Dark Reflection

Chapter 15

"Burying the Body"

by Lilyjack

The next four chapters all take place during one fateful evening, so I will post them all today. Hope you enjoy. Take care. ~lj

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Doc gripped well-worn leather reins with sweat-slicked palms. He resisted his own unconscious desire to urge the plodding old mare, hitched onto his borrowed wagon, to go just a little faster down Front Street. A jagged streak of lightning ripping across the black prairie sky only fueled his anxiety. For a split second he could make out the illuminated clouds roiling ominously on the horizon. Doc heard his young companion sitting on the bench seat beside him begin to count quietly under his breath until a clap of thunder made them both jump.

"Five miles." Ocie Bleeker's voice rose to a skittish peak on the last syllable as he threw a rabbity glance back toward the tarp-covered pinewood coffin that'd been hastily constructed by Percy Crump, lying in the bed of their creaky wagon.

"What?" Doc asked a little irritably, squinting nervously at the wavering shadows cast by lanterns hanging along the eerily deserted boardwalk.

"Five miles away, Doc. You kin count the time from when the lightnin' strikes to when the thunder hits and that's how many miles away the storm is. That's what my ma used to tell me anyways." The boy heedlessly wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Afore she died."

"Oh," Doc looked over at Ocie, still no more than a skinny kid. All alone in the world to fend for himself. "I see, son. Your, uh…your ma must've been pretty smart." Life just wasn't too awful fair sometimes, Galen Adams thought. He frowned to himself, but his eyes kept darting from side to side, keeping a wary lookout for unfriendly faces.

"Cain't we go a little faster, Doc?" Ocie hopefully ventured.

"Why? You scared?" the old man asked irritably, a little sharper than he'd intended. Then he forced the muscles of his face, his jaw, to relax. He lowered his voice. "We don't wanna be noticed, son. Can't draw attention to ourselves." He scrubbed a hand over his mustache and mouth.

"But Doc," the boy countered as he cast his dark eyes up at the older man through long, lanky bangs, "Won't we appear a mite noticeable if we're buryin' a body on Boot Hill in the dark during a gullywarsher?"

Doc nodded his head a bit and clucked at the mare to step up the pace. "You got a point there, Ocie."

The increased noise of the horse's hooves and the squeak of the old wagon seemed to reverberate down the street, and Doc instantly regretted the decision to pick up their speed. He watched as whorls of dust spun past them, announcing the storm's imminent arrival.

A big gust of wind blew, catching in his hat. Doc grabbed at it, snatched it, but then another gust caught in the tarp they'd tied over the coffin in the back of the wagon, billowing it aloft like a sail at sea. Ocie jumped and turned, managing to seize it, but then the undulating canvas was ripped from his hands by another surge of wind.

"Damnation!" the boy cursed. A corner of the tarp flapped free, the loosened rope that had formerly secured it twisting in the wind.

"Whoa!" Doc called, halting the horse.

"It'll just take me a minute, Doc!" The slight boy nimbly scrambled to the back of the wagon to retie the rope.

Suddenly a voice spoke from within the shifting shadows of the boardwalk. "You two havin' troubles, are ya'?"

Doc started at the sound, his skin prickling with fear. The old physician had a bad feeling this may not go well. He shifted on the groaning bench seat and squinted his eyes. He spied a young man gripping a shotgun, emerging into the circle of light cast by of one of the lanterns. He was tall and stout with dark, closely-cropped hair and a neatly-trimmed reddish beard and mustache. His overfed face held unfriendly eyes like small, hard black marbles. He had a pudgy nose and a stubborn, jutting chin, his mouth set in a mulish line, appearing ready to cause trouble for anyone he encountered. Doc's heart sank at the sight of that expression, but he steeled his own nerves in preparation.

Doc heard his young friend directly behind him audibly swallow as he stood frozen. Under his breath, Adams admonished the boy, "Easy, Ocie… Keep your head, son."

