The Mercy Seat (52 page)

“Good day for setting around the stove—”

Blam.
That's four, Dad thinks.

“—partaking of a little corn whiskey—”

Blam.
Five.

“—provided a fella might know whereabouts to find him a little nip.”

That's six and the last one, and Dad nor Vergie neither one hadn't been shot yet. Says to himself, says, Well, I can either get around before he pulls out another weapon, or else I can lay down and quit. You know my dad was nothing like a quitter, not ever, and he jumps around Vergie there, got his mind set to rassle Fate down, he thinks he can take him before he gets another gun loose, he's so wavery drunk.

But, now, Dad's got another think coming. The minute he jumps under and around that nag's neck, Lodi's got the pistol in his belt buckle pulled up nearly, and Dad just stops straight up. Goes, “Eeeeeasy now, easy,” smooth and softlike, how you'll talk to a snaky horse. Puts his hands up where Lodi can see them, comes on, walking so slow maybe Fate can't even see him coming, but I guess he did, or else just got too fed up trying to pull that pistol loose from his belt buckle, drunk as he was—it's a wonder he didn't blow his buckeyes off, you'll pardon the expression—but all at once Lodi just quits messing with that pistol, turns around to reach for the butt of the rifle he's got strapped to the saddle, or that's what Dad thought. Dad paused then, sure enough. He's out bare in the middle of the street, mind you, no horseflesh between him and Eternity nor nothing, he says, “Well, now, Mister Lodi, I don't mean a thing in the world—”

Fate stands around to face him then, peers across the road, trying to focus his eyes, says almost like he regrets it, “Reckon I'm just going to have to shoot you.”

He's got him a weapon in his hands now, sure enough, and it ain't no Winchester rifle and it ain't no Colt forty-four. Dad said he didn't do a lot of speculating at the time on where the devil it come from, but later he reckoned it must've been stuck down in the saddleholster the other side toward the store, but however or wherever it come from, Fate Lodi was drawed down on my dad with the evilest-mouthed-looking weapon Dad said he'd ever eyeballed in his life. Said it was one of these old-time contraptions called a pepperbox, used to be popular back before Sam Colt learnt the world how to make a cylinder turn—a bulky old pistol with a whole bouquet of barrels on the end. They ain't worth a damn for accuracy but some of them can fire all six or seven barrels at once. You don't need aim with such blasting power as that. Can't even a blind man miss a target at twenty yards with one of those things, and Dad is maybe twenty feet away from Fate Lodi and it don't matter a bit in the world that the man is knee-walking drunk. Fate goes to draw down on him, Dad just goes to praying in his heart, says, Lord Almighty Sweet Jesus, help me, and if You ain't going to help me, take care of my wife and children and make her see to it them boys gets trained up in the way they should go, Jesus' name, Amen.

Dad gets him an idea then. He says—real calm, real easy and nice, hands up, just a-smiling—says, “Don't mean to bother you, Mister Lodi, I sure don't. I just thought you might want to come help me drink that quart of bonded Tennessee whiskey I got coming in on the noon train from Fort Smith.”

Well, you know my dad was not a drinking man, but he'd been around it enough to know that about the only thing interests a drunk better than a good fight is a good sup. Thought he might wet Fate's whistle enough with the thought of that imported whiskey to get his mind off shooting him—now and again folks did get themselves some good bonded whiskey smuggled in over the border, but most the time they had to settle for this old popskull liquor these moonshiners around here used to make—and for a minute it did nearly look like it was going to work. Fate squints his eyes at him for a while, lets them gunbarrels droop down a little bit, and then he says, low and mean, “Go to hell.” He proceeds to lift the many-mouthed muzzle of that gun.

Dad said he didn't know where in the world John Lodi come from, nor when, which by that he meant he didn't know how John got out the livery door and between himself and Fate so quick. He pretty near just materialized in the dust of the street, that's what Dad said. Said he must've been coming the whole time, from the second Dad stepped out from behind Vergie—this all happened in less than a half a minute, mind you, just takes long in the telling. Long in the living, for that matter—you know how facing death is—and that's just what Dad said it looked like, said the barrels of that pepperbox looked like seven kinds of death coming. That's how many barrels was in it, Dad said, he counted them, you can bet he did. But Dad said just the very single second Fate raised that gun, John was standing there between them, his back to Dad and his front to his brother. Said John said, “All right, Brother, give it here.”

And then it was quiet. Dad said you could hear Clara Belle Whit-ford's chickens up the street scratching in the yard, said you could hear that roan breathing, and the morning bright and still. Dad said next thing he knew, John was walking away from him. Said he just took two steps forward and got aholt of that murderous gun. Another step, he turned and walked back down the street and in at the stable door. Dad said he thought then, Why, you so-and-so, if that's all there is to it, why'd you let me make a fool of myself hiding behind that old broke-down horse? He was put out with John right in that moment, but of course that all changed later too. Said Fate was left standing there leaning back against that pony's flank, turning the bottle up to take him a snort. Dad said the poor old fellow—those were just the words Dad used when he told it, and now, that's the same poor old fellow was ready to loose seven barrels of gunshot upon him a minute ago, which goes to show two things: one, how tender a nature my dad had, and two, how pitiful old Fate Lodi finally looked when his brother took that gun away from him, don't matter if he did have about eleven others strapped and tucked and wedged all around—but Dad says the poor old fellow turned bleary eyes upon him, all the meanness gone out of him now and nothing left but pure bafflement, like he didn't know what in the world just happened. Dad said Fate turned around and took about six tries to get his foot in the stirrup, mounted that little blue roan and rode off back up Main Street toward the north.

