SADDLEBAG DISPATCHES
ANTHONY WOOD
JUDGED AND FOUND LACKING THE STORY OF RAINY MILLS, PART III
T
he saloon barkeep hung one arm on a batwing with the other holding the shotgun on Ratliff’s former friends. “You won’t be stayin’ in Skullyville, I’m guessin’. Where you headed now?” “Louisiana, to find the man who should’ve given my folks justice and stopped Ratliff.” The barkeep looked back at Ratliff’s former friends, then whispered, “I heard Ratliff say that a judge friend of his who lived in Shreveport moved from there to retire.” “You know where?” “Ratliff said he moved to Bellevue to start a newspaper. Ratliff was thinkin’ about settlin’ down there himself. The judge offered him a job as his personal security officer. He said if the judge owned the bank, most of the land, and what people read in the paper, he’d control the town and Bossier Parish. Ratliff planned on takin’ the job, that is, until you showed up.” “Thanks for the information.” Rainy looked around at the town. “Why are you here?” “Everybody’s got a past. Mine hasn’t caught up with me here, at least not yet. If’n I was younger, I’d come with you. War’s comin’ on fast, and the Choctaws will line up with the South, I do believe. Folks are fussin’ already about it. Some say the fight’ll come even way out here.” “I pray it never does. Why Skullyville, though? Surely, it can’t be just about the government doling out money.” “The Choctaws say it sounds like their name for money. Me? I heard a Choctaw witch hung a wolf’s
head at the edge of town to ward off evil spirits. The skull stayed there for years.” Rainy felt the wolf within calling him to Bellevue. “Thanks again.” He flipped the barkeep a five dollar gold piece. “I was never here.” The barkeep bit the coin with his eyetooth. “Good enough.” The road leading east from Skullyville to Fort Smith offered no comfort. With Ratliff dead, the man who needed to pay next for his actions was the judge who let him get away with murder.
Rainy turned south from Fort Smith to find mountains and solace to sort out his thoughts. Sipping his coffee in camp the first night, Rainy watched a shooting star blaze across a moonless sky. “Isn’t that a sight, horse?” His mount snorted and shook his head up and down. “I guess I should call you something other than horse.” The horse perked his ears up. Rainy thought for a moment. “Homer. Yes, that’s it. Your name is Homer.” The horse stared at Rainy like he had no sense. “What? It’s a good name. Homer was a historian and poet. He wrote some pretty good stories, too.” Homer pawed the ground. “At least it’ll remind me that I have a good classical education when I feel like an animal… like I did back in Skullyville.” Rainy got up from the fire to brush Homer down. “Let’s not talk about that anymore tonight.” Homer nudged Rainy with his nose.
93
