They followed him out.

“Old-time movies were made on a kind of celluloid coated with a chemical called silver nitrate. The nitrate’s fine; the celluloid is unstable, particularly as it grows older. Hell, it’s explosively incendiary, which is why if you look, most projection booths are more like bank vaults than rooms. I got each canteen loaded up with bits and pieces of chopped-up movie film, and I rigged a kind of primitive match fuse.”

He unscrewed the lid and unfolded a cord wedged in the spout.

“You just pull on this thing, and toss it fast. Don’t be holding it.”

He pulled the cord and deep inside the canteen, a match pulled against a striker board, lit, began to burn excelsior packed loosely about it, and in two seconds, by which time Earl had lobbed it, burned through a cardboard tube.

“Jesus Christ!” somebody said.

The canteen burst not into flames so much as into hell; the incineration spurted outward not in an explosion but in a kind of blossom, burning so white-hot and fierce it hurt the eyes of those who looked at it and they had to twist away.

“Burn through anything. Melts the canteen in a tenth of a second. Burns for a solid five minutes, white-hot like that, and spreads and oozes all about, blazing like a blowtorch, setting the world aflame. Burns under water, burns in the wind, just burns and burns until it’s gone.”

“I always say,” said Charlie, “nothing like a good cowboy picture.”

S
AM
sat in the medical library at the University of Texas at Austin, just a few miles up the road from New Braunfels, and watched a life swim into existence. The first spottings were tentative, in obscure journals.

“Certain predispositions toward distribution in an Asian strain of
Treponema pallidum
” by D. Goodwin, M.D., was the first, from a 1936 issue of the
Journal of Canadian General Medicine.
Then, quickly, a second: “
Treponema pallidum:
some Malaysian adaptations.” This was from
Lancet,
the British medical journal.

In both cases, the identity of the contributor was a minimal amount of information. “D. Goodwin is a medical researcher” was all it said.

But D. Goodwin, M.D., flourished, if David Stone, M.D., disappeared. D. Goodwin, M.D., was like some kind of mounted knight in combat immemorial against
Treponema pallidum,
whatever that was, the world over. Where it appeared, he appeared to rush off and study it.

“Burma: A new strain of
Treponema pallidum.
”

“
Treponema pallidum:
variations on the lower Indian subcontinent.”

“Influence of temporal variation on distribution patterns of
Treponema pallidum
in sub-Saharan Africa.”

D. Goodwin, M.D., wouldn’t stop working, wouldn’t stop writing. He had given his life over to this illusive spray of germs or whatever they were, which seemed to cast such a long shadow through the world, and which seemed to exist everywhere.

By 1941, he had published thirty-one papers; then the war came.

But D. Goodwin, M.D., was intractable.

He even found time to publish while running the 2809th Tropical Disease Research Unit.

“Prevalence of
Treponema pallidum
among southern rural Negroes, Mississippi, 1943” appeared in the
Harvard Medical Journal,
though now the ID of the author simply read “is a serving officer of the Army Medical Corps.”

Then “Similarities between varieties of southern rural
Treponema pallidum
and certain strains in Borneo”; this in the
Journal of Medicine
of the University of Chicago.

Sam sat in a great room. He scanned the articles, but it was mostly Greek to him. He was at a large table outside the stacks, and the place was crowded with students, all working intently, their eyes firmly fixed on the future. Outside, the famous tower of the University of Texas stood guard.

Then the documents ran out. There were none after 1946.

He looked around. He felt he was in a sacred place.

He turned, and two seats away from him a young woman pored intently through something called
Aspects of Brain Chemistry
with almost desperate intensity.

Yet there was something vaguely approachable about her.

“Miss,” he whispered, “are you a medical student?”

She looked up, fixed him with a pretty American smile. She had freckles.

“Sir,” she said, sweetly, “actually, I’m a nursing student. Second year.”

“Oh, I see. Well, possibly you could help me just a second.”

He slid his card over, and she looked at it.

“I am in way deep over my head. I am researching the career of a doctor involved in some litigation, and I came down here to take some depositions.”

“A Texas doctor?”

“No, ma’am. Actually, I guess a Baltimore doctor.”

That seemed to relieve the young lady considerably. She did not want to get into anything involving a Texas doctor.

“He’s published a lot in medical journals, public health journals, you know, and it’s mostly gibberish to me. Can’t make out heads nor tails.”

“I see.”

“See, there’s this one thing, don’t know if it’s a disease, or what, that appears in all his work. And there might be some connection with nuclear medicine. Atomic rays, that sort of thing? Are you familiar with that?”

“Well, sir, experiments are underway to use atomic power to cause genes to mutate to specific purpose. I don’t know much about it, but it’s evidently one of the great benefits of the atomic bomb research.”

“Hmmm,” said Sam. “I wonder how that would apply to our subject. Are you familiar with the term? It’s called, ah,
Treponema pallidum.
Would you know what—?”

But the horror rose on her pretty young face, and she started to scream, and campus security got there within seconds, and they dragged Sam off before he could do any real damage, and held him until the Austin vice detectives got there.