Glenn Taylor - A Hanging at Cinder Bottom

Giuseppe spoke fast and for quite some time.

When he ceased, Frank looked down at Abe from his perch. He said, “He was huntin squirrels with your brother on Buzzard Branch. He’d set his rifle down against a tree trunk so he could piss off the edge of a jutted ridge rock up there — folks call it Big Brogan — you know it?”

Abe said he did.

Dallara went on. “And when he come back, his rifle’s gone. Him and your brother was trying to figure it when three shots come from way far off. Jake was knocked to the ground, but he stood up and screamed and ran down the mountain. Giuseppe followed, but when he got to the bottom, a colored police drew down on him, and he ran out of there. He came to my house, and I took him to a hideout up Sulfur Creek Hollow. Your chief of police tracked him two days later, said he’d found the rifle dropped up on Buzzard Branch too.” He coughed before he clarified. “That rifle is Giuseppe’s — a good Marlin I sold to him for six dollars and a half — but it wasn’t him that fired it.”

Giuseppe spoke again from inside the jail.

Frank Dallara listened and waited a moment before he relayed it to Abe. “He says your brother was a good man. He says your brother was like his own blood kin.”

Abe nodded his head. He took out his watch. Just after one. The mediocre mare would be plenty rested by the time he walked back.

He pulled a twenty-dollar note from his vest pocket and handed it to Frank Dallara. “For your trouble,” he said. He apologized for the rude and abrupt nature of his arrival. Then he told him there might come a time when he was needed in Keystone. “I might clear your cousin’s name,” he said.

He nodded to Frank Dallara and walked away.

May 6, 1910

In those days, Little Donnie Staples was employing the bug to win. The bug was a device that hid a card under his chair at the Oak Slab until such time as he needed it to secure his fortune. He’d built it himself from a penny, a steel spike, and a watch spring. It tucked neatly into the gouge he’d made in the seat’s underside and could be dislodged with considerable speed if suspicion arose. He’d used it to win ninety-seven dollars with an ace of spades on May 4th. Then, after his four-hour slumber, he’d returned to play, and he’d found in his little bug not the ace of spades customarily reloaded by Talbert, but instead a Devil Back joker from the Big Sun Playing Card Company. It wore heavy varnish and along the bottom it read:

A DROP OF BLOOD IN EVERY RED INK BATCH!

Such an odd development perplexed Little Donnie. The card got his steam up. Still, he won considerable monies without aid from the bug, and later, in his room at the Alhambra — the very same third-floor corner room where Abe had once roosted — Little Donnie studied the card. No black ink was used in its manufacture. It was a three-color print, primarily red. Its yellow company sign was bright as summer squash and was held by a dancing green monkey on a pedestal, while the pedestal was striped in a color that was neither red nor green nor yellow. Little Donnie brought the card close, the lines an inch from his left eye, the one folks referred to as “lazy.” It was anything but. It rolled sometimes, but it could see things no one else could. On that night, in the striped pedestal of the devil-monkey, the eye saw:

123123123123123

MAGNIFY

Little Donnie Staples,

Tell Trent I gave you

invite to Baach game.

Come to saloon back door

on Friday 4 am sleep break

The word MAGNIFY was all he could make out. He fetched his pearl-handled magnifying glass and read:

123123123123123

MAGNIFY

Little Donnie Staples,

Tell Trent I gave you

invite to Baach game.

Come to saloon back door

on Friday 4 am sleep break

He could not sleep then for the clamor of possibility in his mind.

Abe Baach was who Little Donnie had always wanted to be.

In the morning, he stood opposite Mr. Trent with his elbow on the long bar. He asked if they could be alone and Trent shooed away the barkeep. Behind them, an old woman pushed floor oil across the boards between tables. She hummed low.

Little Donnie told Trent he’d gotten an invite to a 4 AM poker game at Baach’s saloon. Trent sipped at a short glass of soda water and cringed. He was hungover bad and knew another trip to the commode was close at hand.

Their exchange was to the point and feverishly paced. It proceeded as follows:

“You say it’s a secret game?”

“I believe so.”

“Played on your sleep time?”

“Yes.”

“How did the invite come?”

“Abe asked me hisself.”

“You go on and do it and report back to me what you find.”

And from Trent’s throat came a sucking sound and he put one hand to his stomach and the other to the seat of his pants, beneath which his sphincter pinched sudden against the pressure. And in his mind was a long-forgotten boyhood memory of the time he’d half-filled a pig-bladder balloon with mud-puddle water. He’d blown air in it too and toted the tight balloon in the farm wagon for the long journey to church, and on that journey his tied knot had failed, and the bladder burst brown upon his lap and ruined his Sunday trousers. His granny had held up the mule and thrown him to the ground. She’d stepped from the high wagon seat and jumped a ditch to break off a switch from a sourwood tree. She’d yanked down his trousers and twenty-lashed him across the kneebacks. “You are a bad-hearted little boy,” she’d told him, and he cried and looked at the ground. The sourwood leaves she’d stripped lay in a rudimentary curl on the dirt, their October color coming in, reddest at the middle rib.

Little Donnie went to the back door of A. L. Baach & Sons Saloon on his Friday four AM sleep break. He was greeted warmly there by Sam Baach, who shared his height and slim build. Sam took him upstairs to Abe’s room, where, assembled in a semicircle of unmatched chairs, were the Keystone Kid and Queen Bee, and mother Rebecca. In a ball on Abe’s bed slept brother Robert, who was six and a half years old. He was known to kick and talk in his sleep. Little Donnie liked to call him Bob.

There was rainwater pooled on the windowsill. Cigar smoke ribboned above. Rebecca Staples petted the head of her slumbering youngest and smiled at her oldest.

Abe stood and shook Little Donnie’s hand. He asked him, “Do you mind if I call you L. D.?” and then he called him L. D. and told him he was truly sorry that he had not showed him a card trick on the afternoon of May 15th in the year 1903. “I was a boy back then who thought he was a man,” he said, “and I was six years older than you are today.” He tapped at the side of his head and said to think on that awhile. They sat down.

“L. D.,” Abe said, “I can appreciate a well-made bug.” And he spoke on how he’d once employed the bug just as L. D. had. He said he’d employed mirrors too, sometimes six at once, each no bigger than a june beetle. He’d worked alone and with a partner. He’d blown smoke-ring signals and used the earlobe pull. He’d cold-decked and dealt seconds. He’d crimped, marked, and nicked on the fly. “And L. D.,” he said, “I believe you’ve already seen my line work on that joker. I can go a hundred times smaller than that.” He told the boy he’d give him two years’ apprenticeship in two months’ time. He aimed to stay the summer. He aimed to find out who shot his brother. “And the next time I leave Keystone,” he said, “I won’t be leaving alone, and there won’t be a pocket on any of us that isn’t full up with double-eagles.”