March, 2010

Issue #6

Milo
by Terry Alexander

“Spiro, we’ve sure hit the bottom of the ladder.” The aged stoop shouldered man drove the shovel blade deep in the ground. “Gravediggin’ it ain’t a fit way to make a living. Folks don’t want to have much to do with you. Nobody ever offers to buy you a drink. Figures it marks em’ for death, if they speak to you for more than a few minutes.”

He glanced at the long eared brute harnessed to a patch work two wheeled cart. A coffin of rough cut lumber nestled in the center of the short bed.

“Still it could be worse. Mr. Timmons pays a fair wage, and we’re a mite old to be working the mining camps.” He shaped the rectangle of the grave and began to work on depth.

He spit a stream of tobacco juice at the growing mound of earth. “Everyone needs us at one time or another.” He leaned on the shovel handle, his eyes fastened on the small casket which held the sheet wrapped corpse of Lilly Drummond.

“Wish that little girl didn’t have need of us for a while yet. Sure is a damn shame. It’s one thing to die natural, but the way she died.” He shook his head slowly. “I just can’t understand that kind of greed.”

“Milo, you still talking to that sorry old mule?” A familiar voice called from behind.

“Better than talking to you Nate Spence.” The old man turned, recognizing the voice. He leaned the shovel against the side of the grave; his hands massaged his lower back working the stiff muscles. “You on your way home?”

The young man urged his sorrel gelding into the graveyard. “Yeah, we got cattle to look after. Always one thing or another.” He pulled his right foot from the stirrup and hooked his leg over the saddle horn. “I’ve heard Sheriff Pitman has Curly Royal and his boys boxed in down at Panther Creek.”

“Where did you hear that?” The old man’s hands closed on the smooth worn handle.

“Short Cummins rode into town a little while ago. His arm was tore up pretty bad. He was there at the fighting.”

“I hope the posse kills the whole damn bunch.” Milo rubbed a rough callused hand over his whisker stubble. “Panther Creek ain’t what, ten miles from here?”

“More like twelve. You thinking about riding over and giving the sheriff a hand?” Nate pulled a sack of makings from his saddle bags, with practiced ease his hands manipulated paper and tobacco into a cigarette.

“I’m too old to do much fighting.” Milo lifted another wedge of dirt from the deepening hole. “That’s a job for younger fellers than me.”

Nate scratched a match on his saddle horn and puffed the cigarette to life. “Mister Timmons wants you to dig two more.”

“Lord have Mercy.” Milo spit another brown stream to the ground. “That’s four.”

“Liable to be more. Some of the wounded ain’t doing good. Pat Collins is barely hanging on.” He returned his foot to the stirrup. “At least they didn’t get the money.”

Milo shrugged. “Might have been better for the town if they had. Maybe Curly Royal would have left folks alone if he robbed the bank.”

“That’s crazy thinking, Milo. Poor people can’t afford to lose everything.”

Milo pointed at the cart. “She lost everything.”

“Reckon so.” Nate flipped the cigarette to the ground. “I need to get moving. See you later.” He wheeled the sorrel, loping him toward the road.

“Tell your Pa hello for me,” Milo yelled at the diminishing figure.

Nate waved a hand over his head in response.

Milo plunged the steel blade into the soft earth. The pile of dirt grew progressively larger. “Gotta dig deep,” he mumbled. “Varmints don’t care where they get their next meal. Coyotes will dig a body up and eat the innards, and possums them things are the worst carrion eaters I’ve ever seen. Gotta put ‘em deep if you want em’ to stay.”

He paused for a moment to rub sweat from his eyes. “Could do with a drink.” Milo stabbed the shovel into the bottom of the waist deep hole. A loud grunt escaped his lips as he climbed topside.

“The preacher will be here in a little while, but we’ll have it done, Spiro.” The old man nodded at the mule. He placed his hands on his hips and arched his back, his spine popped like a dead tree branch.

“That feels better.” He shuffled over to the long eared animal, laying a hand on its rump. His hand disappeared under the spring seat and rumbled through the contents. He pulled a half full cork-topped bottle from its hiding place. He pulled the stopper and tilted the glass to his lips. Air bubbles chugged through the amber liquid.

“Save some for me, old timer.” A gruff voice sounded.

