Going Nowhere and Running Behind

by D Bedell

One

Fred Five Crows swung the sledge expertly and drove a carnival tent stake six inches into the dry ground of Angel City Park. Two more swings of equal measure set the stake solid. He moved to the next stake steadily and precisely, three taps to start it at the proper angle, three swings from powerful shoulders to drive it. When the carnival was over, he would wrest the stakes free with hands calloused and strong from decades of field and timber work. The rolled up sleeves of his frayed red flannel shirt revealed the scars of his passage through Nishnabotna County.

The last weekend of July was as hot as expected and Five Crows sweated whiskey as he labored around the circle of iron stakes laid out by the tent boss. The sun made the stakes almost too hot to handle. When the stakes were in, the tent poles were raised with manila rope and the canvas lashed taut. The crew cinched the lines to the stakes so tightly the rope almost seemed to hum from the tension. When the tabernacle was complete, Fred wiped his face with a battered blue bandanna. The boss put a silver dollar in his hand and turned away.

Joe Dell’s ‘shine pays better.

The carnival came to Angel City once a year to usher in August and its longing for September rains. It was the first year after the Great War and a ceremony for soldiers coming home from France was held on Friday night to open the midway. The mayor of Angel City, a veteran of Cuba, gave a speech about heroes before a musical act took the stage to accompany  the cicadas' stentorian chant. Five Crows watched without interest; he was there to spend some of the silver dollar and maybe sell some of Joe Dell’s ‘shine he had cached in the Park. It was good whiskey and there was a demand: Summer work was done and the War was over. Crops and prices had been good during the War and there was optimism in Angel City despite a grain surplus looming on the market horizon. Spanish flu had subsided and people were eager to parse the fortunes and misfortunes of others. The Carnival was almost as good as church for canards. 

Two

“You’re runnin’ behind,” Joe Dell said as he watched Fred Five crows saunter to the whiskey camp. He had set up his concern at the confluence of the Nishnabotna and Missouri Rivers only a mile and a half from Angel City. The camp was among the willows and sycamores flanking the rivers and gave him a sense of being in a cathedral. He wondered sometimes if he should pray or give it up as blasphemy.

“Nowhere to go,” Fred said grinning as he shook out a Chesterfield and lit it with a match he struck with a broken thumbnail. A cloud of smoke enveloped them both and Joe Dell sighed while he took out his cigarette makings to roll one for himself. They smoked in silence.

“C’mon. We’ve got work to do,” Joe said as both flicked away the smoke butts.

‘He had a strong sense of duty to the disenfranchised Otoes and worked diligently to make life better for those too infirm to do so for themselves.’

Work was tending whiskey stills. Dell’s ‘shine had a good reputation and he sold all he could make. Precise measuring and consistency—seven gallons of boiled and strained water, ten pounds of corn, two pounds of barley, and three pounds of sugar—were the secret. Fred had mentored him in learning to throw away the foreshots, put aside the heads, jar the heart, and use the tail in the next run. Sampling proved the white lightning was worthy of its name. 

“Heard you was workin’ at the carnival,” Joe said.

“Just set up and tear down. Did it last year,” Fred replied.

“You goin’ tonight,” Joe asked.

“Thought I might sell some ‘shine to the carnies.”

“Maybe so, it’s Saturday night.”

“Don’t open until after church is out tomorrow.”

“Prob’ly a good thing.”

“Prob’ly good for everybody,” Fred snickered, aware of his own plans.

“Maybe I’ll go with you.”

Five Crows scoffed. He liked Joe Dell and he did not like many white men beyond tolerating them. Fred had been one of the first to accept Dell in the fish camp outside Angel City when he returned from the War. Still, he thought there was an emptiness in Joe as if he were troubled in his mind. 

Fred lived in the camp and was an elder seer of the Otoes who had heard the wings in Angel Holler as a boy. He had followed the calling only sporadically, shirking his duty as a reader of omens in the eyes of the people. Nevertheless, the camp held him in high regard for his kindness and reverence for the old ways, especially to the few children who were unfortunate enough to live there. He had a strong sense of duty to the disenfranchised Otoes and worked diligently to make life better for those too infirm to do so for themselves. They were the remnants who had refused to be herded to the Indian Territory reservations in Nebraska and Kansas after the Platte Purchase. The people, however, disapproved of his fondness for whiskey despite the fact that Joe Dell did not allow anyone to sell ‘shine in the camp, not even Fred. It was Dell’s social contract with the camp for tolerating a moonshiner. 

Three

Saturday night was oppressively sultry. Fred Five Crows and Joe Dell walked down the carnival midway with their shirts sticking to their backs. Gas lamps swarmed with insects almost to the point of dimming. The smells of the pony ride and cotton candy clung to the air with musky sweetness. Fred stopped at the duck pond joint hoping to win something for the camp children. He laid a nickel on the counter. Joe Dell stopped to watch.

“This is for kids, chief,” the carney at the booth said.

“There’s my nickel.”

“What nickel?”

“That one there,” Joe said.

“Don’t see no nickel. Better move on.”

Fred decided to leave without the nickel and took Joe Dell’s arm to lead him away. 

