The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

“Well, Kinnard found it,” Buddy said. There was disgust in his voice, and anger. “And it was one of his men that done the shootin’, although it ain’t for sure which one.”


“Uh-oh,” Myra May said softly.

The year before, Agent Kinnard had managed to locate and break up Bodeen Pyle’s first operation, at the southern end of Briar’s Swamp. But there hadn’t been any shooting. When the Feds had moved on, Bodeen had simply relocated his operation to the northern end of the swamp, which was a better location anyway, closer to his market at the Jericho State Prison Farm.

“Damn them rev’nuers.” Mr. Dunlap set his mug down with a hard thump. “Cain’t leave well enough alone. Nobody out there at Mickey’s was hurtin’ a single one of us. They’re just good ol’ boys needin’ to make a living, is all. And Mickey’s whiskey is the finest there is.” He squinted at Buddy. “Anybody kilt?”

“Dunno,” Buddy said in a matter-of-fact tone. “The boy was bleedin’ pretty bad when I saw him.” He picked up his fork again. “Tom-Boy and Jerry put him in the sheriff’s car and drove off with him to the hospital in Monroeville. Kinnard brought Mickey and Tom-Boy back here and locked ’em up. Took names and let the rest of the shiners go with a warning. Busted up the still, of course.” He shook his head regretfully. “Poured out the whiskey.”

“Poured out the whiskey,” Mr. Dunlap repeated sadly.

“What boy was bleedin’?” Mr. Musgrove demanded. “Who you talkin’ ’bout, Buddy? Not Baby Mann, I hope. He’s a right good boy. I’d sure hate to see him hurt.”

Myra May opened her mouth to say that Baby had got religion at the latest revival meeting and was now looking for work that the Lord wouldn’t frown at. But before she could say anything, she saw Violet shake her head slightly. She got the message and closed her mouth. There was something not quite right about this.

“Naw, Baby must have had the night off, lucky for him.” Buddy forked up the last of his egg-soaked biscuit. “It was Rider.”

“Rider?” Mr. Dunlap asked. “Rider who? Is he a Mann?”

“He’s a LeDoux,” Buddy replied, getting after his grits. “Mickey’s kid brother. It was his first night on the job. Mickey heard that Kinnard was in town yesterday so he put Buster on lookout duty down at the county road, where the trail crawls up the ridge. Told him to whistle like a jaybird if he saw anybody coming, at which point the boys who were tending the fire and watching the mash were supposed to take to their heels and slip into the underbrush. The last thing anybody wants is shooting, you know. And it was plenty dark. Should’ve been easy to disappear.”

“Dark as pitch last night,” Mr. Dunlap agreed wisely. “New moon. Didn’t come up until near dawn.”

“I want somebody to tell me how Kinnard found that place,” Mr. Musgrove demanded. “I damn sure couldn’t find it, especially on a dark night. And I used to hunt out that way when I was a kid. Knew Dead Cow Creek like the back of my hand.”

“That’s a good question, Mr. Musgrove,” Buddy allowed, and went on with his story. “Since the road up to Mickey’s still is so well hidden, nobody figured that Kinnard or anybody else could find it, ’less they had somebody who could tell them exactly where to cross the ditch and turn off the main road. So it seems that Buster wasn’t too worried about anybody coming up that way. He curled up and went to sleep. The revenuers parked some distance away and walked right on past him and up the road until they got to where the shiners were working at the head of the creek. Nobody had time to get away. There was yelling, shouting, and Tom-Boy said something happened. Somebody stepped on a stick or broke a jug or made a cracking noise, something like that. Seems that one of the revenuers took it for somebody cocking a pistol in the dark. He pulled out his revolver and got off three, four shots. Rider took a bullet. Tom-Boy said later it was his birthday, Rider’s, I mean. He was fifteen.”

“Aw, hell,” Mr. Musgrove said, very low, and rubbed his face.