Milo sputtered and spit, the harsh alcohol burned his nose causing his eyes to water. “Damn you, Nate Spense, you nearly drowned me! You shouldn’t never surprise a man like that.” He spun, tripping himself in the effort. He landed on his butt, staring bug-eyed up at a killer.

“Curly Royal,” he mumbled.

The outlaw sat astride a foam covered roan gelding, the bore of his fisted .45 pointed at Milo’s chest. “You got a gun in that rig?”

Milo licked his dry lips, he nodded his head slowly.

“Get off your ass and move away from the mule.” Royal waved the pistol to his right.

“You’re…You’re supposed to be on Panther Creek.” Milo raised his hands, following the pistol barrel.

“The sheriff has my boys penned down. I decided to get out when I had the chance.” Royal pulled his left foot from the stirrup, flexing the knee. “Caught a little lead on my way out. Nothing serious just nicked the meat some.”

“Your boys won’t last long. Pitman’s a tough customer, but I reckon you know that.”

A cruel smirk crossed the killer’s face. “Shut up and give me the whiskey.”

Milo’s hands trembled as he tossed the bottle to the mounted outlaw. “That’s all I got.”

Royal snatched it from mid air. “Nice throw.” He put the bottle to his lips, draining the liquor in two gulps. “Another dead soldier.” The empty fell to the ground.

“I wish you was,” Milo whispered.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Don’t get cocky with me, you old coot.” Royal eyes turned to blue pinpricks. “Who’s in the box?”

“Her name’s Lilly Drummond.” Milo drew in a deep breath. “Can I put my arms down? My shoulders is starting to ache.”

“Put em’ down,” Royal said. “She got any folks?”

“Far as I know she’s an orphan. Worked at Sadie Mullin’s boarding house for her keep. Her maw disappeared a couple of years ago.”

“Drummond.” The outlaw scratched his jaw. “She that crazy woman always out looking for plants and leaves? Heard some Indians killed her.”

“That’s the story.” Milo nodded. “Town’s people thought she was a witch woman.”

“You believe that?” Royal arched his eyebrows.

“Who can say?” The old man shrugged. “I’ve seen some strange things in my time.”

Royal holstered the pistol; he swung his leg over the lathered horse and stepped to the ground. “She got any other kin? Anyone to come to her funeral?”

“Sadie’s in bed broke her leg during the ruckus. The preacher’s on his way here to read over her.”

“Open it up. I want to look at her.” Royal shuffled to the cart, blood streamed down his chaps.

“What did you say?” The corners of Milo’s mouth quivered, he slowly shook his head.

Royal’s hands rested on the rough cut boards. “Open it up.”

Milo hesitated. “It ain’t a pretty sight.”

“I don’t care what she looks like.” Royal patted his holster. “Just do what I tell you.”

Milo nodded, he understood the silent threat. He shuffled slowly to the grave, keeping his hands in sight. He felt the killer’s eyes on him boring holes in his back. His eyes closed, drawing in a deep breath, expecting a bullet in his spine at any moment his hand closed on the shovel handle.

A pent-up breath rushed from his lungs. He turned and retraced his steps to the cart. Royal stepped out of swinging range, his right hand cradled the pistol grip.

The old man wedged the metal blade under the lid and pulled down on the handle. Nails screeched, slowly they surrendered their hold in the wood. With a final screech the top popped open, spilling Milo to the earth.

“Get rid of the shovel,” Royal limped to the wagon. Milo opened his hand, letting the digging tool fall among the grass.

Lilly’s killer peered inside the coffin. The color drained from his face, turning ashen white. Sweat beaded on his forehead and around his eyes. “I didn’t …” He wiped a dirty hand across his face.

Milo crept to the cart; he stared at the crumpled remains of a small red haired girl her hands folded across her chest. A white pillow case highlighted her hair and the purple-yellow horse-shoe shaped bruise on her face. The beauty of the young girl destroyed forever like a flower crushed beneath a boot sole.

“Death ain’t never pretty.” Milo’s liver-spotted hands caressed the rough wood. “Damn shame, when it claims someone this young.”

“She reminds me of my sister.” The Outlaw’s eyes bulged. “She ain’t dead. She moved. Her cheek and eyelids moved.”

“Muscle spasm. Mr. Timmons says it happens all the time.”

Royal leaned over the rails, his face inches away from the dead girl’s. “Did you see? Her lips moved. Did you see that?”

