ON A COOL, cloudy morning four weeks to the day after committing their first crime, the Jewett Gang made their way into a small, quiet village they had been observing for close to an hour from a dried-up creek bed. After spending three days ducking a group of assassins accompanied by a supply truck flying a flag that had the Montgomery family crest sewn on it, they were down to their last saltine and desperate to replenish their supplies before moving back into the brush. By that time various explanations were being tossed about across the nation—in newspapers, saloons, parlors, town hall meetings, churches, and courthouses—as to how they could have committed all of their crimes without getting caught or even sustaining a single scratch. Thanks in part to a tabloid story that claimed the gang was traveling with a Haitian voodoo priestess named Sylvia who had been chased out of Texas for casting a spell on her landlord, a good portion of the public had come to believe that their run of luck was the result of supernatural forces. Others, being somewhat more rational, considered it evidence that they were either the most brilliant criminals to ever come down the pike, or that the South was in bad need of retraining its police departments. The vast majority, however, held firm to the belief that the brothers would eventually make a mistake, in much the same way that even the most skilled of gamblers will eventually draw a bad hand if he keeps on playing; and that was exactly what was about to happen in Russell, Kentucky.
As they approached the general store, Cane tried to hand Chimney some money for the groceries.
Chimney looked over at the wad of dollar bills and sneered. “Shit, I don’t need that,” he said, patting the pistol hanging on his side.
“Look, goddamn it, we can’t be takin’ any chances over some lousy canned goods,” Cane said. “I thought we done went over this.”
Even though Chimney had been able to see the merits in Cane’s argument that it was time to lie low and focus on making it to Canada, he wasn’t quite as keen as his brothers were on completely giving up the outlaw life when, in his opinion, they were just starting to get good at it. Besides that, he was in a foul mood. He still hadn’t gotten a chance to fuck a woman yet, and lately it had been preying on his mind something awful that he was going to die before getting a chance to shoot his jizz into something other than his hand. “Don’t worry,” he said, as he slid down off his horse, “this won’t take a minute. C’mon, Cob.”
“Do I have to?” Cob asked.
Cane spat and looked up and down the street. Except for a kid playing with a dog a few doors down, there wasn’t another soul to be seen. “Yeah, fuck, you better go on in with him,” he said, “just to be on the safe side.”
As Cane sat out front keeping watch, and Chimney pilfered the cash register and loaded up two gunnysacks with provisions from the shelves and a stack of old newspapers lying on the counter, the bony, spectacled storekeeper wrung his hands and cried like an old woman, his boo-hoos getting louder by the minute. “Knock that whiny bastard in the head!” Chimney yelled, but instead Cob tried conversing with him about the price of hams and the need for rain. It was no use, the clerk kept up his racket. Though the store was drearier and more poorly stocked than any they had come across, just as they were getting ready to leave, Chimney found a long unopened packing crate hidden under the counter. “What we got here?” he said.
The man quit bawling immediately. “You don’t want to mess with that,” he said, sucking in his snot and wiping at his eyes. “That’s a special order for Mr. Haskins.”
“What’s so special about it?” Chimney said, as he started to pry the box open.
“Mr. Haskins is not a man you want to—”
“I’ll be damned,” Chimney said. Inside the crate, wrapped in oiled paper, lay a new Lee-Enfield and two wooden boxes of cartridges. He tore the paper off and picked the rifle up, aimed it at the storekeeper’s head.
“You take that gun,” the man said, swallowing hard, “Mr. Haskins is going to make me pay for it. It came clear from England. Please, boys, I’m just barely makin’ ends meet now.”