Madness Rules - 04 (28 page)

Bowie whined and danced around, looking at the children running and playing in the yard. The old man leaned down and scratched his neck affectionately.

“Well, go on then.”

Bowie looked up at Mason for his approval.

He nodded and the dog took off to join in the festivities. The children shrieked and laughed, marveling at his size. They didn’t, however, seem the slightest bit afraid of Bowie. Undoubtedly, they had been around animals their entire life.

“You thirsty?”

“I could use a little water if you have some.”

“Course we got water,” he laughed. “But I think we can do a little better than that. Follow me.”

Mose led Mason around the cabin and down to a small creek. Three huge metal canisters, all plumbed together with copper piping, sat at the water’s edge. An old chair, cut firewood, and a diesel generator sat next to them. The entire setup was shaded by a large tarp hung from branches overhead.

“You built a moonshine still,” Mason said, not at all surprised.

Mose gave him a crooked smile.

“You gonna arrest me, Marshal?”

“Not hardly. But I might take a sip, if you’d be so obliged.”

Mose leaned over and put his nose under a cloth covering what looked like a giant metal milk jug. A blackened fire pit sat beneath it.

“Whoo-hoo, that’s about ripe, all right,” he said. “Go on, give it a whiff.”

Mason moved up and took a quick sniff. The odor was sour and fermented.

“Wow,” he said, wrinkling his nose.

“Good, right?”

He straightened up and stepped back, wiping at his eyes.

“Oh yeah.”

“Good shine takes a lot a work and a li’l bit a love. This particular mix is called Kentucky Rodent, on account of the occasional squirrel or rat fallin’ in. But don’t worry, I always pull ’em back out.”

Mason shook his head, smiling. Mose was like every other Kentucky moonshiner he had ever met, an artist who loved to show off his handiwork.

“You ever made any shine, Marshal?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“You interested in learnin’ how?”

“Sure.” In a world where everything had to be handmade, understanding how to mix up a little hard liquor seemed like knowledge worth having.

“Come on then, let ole Mose ’splain how it’s done.” He pointed to the container they had sniffed. “You start by addin’ twenty gallons of boilin’ water to five pounds of cornmeal. Nothin’ special about either one of ’em. Let that cool enough that you can stick your pecker in without burnin’ it off. That there gives you your basic mash. Next, you add twenty pounds of sugar and an ounce of yeast. That’ll get to foamin’ up for a few days as the yeast does its business. Once it stops bubblin’, you got your sour mash.”

“It was sour, all right.”

“At that point, it’s ready for some heat and pressure. The magic temperature is one-seventy-three. Any hotter’n that, and it’ll turn to poison. Make you go blind and grow hair on your palms,” he said, chuckling.

“A hundred and seventy-three degrees. Got it.”

“The steam’ll flow out the copper worm and travel over to the cooling pot. I use water from the crick for that. Once it condenses, the shine’ll drip right out the other end of the tube.” He motioned toward the end of the copper tubing, which was positioned directly over a wooden bucket. “It’s damn near like magic.”

“That doesn’t sound so hard.”

“Oh, it’s hard all right. About a hundred and ninety proof hard!” he cackled.

Mason chuckled. The old man seemed harmless enough and quite a card to boot.

Mose looked up at the sky, which was growing darker by the minute.

“We’d best be gettin’ back now. I’ll work this batch tomorrow, but don’t you worry none. I got plenty of shine up at the house.”

The sound of crickets, frogs, and owls filled the night like a symphony reaching its crescendo. Mason, Mose, and Carolyn, the oldest of the eleven children, sat on the porch, rocking in rickety old chairs. Mose sucked on a pipe, and Carolyn was busy sewing up a shirt for one of her brothers. Bowie lay at Carolyn’s feet, exhausted from an evening of playing chase with the kids.

Mason took another small sip from a glass jar. The moonshine burned his throat, but he offered nothing but a polite nod to Mose.

“You folks lived here a long time?”

“Since way back when. My great granpappy settled this land back when Indians were still runnin’ around.”

Despite having known Mose and his extended family for only a couple of hours, Mason felt relaxed and at peace. He had always identified with people who lived in the country, whether they were farmers, miners, or ranchers. There was something wholesome about people who were willing to get their hands dirty.

He slid an antique silver harmonica out of his pocket. It had been a gift from a family in need of water several weeks back.

“Do you mind?”

“A man doesn’t need permission to give everyone around him a gift,” Mose said with a smile. “I’m assumin’, of course, that you know how to work that thing.”

Mason brought it to his lips and played
Red Wing
, a catchy little Kentucky tune that before long had everyone tapping their feet. He messed up a couple of times, but neither Mose nor Carolyn seemed to notice. When he was finished, both of them clapped enthusiastically.

“Mighty nice,” said Mose. “Yes, sir, mighty nice.”

“Play another one, Marshal, please, oh please,” begged Carolyn.

Before he could answer, the screen door creaked open, and a man stepped out onto the porch. He had a blanket wrapped around his shoulders even though the temperature was a pleasant sixty degrees.

“Who are you?” he asked, staring hard at Mason.

“That there’s Marshal Raines,” said Mose. “He and his dog are stayin’ with us for the night. You just missed a real nice song.”

The man said something under his breath and flopped down onto a chair next to Mose.

“Marshal,” said Mose, “this here’s my son, Zeb. The youngins are his.”

“Our mother died on account of the virus,” said Carolyn.

Despite being covered in dirt from a long day’s work, Carolyn was a beautiful young lady with bright eyes and a smile that could melt frost off a cold windshield.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said with a heartfelt smile.

She nodded and went back to her sewing.