“It could be gas. I’ve heard dead folks belch and fart something awful.”

“It ain’t gas,” a note of panic colored the killer’s voice. “This girl’s alive. She ain’t dead.”

“Mister Timmons checked her over real good. He knows what he’s doing. He wouldn’t make a mistake like that.”

A wild look marred Royal’s face. He lashed out, the barrel of his .45 slapped Milo in the mouth. The old man dropped to the ground, spitting blood from a split lip.

“She’s alive. Damn you, I know she’s alive.”

“That poor girl’s as dead as she can be.” Blood stained the old man’s whiskered chin. “Her whole face is ruint. Can’t nobody live through that.”

The pistol barrel swiveled to the casket. Curly Royal fanned the hammer; smoke billowed from the muzzle, three rounds splintered the rough wood. The thunderous noise spooked the mule; it surged against the collar dragging the cart forward.

“Stop!” Milo yelled. “That girl’s dead.”

Royal ran after the rickety vehicle. His free hand closed on the side rails, he jumped into the cart bed, straddling the wooden box.

“You’re dead now! Ain’t you Missy?” he shouted. “You’re dead now.”

The mule planted its feet in the ground, stopping as if an invisible hand had pulled back on the reins. Royal stumbled. His forward momentum pitched him forward to the hard earth, landing near Spiro’s hooves. The pistol flew from his hand and landed in the high grass ten feet away.

Milo scrambled to his feet. His hands closed on the shovel handle. He charged the gunman, the spade slung over his shoulder.

“I’ve done for you now, Missy.” Royal brushed the dirt from his pants, rising to his feet. “You’re done for now,” he shouted. “You’ll never move again.”

The muscles bunched in the old man’s back and shoulders. He charged the outlaw. Rage clouded Royal’s eyes as Milo drew closer. His deadly right hand swept down for the familiar pistol grip and came away empty. Milo felt a moment’s satisfaction. He saw a glimmer of fear flash over Curly Royal’s face. He swung the shovel with all his strength. A loud grunt tore from his throat when the steel blade smashed into the side of Royal’s head.

Lilly’s killer dropped like a slaughter house steer. The outlaw pawed at the ground, his wobbly legs slid in the earth, he tried in vain to rise to his feet. He crawled, his hands searching the tall grass for the .45. Royal rolled over to his back, the pistol gripped in his right hand. Milo’s second blow landed on his outstretched forearm, the .45 dropped from the outlaw’s numb fingers. A satisfying crack told him the fabled gun hand was rendered useless.

“No more.” Blood frothed the outlaw’s lips, his right arm cradled against his chest. “Please, no more. I’m through. Take me to jail.”

A third blow smashed his face, breaking Royals nose.

“Please, no more.” Blood streamed from his nostrils. “Take me to jail, just let me live.” Tears flowed from his face mixing with the blood.

“Your time is up, Curly. It’s time to send you to hell.” Milo drew his weapon back, readying the final blow. The shovel thudded into the crown of Royals head, an eye ball popped from its socket at the moment of impact. His body twitched for nearly a minute, with a final shudder he lay still.

Milo stared down at the once feared gunman. He didn’t look fearsome any longer, only dead.

“You ain’t so mean now? Are you Curly Royal?” Milo’s hands remained curled around the shovel handle, ready for instant use, should his weapon be needed again. “I’m gonna haul your sorry carcass to town, charge the town folks two bits each to look at you. Then I’m gonna cut off that gun hand drop it in a jug of alcohol and sell it to the highest bidder.”

Milo wiped the blood from his mouth, stumbling to the cart. “Yes sir, I just fell into money.” He lifted the coffin lid leaning it against the side rail while he climbed aboard. “Why did you shoot that poor girl? Wasn’t any reason.” A knot of dread formed in his stomach, what damage had been done to Lilly’s body?

“I’ll be damned,” he mumbled. He shook his head in disbelief. No bullet holes marred garment or cadaver, her white dress remained unsoiled. The now fisted left hand lay across her chest. Milo hands quivered, he grasped the small white fingers and pried them open. The three bullets fired by curly Royal spilled from her hand and tumbled across her dress.

A hint of movement to his left caught his eye. Milo jumped from the wagon. He ran to the tree line for a clearer look. A lone dark figure shuffled through the scrub growth. A wild thought leaped into his mind. Lilly’s mother came to her funeral.

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