The man narrowed his flinty stare from the boardwalk, an insincere smile slashing across that mulish mouth. "I'm Sheriff's Blackthorne's deputy. If you're havin' troubles, maybe I can help out. What you two got in that there wagon? Must be awful important to be haulin' it around this time a' night." Lantern light glinted off gunmetal as he stepped heavily down into the whirling dust of the street and walked steadily toward them.

Doc sat quietly and did not move. Ocie was the first to talk. "Hector Groate, we don't need no help from you."

Groate came to stand beside the wagon, peering up at Ocie in the dim moonlight. "Bleeker, what're you doin' out here?" He used his rifle to pull the tarp from Ocie's hands, shove it back. Hector frowned. "A coffin? What the hell you two doin' with a coffin in the middle of the night?" Groate squinted forward at the elderly occupant of the bench seat.

Ocie began, "We're bu-…"

Groate interrupted, pointing at Adams, "Ain't that the town Doc?"

Ocie began impatiently, "Yeah, but…"

Groate interrupted again, pointing his gun with emphasis as he spoke, "What the hell is goin' on here?"

Ocie raised his voice, "That's what I'm tryin' to tell ya, Groate, if you'll just shut up and listen to me. We're buryin' a body."

Doc finally spoke, "And I'll thank you to quit waving that firearm of yours around before it goes off and hurts somebody, or else we'll be buryin' more than one body on Boot Hill."

Groate's cold eyes narrowed at Adams, "Don't tell me what to do, old man. This is purty irregular. Bleeker, what're you doin' with the Doc here anyway?"

Ocie snarled at Groate, "He's payin' me to help 'im bury a body, for pete's sake! This old codger cain't bury a body by hisself! And I need the extra pocket money!"

Groate reached up and grabbed Ocie's shirtfront, dragged the boy down to face him. "Don't get smart with me, kid. You're gonna dig a grave all by yourself? You're a little piss ant! You can't dig a six foot grave. This whole thing smells to high heaven!"

Doc hastily spoke up. "Course this kid can't dig a grave by himself. He has a friend who's supposed to help us. I said I would pay them both. We're supposed to meet him…where, kid?"

Ocie spoke to Groate, "At Moss Grimmick's, where he works." He was telling the truth, for they really were meeting Lafe Whitcomb at the stable where he was supposed to be borrowing some shovels to take with them to Boot Hill to bury the body. Ocie added, "You know Lafe, don'tcha, Hector?"

Groate roughly pushed Ocie away and stared a hot hole into them both. "This stinks to high heaven, I tell ya' - buryin' a body in the middle of the night... Who the hell did ya' kill anyways?" The tall, stocky man seemed to make a decision and strode around to the end of the wagon.

Groate reached with beefy fingers to untie the tarp that covered the custom-made, extra-long, rough pine coffin. Ocie's head snapped to meet Doc's glance, the physician's heart began pounding. Doc vehemently protested as Blackthorne's "deputy" jerked the canvas away, "Here, young man, have a little respect for the dead, will ya'?"

Ocie offered, "We're buryin' him 'cause that's what Sheriff wanted us to do. This here's Blackthorne's prisoner."

"Oh yeah?" Groate had discovered a claw hammer lying next to the coffin along with a handful of scattered nails that had been used to seal the pine lid not fifteen minutes prior. "What prisoner?" He industriously inserted the claw under the edge of the lid.

Ocie hurried to stand in the wagon at Groate's elbow, talking a blue streak, "You know, the one what got beat up so bad for causin' all the trouble at the Long Branch? Sheriff had me and Lafe on guard duty at the jail while he was there…it weren't very long though…" Ocie acted as if he had forgotten the prisoner's identity. "Uh, what was his name?"

Doc immediately spoke up, "Jack…don't you remember, Ocie?"

"Yeah, that's it. Jack. Jack Mathias. Sheriff Blackthorne wanted us to bury 'im when he died. We're just followin' orders. You kin ask Sheriff."