“We hated to lose ole’ Milly,” said Mose. “Beautiful woman, she was. But at least the children are all okay. Not a single one came down with the pox, which was God’s work if you ask me.”

“God’s work, my ass,” Zeb mumbled, shaking his head.

Mose kept on rocking and puffing on his pipe like he hadn’t even heard him.

“What about you, Zeb?” asked Mason. “You look a bit flushed. Are you coming down with something?”

Zeb only shook his head. When he didn’t say more, Mose chimed in.

“My boy worked over at the coal mine for twenty years. One day, he got caught in a slide when they blasted away part of the mountain. Broke his back in four places. It still gives him trouble from time to time, so kindly overlook his poor manners.”

“My manners are none of your business, old man.”

Again, Mose ignored him, staring off into the peaceful night.

Carolyn, however, cut her eyes at her father and seemed ready to come to her grandfather’s defense, should another cross word be said.

Zeb reached across Mose and grabbed up a jar of the moonshine. He took a long swig and closed his eyes.

“Bowie and I appreciate the hospitality,” offered Mason.

At the mention of his name, Bowie raised his head a little. Carolyn reached down and patted him softly, and the dog’s back leg started bouncing up and down.

“You have a lovely dog, Marshal,” she said. “He’s so gentle with the kids.”

“Bowie’s a good dog, all right.”

“Have you had him since he was a puppy?”

Before Mason could answer, Zeb turned to Carolyn.

“Go inside and get everyone ready for bed.”

“Ah, just a little longer? Please, Pa.”

“Go on now.”

She frowned but didn’t argue further.

“All right, Pa,” she said, getting up. “It was nice to meet you, Marshal.”

He smiled. “You too, Carolyn.”

She turned and hurried into to the house.

“Carolyn sort of took over after her mother passed,” said Mose. “Even at thirteen, she’s growin’ up real fast.”

“She seems like a sweet girl.”

Zeb cut his eyes at Mason like he had made some kind of inappropriate remark.

Mason ignored him. Some people were always spoiling for a fight.

“She and the other youngins will be happy to make you and Bowie some breakfast in the mornin’,” said Mose. “The truth is we don’t get many visitors.”

“We don’t want to be any trouble,” said Mason. “Bowie and I are happy to sleep out in the truck and be gone at first light.”

“Don’t be silly. We got plenty of room in the cabin. The girls all sleep in one room, and the boys in the other. You can take the couch. Besides,” he said with a grin, “it’s less likely you’ll be carried off by the rats that way.”

Mason thought that his truck was sounding better and better, but he didn’t dare refuse the offer. Rejecting a kindness extended by a stranger was not only rude—it could be dangerous.

The cabin was dark, and filled with the pungent odor of cooked cabbage on account of their dinner. The only sounds were those of the children rustling in their beds and the scratching of mice scouring the floor for scraps. Mason lay on a lumpy couch, replaying the events of the day. He couldn’t help but wonder whether Connie was in her own bed, staring up at the ceiling. She’d had her revenge, but that was going to be the easy part. There would be more dangers to come along, and she would need to align herself with the right folks if she was to have any hope of surviving.

He draped his arm across his eyes. Connie was behind him. He needed to let that situation go. No doubt more trouble lay ahead for both of them. She would make her way, just as he would make his.

A dog barked. It was followed by the sound of a man cursing.

Mason sat up, grabbed his Supergrade, and raced out the front door. He ran barefoot across the old porch, picking up a couple of splinters for his trouble. He could see that Bowie had someone pinned up against the bed of his truck. The dog’s back was hunched as it slowly moved in.

Mason whistled and Bowie stopped, glancing back over his shoulder.

As he came closer, Mason saw that it was Zeb leaning back against the truck. His hands were out in front of him, as if that would in any way ward off an Irish wolfhound.

“Get this damn dog away from me,” he hissed.

Mason saw that the tarp over his supplies had been folded back.

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking—”

“Don’t,” he said, holding up his hand. “It’s been a long day, and I’m in no mood for lies.”

“You’re staying at my house. I figure I got a right to some kind of payment.”

“Bullshit. You’re a thief, plain and simple. What was it you took?” Mason strained to see what was in the man’s hands.

Zeb didn’t answer.

“If you don’t feel like talking, I’m going back to bed. Bowie, however, will probably be up with you all night long.”

Bowie growled and took a step toward him.

“Fine,” he said, holding up a small bottle of medication. “It’s just a few pills. That’s it.”

“Is that Percocet?” Ava had given him a bottle of the powerful pain medication in case he should ever be wounded.

“I need it,” he pleaded. “I’m suffering real bad. You saw that already.”

Mason held out his hand.

“Give it to me.”

“I’ll trade you. Anything you want.” His voice was desperate, like that of every addict.

“I don’t need anything. Now hand it over.”

Zeb hesitated, his mind racing to come up with anything that might allow him to keep the drug.

“You can have Carolyn.”

“
What?
”

“My daughter, Carolyn. You can take her with you. Do anything you want with her. She’s pretty and about the right age for—”

Mason stepped forward and pistol whipped Zeb across the face. He toppled sideways, the bottle of pills falling into the dirt.

“You son-of-a-bitch,” Zeb cried, holding his mouth. “You broke my goddamn tooth.”

Mason bent over and picked up the bottle.

“You’re lucky I didn’t break your neck. What the hell were you thinking?”

Zeb pushed up on his elbows.

“Please, Marshal, I need those pills.” He cupped his bleeding mouth to emphasize his pain.

Mason leaned over and pulled Zeb to his feet. When he was stable, Mason slammed him back against the cab of the truck and pressed the muzzle of the gun under his chin.

“I want you to listen to me. Are you listening?”