Afterclap

Those who knew my character would swear I lacked the stomach for murder. They had never once heard me utter a complaint, let alone swear a reckoning. Of course, back when my wife had been spitting up blood in a bedpan, the nearest neighbour was over an hour away… 

Hardly surprising that none of ’em ever heard me howling for retribution.

In those days towns had to grow, and fast, or they faded back into dust. Unfortunately, my community saw something of a boon as a pit-stop for the wagon trains moving on to better prospects. Wasn’t four seasons into my grief before my private corner of nowhere became lousy with people. To shut up recollections—both good and bad—I kept busy. I spent the next decade gambling on other men’s misfortunes, and all it earned me was the biggest house in the borough.

It was an empty home, but it was far from lonesome. 

Folks would oft’ stop in for a chat or a whine. I’d nod at their prattling, and chew on some freshly baked gratuity. Personally, I never much understood the impulse to make a public spectacle out of rancour, but I’d listen, and give comfort wherever I could. Most times it helped, sometimes it didn’t.

The petty problems of a people struggling to eke out a measure of consequence had a tendency to boil over if not stamped out quick. Truth be told, it wasn’t my counsel, the preachers’ sermons, or the noose that kept us all from killing each other. It was diversions. A church dance, a gaggle of fiddlers, even a bedraggled salesman, were all welcome entertainment. But they were all nothing compared to the grand spectacle of the medicine shows. 

Heh. 

They always gave us suckers a week’s worth of flashy revelry, peppered with pitches which promised to cure some of our more regular sufferings. Compounds and tonics to stave off pestilence. Pills that may—or may not—cheat death. It was a helluva spectacle. The can-can girls would come out first, kicking and sashaying in their finest ruffles. My simple-minded compadres would clap and whistle, keeping time to the thrums of a player piano. Then there’d be a brief lecture on the terrible dangers of this or that, and “behold this wondrous restorative syrup!” The theatrical soaps would ramp up till the climax, where we’d be fed another hard sell. The razzle-dazzle was dizzying and made the masses forget every injury these cure-alls did to us … or our dearest.

For my part I simmered quietly whenever the advertisements cut in, and bit at my tongue till I tasted blood. 

It was on one such occasion that I spotted the object of my disquiet—Fulton. The years had been kinder to him than my wife. She went to him for a cough, and he left me a widower. Every pound of her flesh lost to his peddled hope, I imagined him wearing now, like a stolen coat. 

“Ho there! You got a dime? I can see you’re wanting this lovely bottle. God has provided us a veritable bounty ladies and gentlemen, and I have discovered the secret to unlocking it!” Fulton beamed like Father Christmas. His coal-black eyes sparkled especially brightly when they caught sight of silver dollars. “No more hungry babies, no more rumbling tum-tums. Why, just a capful of this a day, and you too can feed your families anything! Everything! Pinecones, grass, why—even the very dirt beneath your feet!”

The snake was every bit as devious as I remembered.

I came back the next night in my Sunday best, and the next. The town joined me and, whether out of obligation or desperation, they emptied their wallets. I clapped now. I smiled, slapped my knees silly, and laughed till I was the last customer standing. Fulton’s eyebrows shot up into his receding hairline when I pulled out a pouch bursting with gold dust and offered to buy out his remaining stock. 

What a delight it was to see him again. The things my fingers ached to do…

But I let him move on for the moment, for patience is a virtue supposedly rewarded by the All Mighty. Besides, there were preparations that needed doing. One of my smaller acquisitions should do the trick.

Following the course set by his playbill, I caught up with his wagon about a month later. It was a bigger stop than ours, but not so big that it needed competent lawmen. No one here knew my face. Fulton remembered me, though. Oh yes.

I was the dolt he’d cheated out of a tidy fortune a few towns back. 

“Monty!” He greeted me at the end of his performance. His lackeys took over the till while he moved to embrace me as one would a brother.

“My dear Fulton.” I sidestepped and heartily shook his hand in a sudden hurry. “It’s mighty good to see you again. I’d offer to buy you one of those drinks with a fancy label, but I gotta get a wiggle on.”

“Stay, and I’ll grab the first round of nymphs du prairie,” he winked.

I brought him near. Close enough that I could see his pulse pitter-patter beside his windpipe. With a fretful laugh, I bashfully whispered my bait. “I was a chucklehead and bought a mine sight unseen. Supposed to be gold, but I’m worried I was hoodwinked into buying a pyrite pit.”

“No!”

“Never had a knack for safe business. I’d blame the hootch, but it was simply too good a deal to pass. Figure I’d assuage my worry by nabbing some samples and getting them tested properly. Any-hoot, pleasant travels Doc. I’m off.”

He grabbed my elbow, and dug in. “But it could be gold?”

“More likely crap.”

“Or gold,” he hissed as he drew me away from pesky witnesses. “Let me help you Monty, I am a chemist for Pete’s sake.”

“The banner outside says you’re a doctor,” I replied, unable to resist.

