Darkness upon the Land

“Whatcha got in the bags?” Chuckles continued grinning.

He was referring to the couple of soft day packs Reuben had hanging from the saddle horn. “Just some food. I was hoping to trade it for some supplies we need.”

“Just some food, huh?” Slim glanced toward his partner. “Well, I think we’ll just have to verify that.”

As Chuckles got to his feet, Reuben decided he might as well test how secure actual law was around here. “I’m not giving you permission and you don’t have a warrant.”

Slim immediately scowled. “Who said we needed your permission, cowboy? Sounds like you got something to hide, which is all the probable cause we need. Now you going to cooperate or will we have to make you cooperate?”

That was one amendment down. As he watched Chuckles saunter over to Elsie and remove the day packs, many impulses flashed though his mind as his indignation rose. He still grasped the reins in his left hand, so he could easily spook Elsie, knock over Chuckles and jump back on his mount. But Slim still had a gun pointed at him. Elsie could serve as a shield, but if she got shot he wasn’t sure he could forgive himself, and if the horse survived she might not forgive him for a long time. And if he got shot, then Alexia and Liana were going to have a harder time of it.

With considerable consternation he realized he was just going to have to keep playing nice.

Chuckles set the day packs on top of the stoop with enough carelessness to make them clack despite the padding Reuben had added. As he rummaged through them and pulled out the jars and packages, he rattled off what he found.

“Peaches. Tomatoes. Pickles. Mixed vegetables.” He held up a zipper-sealed bag with especially zesty glee. “Looks like beef jerky!” Chuckles did look a little puzzled by the four cords of stretchy line he found in the bottom of one bag. “Bungee cords?”

“What’s the clothes?” Slim asked, referring to the dead men’s garments that Reuben had used for packing.

“Just shirts and pants.” Chuckles shook out each one before holding out the last one as though he were showing it off to them. He turned toward Reuben. “These ain’t your size.”

“You’re right,” he replied calmly while hoping his face wasn’t turning red because he could feel the heat of his blood rising to it.

“So where’d you get them?” Slim asked.

“Found them.”

“Found them, huh?” Slim looked toward Chuckles again. “Sounds like you stole them. Probably stole this food, too.” His attention returned to Reuben. “So what else have you stolen?”

He could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he became acutely aware of the 9 mm pistol wedged into the back waistband of his jeans. It was uncomfortable enough already as it rode between his tank top and the untucked, unbuttoned short-sleeve shirt he wore to conceal it, but now it seemed to take on additional weight.

“I haven’t stolen anything,” he replied as calmly as he could muster.

“Sounds like bull.” Slim glanced toward Chuckles. “See what else he’s got.”

He wasn’t sure if his heart could thump any harder. Most likely these two were just itching for a reason to work him over, and if they simply discovered the gun on him that might be all it would take.

“I’ve got a concealed weapon, but it’s not stolen either.”

Slim raised the firearm to his chest. “Git your hands up!” He snapped. As Reuben slowly obeyed, reins still grasped in one hand, Slim nodded to Chuckles. “Frisk him.”

“At the small of my back.” He might have impressed himself at how calm he managed to sound, but was too infuriated at what was happening to appreciate it. “Spare clip in the back pocket.”

Chuckles wasted no time yanking the pistol out of his waistband with such force against his still tender back that Reuben winced. The dirty deputy was no gentler with the clip, but his jeans provided a little more protection than the tank top. The patting down was also heavy handed, causing him to almost wince again from a blow to the groin. Not about to give Chuckles the satisfaction of confirming the injury, he concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths. Perhaps because the search had been so rough, the crook completely missed the little stockman pocket knife, but Reuben was of no inclination to point that out.

“Anything else you need to declare?” Chuckles gloated as he sneered.

Your breath reeks, he thought, but instead replied in a voice that was only slightly wheezy. “You realize I was carrying that for self-defense.”

“And a lot of good it did you, too.” Chuckles grinned as he stepped back toward Slim with the pistol stuck into the front of his pants. Reuben couldn’t resist hoping the firearm would accidentally discharge. “If you don’t have the guts to use the gun it’d only get you killed anyway.”

They had no idea how he got that pistol in the first place. “I need it back for the same reason. I told you gents I had it, I never drew it on you, and now more than ever I need a firearm.”