Now, all this happened around ten o'clock of a Tuesday morning, and Dad said it wasn't five hours before Fate Lodi come back. All right. Here's where the real mystery comes in. Nobody seen him come.

N
o, sir.

No, sir.

No, sir.

 

 

I can't testify to that, sir, I didn't see a bit of it. All I can tell is what I saw when I come out of my store.

 

 

Well, it was Mr. Lodi faceup in the street and a gun laying beside him. Just sort of cradled beside him, sir, kind of snugged up against his pantsleg, the barrel—or barrels, I mean—all pointed down at his boots.

 

 

Well, sir, it was unique-looking, I never saw another one like it. Might've been fifty caliber, say, four barrels to it. I didn't take that good a look. I couldn't tell you if it had been fired, sir, Mr. Moore might be able to tell you that.

 

 

Three. I heard two right close together, shotgun shots, or that's what I thought then. Just immediately I thought it was a double-barreled shotgun fired one barrel and then the other right close together, but not both at once, just
pow, pow.
And then I heard the pistol.

 

 

Well, I'm pretty sure he was, Your Honor. I didn't check him, but I don't see how anybody could be alive in such a condition as that.

 

 

No, sir. I didn't see John Lodi at all, not at that time.

 

 

Just right quick, I mean, quick as I could get there. I don't believe he could have run back to the livery and got inside it in that amount of time. I really don't see how.

 

 

I'd say not more than thirty seconds. I mean, it just went like this: blam, blam, and then pop, and the boy ran out the door, and here I came right behind him in time to catch him sprawling sliding headfirst in the road.

 

 

No, not Mr. Lodi, the boy Jack.

 

 

In my own words? Who else's words am I going to tell it in?

 

 

What's that? Said, yessir, my own words, sir, I'll do the best I can.

 

 

Well, I was cutting up a side of beef at the time, Your Honor, in the back of my store. Tatum's Mercantile. I been running that store going on eight years there on Main Street, Town of Cedar, Choctaw Nation, Indian Territory—got my permit papers up to date, signed by Chief Gardner himself, December the eleventh, Eighteen-ninety-fi—

 

 

All right, yes, sir. I will.

Well, so, I do some butcher work for a few folks in addition to what I cut up regular to sell in my store, so that's what I was doing, I was working on a beef for my brother-in-law Willis Willowby, which means I was back behind the butcher counter pretty well in the back. I couldn't see out the window at all, sir, from back there. I didn't have an idea there was anything going on in the street. Now, I had Jack Slocum's boy Jack—he works for me afternoons, sweeps up and stocks shelves and makes deliveries and that, and I let him run the register some when I'm too bloodied up butchering to wait on the ladies—but we were slow Tuesday afternoon so I had the boy Jack stacking tomato tins up near the register when the gunshots went off. Well, as soon as we heard it, the boy flinched and tried to jump and run out there, and I shouted, “Hold it, son!” because you don't know if it's a bank robbery or what. You don't want to run into the big middle of something, and you don't want your employees doing it either—Jack Slocum would have my hide. So I said, “Hold it, son!” and came out quick, but that boy had got to the door before me and he'd already run out. I got there just in time to watch him leap off the front steps and trip and roll right over Mr. Lodi's body. He didn't know he was there, couldn't see him on account of how high the porch is and Mr. Lodi was of course flat on the ground. His horse—Mr. Lodi's horse—was tethered to the post in front of my building, sort of jerking and prancing, I think more on account of that boy running out the door so quick than anything else. Well, that's all I saw. The boy tripping over the body and sprawling facedown in the street with a mouthful of dust. When he twisted his neck around and got a good look at what he'd tripped over, now, I'm telling you what, he scrambled up pretty quick and lit out. I never saw that boy move so quick.

 

 

Yes, sir, now, he might have. That might have disturbed the body some, I just couldn't tell you that. All I can testify to is what I saw. Mr. Lodi was laying on his back in the street, and the gun was right close beside him. That'd be about it. Folks started gathering just right away, I guess we all heard the shots. Sheriff Moore there, he could probably tell you as much as I could. Time I got down on the street good, he'd already come from somewhere, and there were plenty others saw about what I saw, some of them maybe even more.

Oh. Well. That. That was a while later.

 

 

Yes, sir, Your Honor. Well, it was Angus Alford fetched me.

 

 

Sir? Maybe a half hour, maybe a little less. It hadn't been too long, I know that, just long enough that the buzz had died down some but not petered out altogether. Folks were still coming. We were—some of us—we were waiting to see if there was anything we could do, notify the family or carry him home or anything. I mean, clearly there wasn't anything anybody could do for Mr. Lodi. Somebody said somebody had already sent word on to McAlester here, I don't know about that, but Sheriff Moore was in the stable talking to Mr. Dayberry and John Lodi, and the rest of us were just sort of milling around. There didn't seem to be anything a fellow could do. I'd already took my butcher apron off and tried to put it over him, but Mr. Moore said no, I don't know how come, so I wadded it back up. Somebody did finally go up and spread a handkerchief over the face at some point, quite a little while later. I didn't see who it was. But I was standing in front of the store, my little mercantile there, with my apron rolled up in my hands, couldn't think to put it in inside, and Angus—Mr. Alford here—he hurried up from somewhere and motioned me to come go with him. He was making it out kind of secretive.