David Ohle - The Devil in Kansas

Dewey’s hand creeps toward his boot, which hides the prospector’s Derringer. Cousin looks at Jonah, Jonah looks at Cousin. Mr. Binder throws his knife into the wall. Katie and Mrs. Binder peek from the quilt-crack.

Cousin barks, “Aunt! Katie! I told y’all to git on in there. I don’t think no tender eyes oughta be lookin’ at what I’m about to do here.”

Dewey says: “Let’s be sensible, boys. Go on and take a few nuggets for your trouble.”

Jonah thinks that’s a decent offer. “Heck, that sounds generous, Cousin. How much you think we oughta take?”

“Jonah, you ain’t never been nothing but a mule-brain.” Now he addresses Dewey: “You gotta understand that what I’m fixin’ to do in a minute ain’t nothin’ personal. I’ll make it quick and merciful. Don’t fret any.”

“You gonna shoot me over a bag of gold? Take it all. Let me walk out of here. I’ll be gone for good.”

As Cousin gives this some thought, Dewey’s hand slides into his boot and withdraws the Derringer.

Jonah says, “You ain’t gonna shoot him in here, are you, Cousin?”

Mrs. Binder sticks her head out from the quilts. “Please. Do it in zee orchard. Vee don’t vant zat in here.”

Cousin is agreeable to that. “All right, Aunt. Let’s go, Mr. Dewey. We’re gonna go for a walk in the orchard.”

Dewey stands, the Derringer now concealed in the palm of his hand.

Jonah offers to get a pick and shovel out of the barn. “Let’s make him dig his own hole. I’m tired.”

Cousin is agreeable to that, too. “That’s good thinkin’, Jonah. Go on and fetch a shovel and pick from the barn.”

Jonah exits.

Cousin pokes the barrel of his gun into Dewey’s back. “Mr. Dewey. This here’s your last march. So let’s git it over with quick.” For a moment Cousin relaxes his vigilance to scoop up the gold nuggets from the table, allowing Dewey to raise the Derringer and fire two bullets into Cousin’s heart, killing him.

Mr. Binder throws a knife at Dewey, but it misses and sticks in the wall.

Dewey shoots at Mr. Binder but misses. On the second shot, Mr. Binder falls with a head wound, but isn’t dead. He moans and thrashes. Mrs. Binder kneels beside him, tries to hold him still. “Oh, mein Gott. Help me!”

Katie rushes to her. “Papa!”

Jonah enters as Dewey fires a coup de grace into Mr. Binder’s head, stilling him. “What in creation?”

Dewey points the gun at him. “You wanna go on livin’?”

Jonah looks at his father, who lets out a death rattle. “I s’pose I do.”

“Can you drive that wagon out there?”

“I s’pose I could. I rode with Cousin a few times.”

“I’d do it myself, ‘cept fer this got-damn foot o’ mine.”

Mr. Binder expires in Mrs. Binder’s arms. Katie weeps.

In the orchard, a hard rain falls. Mrs. Binder and Katie cry on one another’s shoulders under an umbrella as Jonah and Dewey finish digging two graves under a dead apple tree. They pick up Cousin’s body and heave it into one hole, then lower Papa into his grave with a bit more care and solemnity.

Jonah’s hand is on his heart. “Goodbye, Papa. It’s fer the best, I think. I hope the Lord’ll take care o’ you ‘cause we’re for sure plumb tired o’ doin’ it.”

Dewey offers an “Amen,” then shovels dirt into the holes. Jonah joins him in the task.

Mrs. Binder and Katie sob deeply with every shovelful.

At dawn, Jonah checks over the wagon and harness, preparing to leave. Dewey sits in the passenger seat with his gun and satchel. Mrs. Binder and Katie look out from the doorway. Jonah climbs onto the wagon and whips the mules. As the wagon rolls forward, several headstones fall out of the bed and stick upright in the mud.

Hays City, Kansas, a day or two later. A wind is kicking up in the dusty streets. Jonah drives the weary team down 8th Street, turns onto Maple, passes a lumber company and a bank, then turns up an alley. A small crowd, including Sheriff Peppard and his diminutive deputy, Ratoncito, stand over three fly-covered dead men, all with multiple bullet wounds. In the background, watching the proceedings patiently and unobtrusively, is the town’s black-suited mortician, his silver tooth gleaming in the sun. An artist with a pad sketches the bodies. A newspaper reporter takes notes.

As the wagon passes by, Jonah tips his hat to the group. Dewey does not tip his hat, or even take his gaze off the street ahead. Peppard and Ratoncito eye the holes in Dewey’s coat. They immediately grow suspicious of him, as if picking up the scent of his criminality.

Moving on through town, Jonah reins in the mules at a livery stable, where a blacksmith busily works his bellows in the process of fabricating a wagon hub. The conical pile of coals glows brightly. Beyond the half-dozen stalls is a wagon twice the height of an average one, and fitted with sails. The blacksmith glares suspiciously at the two strangers.

Dewey gets down, dusts himself off, knocks away the ever-present grasshoppers. “Mornin’.” He isn’t looking at the smithy, but at the strange conveyance at the back of the stable. He points his rifle at the wagon. “What in the Lord’s name is that contraption?”

“That there’s a wind wagon, built with these here hands. Put a sail on her, she’ll move across flat land at a pretty good clip when there’s a good wind up.”

“Mighty fine lookin’ machine.”

“What kin I do fer you boys?”

Dewey leans on his Sharps like a cane. “Well now, the thing is, I gotta sell off this whole rig, cargo included. Got word yesterday a well-to-do uncle of mine done died over there in Dodge City and left me a pile o’ money. They say I gotta git there quick to claim it.”

“Spit it out, Mister. What’re you sayin’?”

“What I’m sayin’ is, I’d be willin’ to trade somebody that mule rig and wagon dead even for a half decent horse and saddle. Looks like you got a few of ‘em here. How about that one on the end there.”

“The whole kit ‘n’ caboodle for one horse and saddle?”

“Yessir.”

“Well, I ain’t too interested. It wouldn’t be that horse anyhow. That one belongs to Sheriff Peppard. And the one next to it, that’s his deputy’s.”

Jonah steps in. “You mean two, don’tcha, Mr. Dewey? Two horses. One for me and one for you?”

Dewey leads Jonah out of the smithy’s hearing. “This is where you git off, boy. You can go on back home some way.”

“Holt it right there, Mr. Dewey. You owe me something for what you done to my family. ‘Sides, I cain’t go back there and live with them two womens. I’d sooner be shot.”

“What’ve you got fer brains, mashed turnips? Your got-damn family was tryin’ to shoot me, remember?”

“Don’t matter. If you hadn’ta come along, none o’ that woulda happened.” Jonah signals the blacksmith with two fingers. “We need two horses.”

The blacksmith shakes his head. “Now we’re whistlin’ a different tune, my friends. These rigs ain’t much use to people no more with the railroads goin’ in everywhere. One horse? Maybe. Two? No, sir. No deal.” He rests his hammer on the anvil and takes a good look at the mules. “You been runnin’ that team pretty hard, ain’t you? They’re foamin’, they’re sweatin’.”

“Oh, hell, they can take it,” Jonah says. “Them’s Missouri mules. Stump broke and all.”

“We got a cargo worth something in the back. Go look.”

The blacksmith throws back the canvas at the rear of the rig, examines the load, returns to his anvil. “Not interested. Still ain’t worth it. What am I gonna do with all them tombstones?”

“Heck, we saw three dead fellers on the way into town. There’s three sales right there. Everybody ‘round here’s gonna die some day. You can’t lose if you live long enough.”