The nails squeaked as they began to pull free of the pine wood. Hector Groate stood erect and looked at Ocie and Doc each in turn. "He did, huh? Sheriff Blackthorne told you two to bury his prisoner?"

Ocie smiled a little in relief, answered, "Yep."

Doc nodded firmly. "Yes, he surely did, young man. Told us to bury the body if and when he died under my care. The man was badly beaten and there was nothing more I could do for him. It was very unfortunate, but he didn't survive the punishment he received from your friends."

Hector Groate's mouth turned down at the corners and he narrowed his suspicious eyes at them. "Well, it still don't make a damn bit a' sense, you takin' the body in the middle of the night when a storm's brewin'. This whole thing stinks to high heaven. I don't like it one iota. Somethin' ain't right." And with that he reached down and skreeked loose several more nails, lifting the coffin lid with two hands and letting it clatter to the side.

In the dim moonlight, an occasional flash of lightning streaking the sky, Hector Groate, Doc, and Ocie looked down into the peaceful, cadaverous face of Jack Mathias. Though it must have once been handsome, it was pale and ghastly in death, still swollen, bruised and crusted with scabs from the severe beating the man had received in life. There were coins laid upon his eyes as was the custom of the day. Ashy gray hands that still bore the laceration scars of his struggles were crossed upon his broad chest as if he were only resting. But the most obvious sign of his passing was the overwhelming stench of death and decay emanating from the pine box that would become the place of Jack Mathias' eternal slumber.

Groate quickly clapped a hand over his mouth and nose. Ocie stepped back, waving a hand delicately before his face. Doc could feel his own eyes watering at the putrid reek.

Groate bent forward, one arm wrapped around his middle, sweat breaking out on his pale skin. "Holy shit, get that outta here. Go bury it quick!"

Doc thundered, "That's what we're tryin' to do!"

Ocie placed his hands indignantly on his narrow hips, facing Groate. "I told you!"

Groate leapt from the wagon and bolted for the alley, quickly leaning forward.

Ocie yelled, 'Hey wait! Ain't you gonna nail it back up for us? Hector!"

Doc shot back, "Hush up, son! Let's get outta here!"

They heard the sound of loud retching from the alley as Doc snapped the reins and the mare trotted down the street.

A deep voice whispered from the depths of the coffin, "You damn well better leave that lid off. I can't breathe in here, and I just may upchuck, too. Whose bright idea was it to put a dead squirrel in here with me anyway?"

Doc, eyes straight ahead, hissed toward the unseen speaker, "Shut up! You're supposed to be dead, ya' know! And it worked, didn't it? Ocie, at least throw the tarp over the deceased, for pity's sake!"

"Yes, Doc," Ocie answered dutifully as he stumbled to obey in back of the moving wagon, securing the tarp so that it would not be whisked away by the incoming storm.

The physician then offered with a little more sympathy in his voice, "We're almost to Moss' and then we'll take care of you, don't you worry." He didn't know how he himself would take being shut up in a pine box with an expired, bushy-tailed rodent. But it had worked like a charm, he had to admit. Doc smiled to himself. The stench from inside had to be overwhelming. That Jack Mathias must be made of some stern stuff.

After a few minutes, Ocie quietly announced, "We're here. There's Lafe waitin' for us. And he's got shovels. Now we kin bury the body!"

Doc thought he heard a strangled sigh emanate from beneath the canvas cover. The elderly man had to smother his own chuckle because they weren't out of the woods yet. Blackthorne had dozens of men. But the impending storm seemed to be working in their favor because the wind-whipped streets were deserted.

Doc stopped the rickety conveyance just long enough for the burly youth to stow his shovels and hop on board the back. "Ready," Lafe called. He pounded twice on the side of the wagon, and Doc set off again, turning down a dark side street, heading for one final destination before Jack Mathias was buried on Boot Hill.

tbc

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