July 28, 1871 - Jeremiah Creed

A few miles north of town, a Jeremiah Creed rode toward the Saquimont River on horseback. He was a tall, clean-cut man with a greying neatly trimmed beard and a bowler hat.

His horse was a big white beauty named Crow.  Jeremiah didn’t know why the horse was named Crow.  He’d earned the horse as payment for a job he’d done a couple years back. He never inquired about the name. It didn’t much matter to him why he had a horse named Crow.    

Jeremiah climbed down from Crow and looked at the river.  It was a slow-moving river, choked with driftwood. He had crossed a lot of rivers in his life, but he’d never seen so much driftwood.

“Ask about all that driftwood,” Jeremiah said, making a note to the cool morning air.

He tethered Crow to the post outside the ferryman’s cabin and patted him on the neck.  The ferryman’s cabin was like a stone, silent and still and grey with age.  Jeremiah rapped on the door with a closed fist.

The door creaked open, and a boy stood before Jeremiah in a filthy union suit. His hair was mussed and his face was haggard. He couldn't have been more than about twelve or thirteen years old, but he had the drawn face of a thirty year old.

Jeremiah smiled and doffed his hat to the boy.  “Hello son,” he said.  “Is your father here?”

“No,” the boy said as solemn as an old graveyard.

“Well, I’m looking for the ferryman,” Jeremiah said.

“Then you’re looking for me,” the boy said.

"Fine," Jeremiah nodded in approval. “I need to cross.”

“Just let me get some clothes on,” the boy said, and he shut the door.

A few minutes later, the boy emerged from the cabin and slipped a denim cap over his filthy brown hair. Man and horse and boy walked to the river and boarded the ferry.

“What’s the story with all this driftwood?” Jeremiah asked.  He wasn’t trying to make small talk.  He really wanted to know.

The boy shook his head.  “How in the hell am I supposed to know?”

“I just thought-”

“It’s just been this way forever, I expect,” the boy said.   

“Well, what do people say about it?” Jeremiah asked.  

“I don’t know what people say about it,” the boy said.  "I reckon they don't say much of anything about it at all." He didn’t care to talk about driftwood.

“What’s your name?” Jeremiah asked.  He sat down as the boy worked a bundle of rope with a quick, skilled hand.

“Jesus,” the boy said.

“Jesus,” Jeremiah repeated as if the name required some bouncing around in the morning air. “Good name.”

“I reckon it's good as any,” Jesus said.

“Your ma or pa give you that name?” Jeremiah asked.

“I reckon both of ‘em did,” Jesus said.  “Too late to ask ‘em now . . . they’re both deader than Caesar.”

“That’s too bad,” Jeremiah said. “A boy should have some lookin’ after.”

“Not really,” Jesus said.  “My pa was a mean old drunk.  He fell in the river one day and drowned to death. I reckon it was a pretty just death for that sonofabitch.”

“What about your ma?”

“Kicked in the head by a horse one day while she was prayin’,” Jesus said.

Ferryin’ was hard work, but the boy moved with a natural efficiency that made it look easy despite his slight frame.  It was hard to believe someone so small could navigate a river so easily.

“You a religious young man?” Jeremiah asked.

Jesus shook his head. “Ain’t got no use for it,” the boy said.

The two fell off into silence as they slithered across the river like a snake. Crow whinnied.

Jeremiah broke the silence, “You know a man by the name of Johnston Carruthers?”

“Carruthers?” the boy said. “I expect everybody ‘round here knows that name. He’s the richest man in Liuna.”

Jeremiah nodded and looked out over the river. The sun was still burning off the morning haze.  “This driftwood is fascinating,” Jeremiah said.

July 28, 1871 - Big Jim

Big Jim Thompson sat on the porch of the Liuna jail watching a mangy dog chew a rat to pieces in the street. The sun hadn't been up but about an hour, but it was already hotter than a run through hell. Jake Ball was sitting there, too. He was as much a deputy of the law as any man in Liuna.

They hadn’t said anything in a long time. They just sat there watching the dog and the rat and the blood. A horse whinnied somewhere in the distance. On the rough-hewn log wall behind them was a wooden sign with the word “JAIL” carved into it in a practical hand.

“You reckon that coffee’s cooked?” Big Jim said.

Jake yawned. “I reckon,” he said.

