"The Devil's Backbone Chapter Two By James Babb

Chapter Two

The cat snarled again. Brody scrambled backwards, knowing he was in for a painful death. He anticipated tearing claws and sharp teeth, but a deep, booming shot roared from close by, and he heard the heavy thump of the cat’s body going down. It squalled and kicked leaves and twigs, some of them hitting Brody on the arm. Then, the panther grew silent.

    My Papa, he’s found me.

    In the sudden stillness that followed, Brody heard footsteps approaching in the leaves.

    “Papa,” he tried to say, but the smallest of sounds escaped his throat. He listened, but Papa did not call out for him.

    The footsteps stopped next to him. He looked up with sore eyes and for the first time since the accident he saw a shape. But this blurry shape could not be his Papa. A much larger man took one last step.

    Even if this was not his father, Brody did not care. At least someone had found him. He attempted to raise a weary arm, but wilted on the ground.

    Just get me home. Take me to my Momma, so she can fix me.

    Strong arms scooped Brody up. His ankle shifted and a fresh wave of pain ran up his leg. At first, he struggled to speak, but then Brody gave in to the weakness. Every part of his body went limp. He had no energy left.

    Bacon. Hot, popping, fatty bacon. There could be no mistake. The scent brought Brody fully awake. Someone whistled a tune and Brody imagined Momma, standing at the stove, cooking.

    He struggled to sit and found his hands and feet had been bound with rope. An attempt to say something only produced a weak, raspy voice. “Where am I?”

    The whistling stopped, but the person didn’t speak.

    Brody tested his eyes again. There were shapes, blurry and dim, but much better than nothing. Perhaps he would not be blind forever.

    He found he had been brought inside a tent. Brody blinked and his vision cleared for a brief second. The walls were gray fabric, patched many times. Things lay scattered around, but his poor sight kept him from identifying them.

    A large flap peeled back, and someone stepped inside. The smell of cooked meat intensified, and Brody’s stomach growled. The large man stood motionless and watched him.

    Brody squinted at the figure and his jaw dropped. The man’s features and clothes were blurry, but even with bad eyes Brody could tell that the stranger’s skin was black. It had been many years since he had seen a Negro.

    “You a scout?” the man finally asked.

    “I’m not,” Brody said with a raspy voice, more than a little confused. He shook his head, wondering if the man thought he was an Indian. “Why’d you tie me up?”

    “Union, aren’t ye?” the man said.

    Union? “You mean like in the war?” He remembered his Papa talking about the Civil War. He had spoken of Union and Confederates.

    The Negro man turned and picked up something leaning against the side of the tent. Brody guessed it to be a gun.

    The man stepped outside and out of sight. “Come on out here,” he said. “I’m gonna hafta kill ya.”

    Brody did not move.

    “Come on,” the Negro repeated. “Don’t wanna get no blood in there.”

    Brody thought for a moment. “I…I’m not Union, and I-I can’t come out.”

    “Why not?”

    “Cause ya done tied me up,” Brody explained.

    A moment passed before the man stuck his head into the opening. “Oh, I reckon so.” He stepped in, and came over to Brody’s side.

    Brody ducked, not sure what to expect from the strange fellow.

    “Who shot ya?” the man asked.

    Brody glanced at him and caught a clear image of speckled gray hair, but then his vision blurred. “What do you mean, who shot me?” he asked. His voice faded in and out.

    The man motioned. “Your foot. Who shot ya?”

    “Nobody shot me. I fell and got it hung up.”

    The Negro reached down and pulled Brody’s pant leg up. He felt rough, leathery skin touching his ankle. Brody blinked hard from the pain, but it helped clear his vision a bit. He saw the man’s hands were weather beaten and calloused.

    “Don’t look broken,” the man said. He stood, and went to the back of the tent. Metal things rattled while he shifted them about.

    “You’re not gonna shoot me, are you?” Brody asked.

    The man returned, carrying something shiny.

    A knife?

    “You Union or Confederate?”

    “I-I don’t know. Confederate? Or maybe neither?” Brody began to wonder if it was a trick question.

    The man knelt next to him and started cutting the ropes. “Name’s Ames,” he said.

    “Ames,” Brody repeated with a hoarse voice.

    “That’s what they call me.”

    “I’m Brody.”

    Ames finished cutting the bindings and offered his rough hand. “Nice to meet ya.”

    Brody shook with him. “Why you keep asking me bout the Union and Confederates? The war was over years ago, fore I was born.”

    Ames looked him in the eye for a long while, and then laughed. “Little feller,” he said between chuckles. “You is crazy.”

    Brody did not sleep much that night. He just could not figure Ames out. One moment, Brody felt safe with him, and the next he felt danger.