“This stuff is all being held until you can prove it’s yours.” Slim still had his pistol aimed at him.

“Where do I go to do that?”

“City Hall. The new ordinances are posted on the front door. All you have to do is provide receipts for everything.”

Chuckles lived up to his nickname as Reuben warily regarded the two men. Things were starting to add up, but only a little bit. Maybe these miscreants were just conmen or maybe they really were on official duty, but the mention of “new ordinances” made him suspect Esperanza was not as peaceful as it initially appeared.

“Receipts for home-canned tomatoes and pickles?” He inquired.

Slim smirked. “That’s your problem, not ours. Now unless you want us to run you in for vagrancy you need to get moving on.”

He suspected that was an empty threat. If they were official goons, the people who devised new ordinances probably didn’t want the resources they were “confiscating” to be used by so-called prisoners. However the thugs would probably be quite happy to shoot him, and since he wasn’t going to be able to accomplish anything of value here, anyway, he might as well take Slim’s advice.

“Yes, sir.” He had other denotations in mind as he stepped back and turned Elsie toward the direction they’d come. He was half concerned that if he mounted the horse it would make him too easy a target to shoot anyway, and besides, he wasn’t sure about being ready to sit astride the mare so soon.

When they were out of earshot, he muttered to her in Cherokee, “All right, next time I’ll be the one to keep my mouth shut and you can do the talking.”

This getting back into balance wasn’t going to be easy. Reuben initially stewed about having just been held up at gunpoint, but eventually he began to find the positive details in this recent experience. For starters, he was still free and alive. Elsie hadn’t been confiscated as well. And given the choice between losing the pistol and his slingshot, he was grateful he hadn’t brought the slingshot. It had the advantage of silence and retrievable ammunition.

By the time he reached the next destination he was at least out of his “mood” and able to walk without wanting to limp. As he hesitated in the parking area in front of the church, he contemplated just how to park his ride.

Holy Family Catholic Church was stationed in a classic old brick building with a tall spire in back and small buttresses along its sides. He led Elsie to the bottom of the wide concrete steps that ascended to the three front doors and tied the reins of her bridle to one of the pair of metal railings anchored in the middle. With a quick glance to determine if there might be anybody lurking nearby who could become a horse thief, he strode up the steps to the largest ornate wooden door in the middle. Knocking the hat off his head to let it dangle from its leather thong around his neck, he stepped into the building.

The interior was dimly lit by what sunlight streamed in through the stained glass windows, and the lingering aroma of sandalwood incense added to the mystique of the place. The building was arranged in the traditional cross layout, with wooden columns lining the rows of wooden pews that led to the front of the church. The sanctuary was architecturally designed in arches, and the white walls were gilded in gold-colored paint and decorated with Biblical-themed artwork that didn’t rival the Sistine Chapel but still contributed to the structure’s sanctitude.

At the very front of the pews, slightly to his right, a person was kneeling. Not wishing to interrupt somebody in prayer, Reuben hesitated as he glanced around to see if anybody else was present. But the door closed behind him with a soft but echoing thump, and the person turned toward him. At this distance and in the low lighting he could still determine it was a woman.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” He took another step into the nave.

“That’s quite all right.” From the crackle in her voice and the slow way she got to her feet, he determined she was a bit elderly. “Is there something you need help with?”

“Well, actually I was looking for either Father Nick or Deacon Bernard.”

The woman seemed to hesitate for a second, and then she began approaching him. “Are you a member of the parish?”

“No, but I’m a friend of members. I’m here on behalf of Liana Gautreaux.”

“Oh, Liana.” He wasn’t a bit surprised the woman knew who he was talking about. “How is she doing?”

“Unfortunately not very well. That’s why I wanted to speak with the pastors.” He began walking toward her also.

“Oh, dear.” There was genuine concern in the woman’s voice. “Is it something serious?”

“I’m afraid so.” He was a little reluctant to divulge Liana’s condition to too many people. “She really could use a doctor, and I was wondering if somebody might be able to help me find one.”

They drew to a stop to face each other in the middle of the nave. The woman was shorter than him partly because she was a little stooped, and with her grey, curled hair and lined face and matching blue slacks and blouse, he thought she looked too delicate to be left alone anywhere in this day and age. He hoped her appearance was deceiving, that she was actually one of those little old women who could take a baseball bat to a would-be attacker and teach him a thing or two about divine retribution.