“Son-of-a-bitch,” Joe hissed.

“Let’s go see the show,” Fred said.

The show was about half way done when they settled onto a rough cut wood plank set on cement blocks to watch. Joe looked around to see who was there that might want a jar. Fred had already spotted three prospects, one of them the Lutheran minister. He smiled to himself. 

Short sermon tomorrow.

After the last act, Joe mingled with the crowd, making himself approachable for a clandestine parley. Fred stood in the stage shadow and smoked a cigarette. He had come to like Chesterfields instead of rolling his own with hands that were becoming arthritic. Flicking away the butt, he saw Joe making a deal with the minister. Fred had half a dozen jars cached in the park and wondered how many Joe had sold. He hoped they wouldn’t have to go back to the lean-to for more. When the crowd was thin, Joe motioned for Fred. 

The midway ground was packed hard and the grass frayed yellow from the carnival revelers. They walked with purpose. Dell needed three jars from Fred’s cache to finish the night’s deals. Five Crows told Joe where they were hidden and said he would wait so they could head back to the camp together. Dell vanished into the dark as Fred lit a Chesterfield. 

“Hey Chief,” a voice snarled.

Five Crows turned to see the duck pond carney walking toward him. 

What the hell?

“I heard you was the Indian sellin’ whiskey. That right?” the carney demanded as he flipped Fred’s nickel to him. Five Crows let it fall to the ground.

“I sell the whiskey,” Joe said as he came into the lamplight.

The carney turned to Dell and said, “I want some.”

Joe hesitated. “How much?” he said after a few moments.

“Five jars.”

“I got three here. Have to get the rest tomorrow.”

“Need it tonight. Leavin’ tomorrow.”

Five Crows flicked his cigarette butt onto the ground.

“I’ll have to get it. Take a while.”

“I’ll go with you,” the carney said. “That way you don't have to come back.”

Dell hesitated longer. “Ok,” he said quietly, uncertain.

Five Crows ground the nickel into the dirt with the heel of his boot and walked away into the night.

Four

The carney wouldn’t shut up on the way to the camp. Dell told himself the carney was no danger with the law since he would be gone tomorrow. 

“Why you workin’ with that old Indian,” the carney queried.

“Dunno. Friends, I guess,” Joe replied.

The carney snorted, “You should be more careful.”

At the whiskey camp Joe went to the lean-to and took two jars of ‘shine from a wooden fruit crate on the ground. When he turned, the carney had a pistol on him.

“Told ya’ to be more careful,” the carney snickered.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” Joe spat.

“That kind’a talk will get you killed,” the carney hissed as he cocked the pistol.

The words were barely out of his mouth when Five Crows put both barrels of 12 gauge double ought buckshot into his back, dropping him like a pole-axed steer. The cicadas fell silent. Fred broke the shotgun, took out the spent rounds, and reloaded with shells from his shirt pocket. Snapping the breech shut, he handed the shotgun to Joe who was standing open mouthed still cradling the jars of ‘shine in the crook of his arm. Five Crows picked up the pistol, lowered the hammer onto the cylinder, and put it in his waistband.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” Joe whispered.

“He was,” Fred said.

“What do we do now?” Dell asked.

“Put ‘im in the river. It keeps secrets.”

“Okay. If you say so.”

“One thing first.” Five Crows took a pocket knife from his jeans. Lifting the carney’s head by his hair, he sliced away the scalp and threw it on the ground. “For my lodge,” he said, wiping the blade on his jeans.

“What do we do now?” Dell asked.

“Put ‘im in the river. It keeps secrets.”

Joe Dell tried to swallow, his mouth dry as August dust. “It’s my fault,” he croaked. “I shoulda known.”

“Let’s get ‘im to the river,” Five Crows said flatly as he picked one of the carney’s legs. 

Joe nodded, putting the jars and shotgun on the ground. They dragged the body to the mouth of the river and sent the carney on his way into the current. Joe was shaking and sweating. Fred threw the pistol far into the river.

“Don’t let it ruin ya,” Five Crows said, turning to go back to the lean-to for his shotgun and to put the jars back in the box. He put the scalp in his jeans pocket with the knife.

The carnival left Angel City on Sunday night. Fred Five Crows earned another silver dollar for pulling tent stakes and tearing down joints for loading.

Five

On Monday morning, Five Crows borrowed Dell’s jack mule and rode into Angel City. The town was quiet after the carnival, its routine renewed. He tied the mule to a post outside the General Merchandise and checked his pockets to reassure himself that he had money. Rollo Rathbone, storekeeper, watched Fred come in and wondered if he was sober this morning. He waved an indifferent hand at Fred.

“Heard you was workin’ at the carnival again this year,” Rathbone said.

Five Crows nodded. He did not like Rathbone.

“Heard one of them Carnival fellas didn’t show up last night,” Rathbone ventured.

“Boss thinks he’s drunk somewhere. Left without ‘im.”

“That so? Not surprised. What’s it gonna be today?”

“Chesterfields and a box of 12 gauge buckshot,” Five Crows said softly.

Rathbone felt a chill in August.

—Read more stories in the Joe Dell triptych here and here—