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POETIC JUSTICE
Mel Waldman
I
Maybe it wasn’t happening. His eyes might be deceiving him. Once more he looked down the slope through the thick trees. Them. The two of them-at it again. With the boss away, it was easy. But was it really happening? The sun’s glare got in the way. So his vision was blurred. And beneath a blazing sun, some folks see things which ain’t there. Could be an optical illusion. He had to be sure.
Them. Down the slope through the thick trees, he watched them. The man had his arms around the woman. The bottle they had been drinking was sittin’ in front of the shack. They were movin’ back and forth. Kinda dancin’ to each other’s beat. Or were they wobblin’ from the booze? Kinda slidin’ into each other’s flesh. And singin’ and laughin’ loud.
They fell to the ground. The combination of liquor and lust got to them. He was on top of her and grabbin’ at her. She screamed. Not from terror, but from joy. And cried out: “Do it, Jake! Do it!”
There-underneath that vicious sun-they did it. The cowhand and the boss’s wife. He heard the screams of ecstasy. Still, he wasn’t sure what was happening. The heat mighta made it look like joy. It coulda... He didn’t move. He strained his eyes and listened real good. He took it all in. The screams and cries roared through the land and traveled up into the hills. And into his ears. The sounds rose suddenly in his being. Rushed deep inside his brain and out through his black eyes. The sounds kept comin’ and flyin’ high into the hills. Rending sounds of strong emotion. And then came the other.
II
The other came ridin’ in on a white stallion. Maybe he was a ghost. Maybe he and the horse were phantoms. You cain’t be sure. Not under a sprawlin’ sun.
The other rushed forth on his wild stallion. He swirled around them. Around and a round and encirclin’ them like the hangman’s noose.
Alone, he watched and couldn’t believe his eyes. Big Sam had returned. Too soon. Wasn’t suppose tabe back till tomorrow.
Big Sam back. A phantom rider comin’ outa the vicious sun. And he rode around them. It happened so fast maybe Jake never saw him. But Molly did.
Big Sam rode high and fast. In the swirlin’ wind, he took out his long, white knife and flung it through the hot air. The white stallion and knife flew together. It happened fast.
Swish! The killin’ sound flew. And then the rider and horse galloped off. Vanished!
Maybe it never happened. Except he heard her screams and cries. Now, it wasn’t joy reachin’ up into the hills. And something else gripped his being. He climbed down the hill and across the pasture to where she was.
There. Molly stood there-screamin’ and cryin’ and her eyes bulging. A madwoman. Cause Jake was dead. The long knife cemented inside his back. The white knife lay quietly inside Jake’s flesh. And Molly had lost her mind. Maybe her soul too.
She screamed and cried and shook wildly. Her fingers pointed at him. Like maybe he was the phantom rider. Pointin’ and makin’ false claims on him, Molly scared him. He looked at the dead man and the crazy woman. He ran.
III
He crossed the pasture and went down into the woods. He ran for over a mile and when he emerged from the dark shrubbery, he saw an open range. As his eyes adjusted to the sun, they rode toward him. Looming before him, were the sheriff and his men.
“Whereya runnin’ to?” asked the sheriff.
“Nowhere!” he said abruptly, his tall, sinewy body shaking uncontrollably.
“Anything goin’ on back at the ranch?”
“No!” he cried out and then he stopped short. Gathered his thoughts and said: “What brings ya out here?”
“Lookin’ for rustlers. But maybe I’ll find something else.”
“Maybe.”
“Come on, now. Let’s see Big Sam.”
“Ain’t back yet.”
“And Molly?”
“She’s there!”
“Well, then. Let’s see Molly. Ain’t she perty, Roy?”
“Sure is.”
“You bet, Roy. Perty white piece.”
“Sure is!”
“Especially to a colored man!”
“Yes,” Roy whispered, his dark body still shaking violently. The sheriff looked at Roy and laughed wickedly. “Come on, now. Miss Molly might be lonely.”
IV
They found her running wild. Like a mustang, she flew across the pasture. Molly was a pretty gal. But when they saw her, she looked like a beast. When the sheriff spoke to her, she howled. She didn’t make no sense. Half-naked and her dress ripped, she looked like a victim of a horrible deed.
Molly looked at Roy. She pointed her trembling fingers at him. She shrieked and pulled her hair. And charged at Roy.
The sheriff stopped her. Then he turned to Roy and said: “You done raped Miss Molly!”
“No!” cried Roy.
“Done raped Big Sam’s wife!”
Roy cried out: “It was Jake! Jake did it! Jake!”