He tapped his nose. “In the wilds of the frontier, pharmaceuticals are a flexible profession. Give me time to pack my mare. Is the mine close?”

“Reckon the trip will cost us the rest of the week if we rattle our hocks … P’shaw! I can’t be imposing upon your generosity.” I gestured around the tent with a concerned frown. “You’re slammed.”

“Screw these yokels. My boys will finish the show. I ain’t missing a chance to help a pal. Gold, Monty!”

I snapped my fingers in consternation. “How ‘bout you loan me that—what’s that fellow? Your assistant?—Luchie? Lewis?”

Fulton's black eyes flashed red. “Lucas can’t tell his ass from his elbow without me giving him two tries and a diagram.”

“Think about your reputation, then. What if your men give some sick nipper rotten medicine?”

He smiled at me, rather unpleasantly. “You’re barkin’ at a knot, Monty.”

I hemmed and hawed, and dug in to the sawdust beneath my boots till I compelled him root out the cause of my reluctance. “Horse-to-horse, it ain’t just your esteem I’m fretting over Fulton. I don’t want to go home with my foolishness airing out like the wash.”

That smile of his widened till it was all teeth, as if my supposed upset suited his wicked designs perfectly. “We’ll keep this matter discrete then. If anyone asks, I’ll say you’re a distant cousin whose momma is sick with fever. Come, help me collect my things.” 

Welp, let it not be said that I hadn’t given Fulton every opportunity to turn away. Instead of bolting, the man had been downright obliging. Figures. The only fellers not looking for an advantage out here were the coffin makers. 

Soon, we rode out of civilized society. 

Should the angels on high—or the Devil himself—ever ask me to recount this matter, I’d argue that I had the Almighty’s direct blessing. After all, our affair had closed over ten years ago, and these wagon shows criss-crossed a country fret with all manner of trouble. Only God could meddle with the fate of fools and fiends in such a way as to grant me a reckoning. This unexpected afterclap was ordained by a higher power. 

And if the Good Lord wanted the books balanced, well, who was I to disobey?

I drove Fulton hard, past the borders of help and into the shadow of canyons. Perhaps he had bet that between my pressed clothes and the thoroughbred beneath my saddle blanket, I had a halfwit’s luck. If he nursed such thoughts, I’d say the sentiment was accurate… 

How many men could say they’d been able to serve their dearest enemy helpings of fresh rabbit and whistle berries? 

It was a test of will not to give in to madness, whilst we swap lies on the road. Fulton’s hand kept drifting to his peashooter, and I knew he was wrestling with similar compulsions. Yet I rested easily beneath the stars, knowing that despite all his jumping, Fulton wouldn’t make a move.

He hadn’t a clue where we were going. 

I plopped a tin mug of brown gargle beside his nose and let the scent wake the bloated boil for me. “Mmmrph?”

“Mornin’ Fulton.” I grinned as his peepers slowly opened, relishing his last moments. While the doc was peddling his way to the state line, I had taken a quick detour here. I’d shot the foreman—who I’d long suspected of skimming—and let the rest know that I’d be in Europe for a spell. Left ’em an envelope bursting with ‘emergency’ funds, too. 

I was as pleased as a flea in a doghouse to discover they’d all run off. 

“Grits? Pickled mountain oysters?” I sing-songed. “I got a flap-jack as big as a mule’s backside cooking if you’d like.”

“Sh-lot of food?” he replied groggily. 

“It was all in or nothing. Meaning I got everything that old widow had—the pit, the outhouse, the pans … Enough feed to fuel an army’s worth of belly worms.”

“Where—?”

“Alphonsine.”

“Wha … whose she then?” Fulton yawned and scratched his big belly. “Sounds like a German whore.”

I let the rage roll over me before answering. “Ain’t nobody special, not no more. Just the name of the mine.” 

“What about it?” Fulton demanded, alert enough though his black eyes were still heavy with sleep. I grinned. “We made good time on that last sprint. Didn’t realize ’til the sun peaked that the entrance isn’t more than a holler from where we camped.”

Fulton took a sip of the coffee and grimaced, “That widow leave anything with more kick?”

“She sure did.” I passed over a bottle and wondered if he’d recognize it as his own brand. The trick behind good snake oil lay in the pudding's proof, as it were. After I buried my wife, I left her box of ‘miracles’ fermenting in a corner of a barn. Rats had done me a favour and rendered the labels unidentifiable. “This’ll pop your skull,” I promised. And it nearly did, if his coughing and sputtering were any sign of his internal misery. My judgemental scoff challenged his sense of pride, and it wasn’t long before he took another swig. 

“Let’s go,” he demanded.

I gestured vaguely at the food. “Eat first. The tunnels—so’s I understand it—run deep. Seeing as how we might not pop out again until Judgement Day, perhaps it’s better to sit awhile and digest?”

He swished the gut rot impatiently.

“Fair enough.” I blew a sigh, feeling a tad cheated. “Shall we bring down your testing kit ‘n’ caboodle?”