Big Jim got up and stretched his legs. He was the sheriff of Liuna. Despite his name, Big Jim was a small man with a body built like a thick and gnarly fence post. He went inside and grabbed the pot from off the old iron stove and poured himself a cup of coffee.  Coffee was a pretty rare thing to have out there in the middle of nowhere, but the general store always managed to keep a supply of coffee on hand.  Big Jim was thankful as hell.  He didn’t know what he’d do without his coffee.  Most days he figured coffee was about the only thing in the world he could trust.

His eye caught on the rack where he kept his rifles.

"Where are my goddamn rifles?" Big Jim hollered.

"I reckon Little Jim's got 'em again," said Jake.

"Jesus Christ!" Big Jim huffed. His son, Little Jim, had a bad habit of sneaking down to the jail early in the morning and taking the rifles out for target shooting. Big Jim did not like it when his rifles were missing. "He better not use up all my goddamn bullets again," Big Jim said. “You want a cup?”

“I s'pose,” Jake said.

Big Jim poured him a cup and went back outside and sat down. “Here,” he said, shoving the cup in Jake's general vicinity.

The old mongrel’s face and neck was dripping in rat’s blood. He seemed to be having one hell of a time.

“That boy,” Big Jim said.

“I reckon he don’t,” Jake said.

“If I ain’t got no bullets for the horse races on Saturday,” Big Jim said, “well then I might as well just go ahead and burn Liuna down myself.”

“You worry too much,” Jake said.

“Last time I didn’t have bullets for the horse races, them sumbitches from over Cleary’s Creek tied me up and threw me in my own goddamn jail!” Big Jim said.  He didn’t take kindly to being thrown in his own jail.

Jake spat a wad of chewing tobacco off the side of the porch.  “Aw they didn’t mean no harm,” he said. “They was just drunk and funnin'.”

It still made Big Jim mad to think about them fellers locking him in his own jail cell.

"Well, there ain't nothin' to do now but wait," Jake said. He sipped his coffee.

"You're the waitin'est sonofabitch I know of," Big Jim said.  He turned and looked at Jake.

"Aw go on!" Jake said.

"If bein' lazy was a crime--" Big Jim started to say.

"What?" Jake said. "If bein' lazy was a crime, what?"

"Well, you'd be a regular Jesse James," Big Jim said.

"You ain't got to be mean about it!" Jake said.  He got up from the chair he was sitting in and put on his hat.  He was plumb fixed on leaving.

"Sit down," Big Jim said. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

“Aw hell,” Jake said. He sat down, on account of he didn't have anything better to do, but he didn’t like it.

Big Jim took a sip of coffee and set the cup down on the porch railing. It was a quiet morning.

The two men sat in silence sipping their coffee and watching the old dog until Thomas Stanhope rode up on his pale horse.

“Mornin’ Tom,” Big Jim said. “Y’ant some coffee?”

Tom shook his head. He had a head of greasy black hair that quivered the slightest bit.

“Well what can I do for you?” Big Jim said.

Tom Stanhope was tall and morose, like a statue in a graveyard. He worked as a hired hand out on the Campbell farm and had a reputation for being a damn fine worker, but not one much for social graces. “They’s a girl dead out in the woods,” Tom said. “Found her while I was out cutting brush this mornin’. Thought you should know.”

“Shit.” Big Jim said. He swatted a fly away from his face. “What do you mean a girl dead?”

“A girl,” Tom said. “Dead.” The word hung in the air like fly buzzing around a turd.

“Well, did you recognize her? Who in the hell is she?”

Tom shook his head. “Don’t know, sheriff. Never seen that girl before.”

"Goddamn," Big Jim said. He rose from his chair, and took a final swig of coffee. “Alright, Tom. Lead the way.”

July 27, 1871 - Porky Mason

Porky Mason wiped sweat from his forehead with a crusty old bar rag and checked his pocket watch. "9:47," he muttered. "And not a single soul in Liuna needs a drink."

The moon was full, and the air was thick. Porky Mason decided to close the saloon early on account of nobody's in the goddamn place. He could go home and get to bed.

On the front porch of the jail across the street, Big Jim Thompson sat in a rocking chair smoking a freshly rolled cigarette and drinking a cup of cold, bitter coffee.  

Somewhere in the distance wild dogs yipped and yowled.