Joe Lansdale - Sunset and Sawdust

The trail came to an end. They stood on the bank of the creek, and here the bank was high up with lots of trees growing out from it, their roots exposed, and Clyde grabbed Karen’s arm, said, “I’m going to lower you down.”

She took his hand and he leaned out and lifted her as if she were a doll, eased her over the edge, and lowered her, said, “Take hold of that limb, and swing under there. There’s a place.”

It was a washout under the roots, and from where they had stood on the bank, you couldn’t see it. It was pretty big, and as Clyde lowered her down she got hold of one of the roots, let go of his hand and swung herself out of view. He thought: Hope there ain’t no moccasins in there.

When she was out of sight, Clyde bent down close to the bank, called softly, “Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” Karen said.

“I’m handing the shotgun down. Be careful. Reach out and take it. I’ll swing it on my belt.”

“Okay,” Karen said.

Clyde took off his belt, fastened it around the stock of the shotgun, bent down close again, swung it out and back into the hole. Karen grabbed it and he let go of the belt.

He got hold of a root and swung out and down, got hold of another, lowered himself so he could swing inside the wash with Karen. He had to bend his head slightly to fit, but it was the way he remembered. One time he had gone fishing and had waded out in the creek to get his line untangled, and he had seen the wash. It was almost half as tall as a man and very wide and pretty deep. The only difference now was that the creek had been high a few times and it had washed it out even more.

When he felt Karen close to him, squatting, leaning against him, he reached in his pocket, got a matchbox, took a match out and struck it.

A beaver was at the far side of the indention, and it hissed at them and bared its teeth. It looked like a big hairy rat there in the light of the wavering match.

Karen huddled closer to him.

“Hold this match,” Clyde said, took the shotgun and used it to poke at the beaver until it sprang past them, made Karen squeak slightly, leaped into the water and swam away.

The match went out.

“Be quiet now,” Clyde said. “Up against the back of the wash, and be quiet.”

“I’m scared,” Karen said.

“Then we’re scared together.”

“Goose?”

“We can’t think about that now. Be quiet, I said.”

They eased back until they were as far as they could go, and quit squatting, sat down, waiting, listening.

At the front of the trail Clyde and Karen had taken, Two could see blackberry vines had been ripped and disturbed where they had once grown tight on either side of the trail.

As he stood there looking, Hillbilly and Plug came up, Plug pushing his revolver into its holster.

“You’re slow,” Two said.

“You done killed everybody?” Plug said. “We seen that boy. He wasn’t nothing but a kid.”

“Silence,” the Other Two said. “They went this way.”

“Sunset?” Hillbilly asked.

“A big man and a girl,” Two said.

“Probably Clyde and Karen,” Hillbilly said.

“Henry, you shot him too,” Plug said. “I thought we just come to get him.”

“We got him all right,” the Other Two said.

“You got him, and Tootie. What’s to keep you from getting us?” Plug asked. “You might want to suck our faces too. Did you suck the dog?”

“No soul,” Two said. “God didn’t give animals souls.”

“What about you?” Plug asked. “You got one?”

Two grabbed Plug by the shirt and shoved him back. Plug dropped his hand to his gun, but didn’t pull it. He said, “All right. All right.”

“No more,” Two said. “Not a word.”

Plug nodded.

Two started trotting down the trail, Hillbilly and Plug behind him.

Clyde and Karen sat in the wash and listened to an owl hoot and the creek water run. They saw a coon cross in the moonlight, splashing water, clambering to the other bank, melting into the brush and trees. Grasshoppers were rattling and rustling through the brush and they could see hundreds of dead ones in the water, washing by.

After a while they heard the crunching of leaves and such and the sound of running feet coming nearer. Karen tensed and grabbed hold of Clyde. Clyde sat with his legs crossed, the shotgun lying across one thigh, listening. It was hot in the wash and sweat ran down his face and stuck to the inside of his shirt, and he could feel dampness from Karen and he could smell something too. Fear.

The running stopped above them and there was the sound of someone breathing heavy. Clyde guessed Plug. Thought: They stopped right here? Why? They see some sign?

No. No sign. These guys, they wouldn’t know sign.

Or would they?

Could they read where they left the trail, dropped over the side into the creek?

And if they could, would they know there was a wash here? Maybe they’d come down into the creek, and from here, he would have a shot.

Still, there were three of them. And he had the girl.

But they could have stopped because the trail widened here, there was room to spread out, take a breather. Maybe-

“There ain’t no use,” he heard Hillbilly say. “Clyde, he knows these woods good as a goddamn squirrel.”

Then Clyde heard someone, the big colored man, he figured, though he sounded very educated, very smooth, a Yankee colored, say, “Brother McBride isn’t going to be happy.”

“We should go back and wait on them,” another voice said, and Clyde didn’t know who it was. He didn’t sound colored or Southern either. Was there a fourth person? Someone he hadn’t seen?

“No,” said the first voice, the one he thought must be the colored man. “They won’t come back. They won’t do that.”

Then there was movement, followed by silence, and they sat for a long time listening to nothing. Then there was an explosion. So loud Karen made a little yip.

She put her hand over her mouth, bent double. Clyde reached out and patted her gently on the shoulders.

Clyde found that he was breathing heavy. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose.

Easy, now, he told himself.

Easy, now. It didn’t sound that close. It was just loud. It might have been a gun, but it didn’t sound like one. No. It wasn’t a gun. The more he thought on it, the more certain he was it wasn’t a gun.

But what was it?

They waited about five more minutes, Clyde counting out what he thought was five minutes in his head.

Clyde thought: No, don’t go up there. That could be just what they’re waiting for. Us to show our faces. Maybe that’s what they’re doing. Lying in wait.

But the explosion? What was that?

Clyde rested the shotgun across his knees, wiped his damp hands on his shirt. He used his hand to wipe sweat from his eyes, dried his hands on his shirtfront again.

They waited. Twenty minutes or so went by. Again, Clyde figuring it in his head, deciding maybe twenty or so was long enough.

Clyde leaned over and put his mouth over Karen’s ear.

“You take the shotgun. I’m going to slip out and into the creek. Go up a ways.”

“No,” Karen said.

“I’m going to go up a ways and cut back, see if anyone is up there. If not, I’m going to call down to you. If I don’t call, if anyone shows their face over the edge, starts to come into the wash, you shoot to kill.”

“Clyde.”

“Keep it soft,” he said.

Karen lowered her voice again. “Just wait. I’m scared. Just wait.”

“We’ll wait a while longer, but just a while,” he said.

They did wait, and it was a long wait, and finally Clyde slipped out of the wash and dangled off the roots and down into the water. He was quiet about it, but still the water splashed as he waded through it, the dead grasshoppers washing along as he waded. He took to the bank on the side the wash was on, climbed up and flipped open his knife.