“What are you, a chucklehead?” he snapped irritably, the swill already loosening his feigned politeness. “We’ll bring my—your—gold up to the light where the fumes won’t choke us.” 

Fulton’s fingers started twitching, piano-wire tight along the brown glass. Before they got bold, I put up both palms. “I’ll defer to your judgement, Doc,” I said, as amicably as a dunce. “Only thing I’d suggest is pegging out a range of samples, just in case pyrite is mixed through. That woman gave me a rough idea of where to find the best deposit.”

Fulton relaxed, and a rough plan was formed. I would play pack mule for the picks, shovels, and trowels. He’d handle the delegating on account of his higher education. Fulton patted my shoulder when we reached the entrance, in obvious good cheer. “We’ll start from the depths of Hell and work our way up!” 

I could not have phrased it better myself.

We strode past the tendrils of dawn, and into the dry dark. The lamp light guided our path cheerfully enough, but the licking flame also made the shadows leer. The deeper we went, the more the air tightened. Fulton wiffle-waffled between burping, harping on about the lawman, and waving his revolver at my backside. When I advised him to watch his stride, he had the gall to muse the worth of dead men walking. 

I smiled, privately marvelling at Fulton’s observational skills. He was right, of course. I wasn’t exactly living since Alphonsine passed, so much as limping along.

Next time the drunk did a jig, I let him trip on his spurs. The bottle flew out of his hand to the earth, along with the gun. The glass shattered into a hundred chips. Fulton seemed too dazed to stand on his own, so I picked him up and dusted him off.

“Easy there, Fulton,” I chastised, then brought the lantern closer to the wall. All around us, the rock glistened with silver spiderwebs. “Saltpepper’ll give you a heck of a headache.”

“Getzoff, oaf!” he said blisteringly as he brushed me off. Then his eyes went wide, as his pickled noggin remembered just how bad potassium nitre was. Fulton coughed until his lungs threatened to tumble up. I slapped his back and passed him a fresh bottle. It was gladly taken. 

“A toast,” he said with a curled lip. “To all this nitre! Confederates use it for gunpowder, Monty—Hic—me? I roll ’em into the kidney purgers. Ha, ha! Shhh—all this? I’m already ahead!”

“Wanna quit while you are?” I asked mildly.

“… We—we’re forgetting somethin’… ain’t we?” 

“The gold, Fulton?” 

He clapped.“The gold, Monty!!”  

Further along—as deep as a man seeing double can stumble in a single morning—was a pile of rocks that I’d planted with nuggets earlier. Fulton’s bleary eyes uncrossed when saw them and he let out a piercing whoop. Tossing the bottle aside, his shaking hands began fumbling for his pistol…  

The one he’d been itching to fire all week. 

The one he’d left in a puddle of brown shards.

I brought out a shovel from the pack and let the rest of what I’d been carrying go. “Guess we’re close enough,” I said, before cuffing him across the temple. Between the thump and the booze, I easily kicked Fulton’s ass the last handful of meters. At the edge of an exploratory hole, I dragged him up to attention. Finding his back heels bereft of solid earth and his tip-toes lacking sober grounding, Fulton was utterly flummoxed as to his current predicament. He looked at me in stupefied bewilderment. “But-but the gold Monty!” 

“But Alphonsine,” I countered bitterly. Then I gave him a punch that knocked the rattle out of his hind teeth. There was a sharp crack of both bone and flesh when he landed, followed by a piercing shriek. 

Peering down with the lantern, I saw that the fall had contorted one leg to an unhealthy degree. Even without his caterwauling, I knew he’d broke it both six ways to Sunday. The deed done, I busied myself collecting loose boards and stone. 

The labour was hard. Now and then, I’d have to stop to catch my breath. I’d sit and listen to the blubbering of a man who rode the width and breath of this country, scamming death to the needy. Whenever he screamed, I joined him. 

Seemed only polite. 

It must’ve been nearing supper time before I was close to finishing. Not a single thread of light bounced off Fulton’s eyes black now, but I heard him laughing and recognized its timber. When there are no tears left, despair finds another route out—madness.

“Ha! Hehehehehe! You’re a joker, Monty. Roughhousing, s’all.”

I chuckled. “Pulled your leg so hard I broke it, huh?”

“I know what I saw up there is gold. Help me up. Let’s get outta here, go back to town. Celebrate.”

“Excellent suggestion,” I said. “Soon as I’m topside, I’ll toast to your eternal damnation.” 

“F-For the love of God, Monty!”

“For love, yes, but not for Him.” I was all smiles as I brought that final board down.

Alphonsine’s memory made my heart ache, but this … this brought a conclusion I was sorely needing. The dust, nitre, and the grave filling did me no favours, but that night I slept like a log. Over the next month I visited Fulton many times, making sure the operation was wrapped up snug as a bug. No one would ever find this pit, let alone his bones.

All that remained was for us two of us sinners to rest, forever in peace.