“I’m afraid we have no doctors.” The woman shook her head. “Claude Barnes was retired, but he was killed two days after the power went out.”

“Killed?”

“And over something so simple as groceries. It’s like they turned into mad dogs.” The matron shook her head. “He was just shopping at the store like the rest of them. But people started pushing, grabbing, running. There was only one officer on hand and they overpowered him, beat him up. Claude was trampled, and so was a young woman and her small child.”

A chill rippled through Reuben. He had hoped that in a smaller community like Esperanza the populace would have drawn together more than he would expect in the larger cities. But apparently it still took only three curs to start a mob.

“That’s terrible. Is there anybody else you can think of with a medical background?”

“I’m sorry, but I really don’t know of anybody locally.”

“I’d still like to talk with one of the pastors.”

She shook her head again. “Both of them are away at the moment on other calls. The deacon had to leave most unexpectedly.”

“An emergency?”

“Apparently Ricky Mouton had a heart attack. Did you know him?”

“No, sorry. When either one returns, would you please give him the message about Liana? And if they know of anybody who could help, we’d really appreciate it.”

“Do you know anything about her daughter Alexia?”

“She just made it home yesterday.”

“Oh, finally.” The woman nodded. “Some kind of good news at last.” She seemed to brighten a little. “I’m sorry, where are my manners? My name is Louise.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Reuben. Father Nick might remember me better than the deacon. I’m sorry to have to leave so soon but there’s more I need to do before I head back to Liana’s.”

Louise nodded again. “I understand. Let her know that we’ll all be praying for her.”

He thanked her and strode back out the church. Elsie was right where he’d left her, and this time he mounted the horse and rode to his next destination. Although his goods to barter with had been stolen, he figured it would still be good to make contact with the feed store.

It was a red metal building with the requisite large concrete loading pad that stretched across most of the front. A middle-aged man with a mostly gray beard was sitting in a metal chair stationed between the large doorway to the feed room and the standard door to the room used for other retail sales. Reuben recognized Martin, the manager of the store, as he approached, but he also noticed the fellow seemed to scowl at him as Elsie drew closer.

“Howdy.” He halted the mare at the steps that led up to the top of the pad.

“Good day.” Martin’s reply was a bit cool.

He sensed this was not a good time to start off with general chit-chat. “I was hoping you could help me. I’m Reuben, a friend of Liana Gautreaux. She’s gonna be running low on supplies here pretty soon and I needed to check on what you still have in stock.”

The man’s frown deepened but he nodded as he got to his feet. “There’s not much, but you can take a look at it.”

“Thank you.” He dismounted and tied the reins to the metal railing. “I came out this morning originally wanting to make some kind of trade, but my plans kinda got changed.”

“That so?”

“Seems I got robbed.” Reuben heard the growl that entered his voice as he ascended the steps. “What’s going on around here? The two goobers that held me up were wearing paper stars and talking about new ordinances.”

Martin regarded him warily before stepping into the doorway of the feed room. “How long you been here?”

“Just made it to Liana’s yesterday.” He pushed his hat off again and followed.

“Oh, well then, you’ve missed out on a whole lot of fun.” The manager sidestepped toward the doorway between the feed room and the sale room. “We’ve got company!” he barked before straightening his course through the short stacks of feed bags.

The general inventory looked low as he expected, but he was glad to see there was as much left as there was. Hopefully he could acquire a little more grain for all the animals before they had to switch over completely to forage.

“So what’s been going on?” He asked when he realized Martin wasn’t going to volunteer the information.

“Well, whaduya think’s been going on? The gates of Hell have been opened.” The man paused near two bags with a design that Reuben recognized. “There’s the goat ration.”

Maybe he should take care of business first. “How many other customers do you have for that?”

“Whaley’s the only other one, but he goes more for the producer ’cause he’s got meat goats. Whyd’ya ask?”

“Don’t want to become hoarders, besides the fact it’s not much good to get more feed than we can use before it goes bad.”

Reuben almost jumped as something small, round, and hard pressed into his back, and he heard more assumptions about his lineage as a gravelly voice ordered him to put up his hands.