The sheriff didn’t pay no mind to Roy. He didn’t look for Jake. Didn’t think maybe Roy was innocent. Didn’t wonder about Jake. The sheriff took Roy in. Miss Molly had pointed her fingers at him.
V
The judge sentenced Roy to the hangman’s noose. Before Roy went through the “Gates of Hell,” he told me his tall tale of woe.
Roy told them what he seen. Right through that glare of malicious sun. Jake and Molly makin’ love and Big Sam comin’ along on a white stallion. With the long, white knife killin’ Jake and Molly goin’ mad.
Roy made it sound real. Sure did. Problem was-ain’t no dead body nowhere. Then again-no one looked. Still, dead men ain’t gonna get up and walk away. So what happened to Jake?
When Big Sam returned the next day, he was alone. Hadn’t seen Jake. And he was horrified ‘bout Molly. His eyes rolled back and forth with fury. So no one looked for Jake. Cause Molly was crazed and Roy condemned already.
Roy thought maybe Molly pushed the dead body into the ravine. The deep ravine was behind the shack-maybe a hundred feet away. And it musta swallowed up the dead.
Or maybe Big Sam rode back on his white stallion and roped the corpse. And ridin’ fast to the edge of the ravine, he dragged it there. And flung it far and deep.
Maybe. And then, since no one was lookin’, Big Sam coulda buried Jake. Anytime.
I listened to his tale and said: “Miss Molly was real nice. Maybe you done raped her for real!”
So Roy told a second tale of woe.
VI
Before Roy worked for Big Sam, he was a notorious outlaw. Went by the name of Black Bart. And he was called the poet laureate of outlawry. Bart was an expert stage-coach robber and an amateur poet. The San Francisco Bulletin of November 14, 1883 described him as a “dapper man with a penchant for diamonds.” The Bulletin reporter described Bart as a man “of gentle birth with the manner of a perfect gentleman.”
In August, 1877, Bart’s first holdup was reported. He held up the stage running from Fort Ross to the Russian River. His loot was $300 and a check for $305.52. He was dressed in a long linen duster and a flour sack with eyeholes over his head. Armed with a rifle, he uttered his command to “throw down the box.” His voice was deep and hollow.
After each holdup, the drivers and detectives found scraps of doggerel left behind. They were signed: “Black Bart, PO-8.”
According to the newspapers, Black Bart was a highway man “but never a killer.” Roy told me somethin’ different.
Bart’s last holdup was the stage from Sonora for Milton, near Copperopolis. The road agent in his weird garb stepped from behind a rock and leveled his rifle. In his deep and hollow voice, he gave his command to throw down the box. He got $4,800 after working on the lock of the box sometime. But before he could get away, a rider came up. The driver borrowed his gun and fired at Bart. Bart was hit hard and low. Furious, he fired his rifle and killed the driver. Then he scooped up the money and fled.
Roy said the papers got the story wrong. Never mentioned the killin’ of the driver. Never mentioned Bart was real hurt. So the character of Black Bart was preserved. And his reputation intact. Papers continued to say that Bart “scorned” to shed blood.
And Bart vanished. Reappeared as Roy Cole. And went to work for Big Sam.
I listened real hard. And wanted to believe but I just couldn’t. Said to Roy: “Ya tell a fine story. A tall tale.”
And Roy said: “It’s all true. I never done raped Molly!”
“Prove it!” I said. “Ifya cain.”
“I got pride!” he said. Then he hid his head in his chest. But later, he swore to me. And we argued. And he swore. And then he said: “Don’t tell no man what I done show ya! No man!”
And he pulled down his pants and showed me: “I was hit here. Hard and low. So...”
“You cain’t!”
VII
Well, maybe he was Black Bart. Maybe. Don’t know. But he never done raped Molly. I told him to show the sheriff the proof. He wouldn’t. He was ashamed of his scars. And they’d laugh at him. And he was a man. Even though...
VIII
They hanged him high. Somebody had to hang. But he died like a real gentleman. A brave man. A man.
Wish he had told them. They woulda seen. But then-they mighta hanged him anyway. Somebody had to hang.
They never found Jake’s body. And never looked. Of course, Jake never returned.
Big Sam’s still on the ranch and Molly-she’s there. In body if not in mind.
I reckon one day I’m gonna look into that ravine behind the shack and see if I can find Jake’s body. Cause Roy was a man of great pride and Black Bart a man “of gentle birth with the manners of a perfect gentleman.” So I wonder what happened. What really happened? I wonder.
