Chris Offutt - The Good Brother

“We don’t want folks to know Johnny shot you. We can’t risk you bugling on us.”

“I understand that,” Joe said. “I give you my word I won’t. That’s all I got left to give. You done took my leg, my cabin, and my gun.”

He used the cane to push himself to his feet. The tall man with the severed ear stepped in front of the door. He moved casually, but Joe understood that he would not be allowed to leave. He gestured to the sheet of paper Frank held.

“Where’d all that stuff come from, anyhow?”

“It’s public information,” Frank said. “A man can get it and not even leave the house. All you need’s a modem and a computer. There’s more than nine hundred government data banks that cover every inch of us. Lucky you don’t use credit cards, they leave a trail wide as a cow path.”

“Now that you mention it,” Joe said, “I can see how lucky I am.”

“Either lucky or smart,” Owen said. “The two partnered up’s tough to get around.”

“I never made no claim to be smart,” Joe said. “And so far it looks like my luck sprung a leak. All you know is who I ain’t. And all I know is you got a fancy computer and a brother who likes to shoot people.”

“It’s your story,” Coop said. “You can make it as big as you want.”

Joe turned to face the old man. Dribbled snuff stained the white whiskers of his chin.

“You don’t want to hear my story,” Joe said.

“There’s one thing we left out,” Frank said.

“It don’t matter to me.”

“I expect it might,” Frank said. “Your Social Security card is a recent issue out of Kentucky.”

A quick fear in Joe’s chest spread through his body and seeped along his limbs. He locked his good knee and pressed the tip of the cane hard against the earth.

“Must be one of them other Tillers,” he said.

“It’s your number, Joe.”

“How do you know? It’s not on anything I’ve got.”

“It’s in the computer files,” Frank said. “I ran your Montana driver’s license and it popped up in the data bank.”

“These days,” Owen said, “a newborn baby gets a Social Security number at the hospital. You can’t deduct a lad off your taxes without one. That’s how the government tricks you into marking your children for life.”

“Ain’t supposed to be that way,” Coop said. “When they voted in Social Security, they said they wouldn’t use the number for identification.”

“That’s right,” Frank said. “You only have to give it to an employer,” Joe shrugged. His knee was throbbing as he lowered himself to the stool.

“It ain’t a question of who I am,” Joe said. “It’s who I was. You have to understand that what’s behind me stays there. I ain’t talking about that, not now and not ever.”

“Where are you from?” Owen said.

“Like I said, West Virginia.”

“What about your Social Security number?”

“Who says it’s out of Kentucky?”

“The number does,” Frank said. “Each state’s got its own code and your first three numbers are 406. That means it’s a Kentucky issue.”

“Kentucky’s handy to West Virginia,” Joe said. “Cross the river and you’re there. It’s the same mountains and the same people, like Idaho and Montana.”

“Idaho people aren’t like us,” Coop said. “They’re barely civilized.”

“That’s how it is with Kentucky and West Virginia,” Joe said. “I came west to get away from that. Nobody but you all know I’m here. And Ty.”

“Did you know him before?” Frank said.

“Before what?”

“Before renting that cabin.”

“No. Heard about it at the Wolf and tracked him down.”

“That damn Ty’s too easy to find,” Owen said.

“Ty’s not important right now,” Frank said. “We have this pilgrim.”

Joe wondered what Ty had to do with any of this.

“I’m no pilgrim,” Joe said. “I’m a prisoner of war with no war.”

“Oh, there’s a war all right.”

“Who with?”

“You’re a little ahead of us in action,” Frank said, “but your thinking is lagging.”

“It must be,” Joe said, “since I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“If we could find this much out about you, think what the government can. Your mistake was having a driver’s license at all.”

“Maybe so,” Joe said. “But you have to have one.”

“I don’t,” Frank said. “None of us do.”

Joe glanced around the dim room. He was stunned that they could so easily dismiss something he’d worked hard to acquire.

“We don’t have bank accounts, either,” Frank said. “And we don’t pay taxes.”

“Why not?”

“We don’t recognize the authority of the federal government over private citizens.”

“I don’t understand exactly.”

“It’s simple, Joe. We aren’t afraid to defend our freedom. Right now, the biggest threat is from the government. Washington doesn’t want patriots, it wants sheep. The people of this country are mind-numb from the media. All they want is comfort.”

Frank stepped forward and spread his arms to include everyone in the room. He looked at each man, speaking slowly.

“And now our freedom is up for sale. The Second Amendment’s long gone. They’re taking guns left and right. The Fourth is unreasonable search and seizure, and that’s blown out of the water, too. If you don’t look right, the cops will shake you down.

“The Sixth Amendment protects private property from government seizure, but cops can confiscate cash from someone accused of a crime. People are in jail just for having money on them. I believe in law and order, Joe. I believe in democracy and freedom. But I don’t trust the government and I’m afraid of the police. I won’t support a country that cares so little for its people.”

Frank stopped talking abruptly. Joe was entranced by the man’s charisma, which surpassed that of the best preachers he had heard at home. The room, was quiet, and he realized that Frank was waiting for a response.

“This is new to me,” Joe said.

“We’ve gone off the grid,” Frank said. “That’s why we’re interested in you. You went one step further than us. You came back on the grid as someone else. The government can’t control you because they don’t know who you are or where you are. I admire that.”

“We all do,” Owen said. “You’re the first outsider we’ve taken, in.”

“There’ll be more,” Frank said, “People know what’s happening here. They’ve always come west for freedom, same as you, Joe. To start again, To be free.”

Frank leaned toward Joe, an expression of understanding on his face.

“That’s why I came,” Joe said, his voice a whisper.

“You left home in such a hurry,” Coop said, “you forgot to take the right name with you.”

The men laughed, Joe became aware of a new ease in the barn, as if he’d passed muster, although he wasn’t sure how.

“Gendemen,” Frank said. “I’m satisfied. If anyone isn’t, now’s the time to talk,”

Everyone was silent except the man with the damaged ear.

“I dug that possum up,” he said, “I cut it open and rooted around in there. That’s the second time it got itself skinned. If you’re anything but what Frank says, I’ll do the same to you.”

He lifted his chin to Frank, who nodded once in dismissal, and the man left the bam. One by one, the rest moved outside, squinting against the light.

Botree was a silhouette the size of Joe’s thumb at the top of the ridge. Behind her the mountains were glazed by sun, stretching in a lavender line. Joe leaned against the fence, feeling grateful for the vast space after the confines of the barn. Owen joined him on one side and Coop the other, each propping a boot on the fence in the exact same way.