    Late in the night, Ames began to snore, and Brody thought about crawling outside and escaping. But his ankle hurt and every part of his body ached. He would not make it far. Ames had given him water and some kind of mush to eat before bed. He also rubbed animal fat on Brody’s burns. Brody figured he surely wouldn’t have done such a thing if he meant to kill him. He decided to stay put and take his chances with Ames.

   

   

    Brody woke to the icy touch of cold steel being pressed against his temple.

    “You got some explaining to do,” the Negro said. “You a Yankee scout?”

    “Ames.” Brody’s voice cracked. He reached and gingerly moved the gun barrel away from his head. “We done gone through this yesterday.”

    A wide smile grew across the man’s face. “That’s right. You is da one been shot in da foot.” Ames lowered the gun, leaned it against the wall of the tent, and then stepped outside. “Better come on, if ya want some breakfast.”

    Brody sat up and let out a frustrated sigh. Apparently, Ames believed the civil war raged on. He seemed to stay confused and forgot new things before they were old. Brody could not come to any other conclusion. Ames was mad dog crazy.

    “Got some bacon left,” the black man called.

    Brody struggled to his feet and hopped on one foot. He took small jumps across, until he reached the tent opening. He steadied himself by holding onto the flap. His eyesight was clear enough to make out the dirt floor of the tent. It had been worn smooth by countless steps, so many that it had been packed into a rock-like surface.

    “I need-” His voice failed and trailed away to nothing more than a whisper. He swallowed and winced when it caused him pain.

    Brody squinted at the bright light outside. Trees, ground, sky, he could not identify much more. The light hurt. He felt sure his vision had gotten worse. He gently rubbed his tender eye lids. He wrinkled his face and gritted his teeth, but when he looked again, he could see well. He blinked hard and could feel something sticky in his eyes.

    “Ames,” he called with a scratchy tone.

    “Well come on,” the man answered.

    Brody rubbed his eyes again. “Need some water. Gotta wash my face.”

    He heard the black man coming closer.

    “Well, I say,” Ames said. “You is black as me.” He laughed and handed Brody a mirror and a sloshing pan of water. “Have at it.”

    Brody sat on the ground, and washed his face and hands. He splashed water into his eyes, rubbed his wet hands through his hair, and let the cool liquid run down his neck. He held the mirror up and for the first time, Brody got to see his wounds. The cracked, red skin on his cheeks hurt the worst. Black spots of burnt powder speckled his face. The hair on his forehead had curled into tight circles and crumbled at his touch. A few patches of hair had burned away completely, along with his eyebrows and eyelashes.

He had imagined his face would be something horrible, a thing he or his folks would no longer recognize. What he saw was much better. The water stung his cracked lips and the inside of his mouth, but Brody drank from his palm anyway.

    “You gonna eat, or not?” Ames asked.

    Brody looked up, and smiled. With his eyes cleaned out, his vision was almost normal. Ames sat on a stump, next to a smoldering fire. He had a short, gray, curly beard that matched his hair. His gray pants and jacket were stained and had been repaired many times.

    “Hang on,” Brody said. He glanced around the campsite. Another, smaller tent sat behind the one he had slept in. A large oak towered above the camp. An old limb had fallen out of the tree recently. Wood chips lay around it, telling Brody that Ames had been using it for firewood. One of the smaller limbs had broken away during the fall and had a nice fork on one end, perfect for placing under the arm.

    Brody got up and hopped over to it. He stripped the dead leaves off and held the limb against his side. It came up a bit past his shoulder. Too tall. He wacked it against the ground and broke part of the branch off.

    “Perfect,” he said. Brody placed the fork under his arm pit and leaned on it. He hobbled over to Ames and waited. Three pieces of metal formed a tripod over the fire. It held a kettle above the flames.

    “Well, sit on down,” Ames said. “This bacon ain’t gonna eat itself.” He motioned to a log nearby.

    Brody went and sat. “You live here?” He ran his hand along the log, and felt the bark that had been worn smooth.

    The man offered him a cup. “Here, better eat. We may have to fight this evenin’.”

    Brody took the cup. “Did you say fight?”

    Ames started talking about the war again, but Brody’s attention had turned to something brown behind the log. The furry pile still had the large paws and head attached.

    “The wildcat,” Brody said. “The one you killed. You cut it up?” He paused and then looked at the small chunks floating in the gruel. “This ain’t bacon,” he said.

    “What ain’t bacon?” Ames asked.

    “The panther,” Brody said.

    “Okay,” the man said. “We’ll cook him up. Ames don’t waste nothin’.”

    Brody could not find any sense in the statement. He shook his head, and sipped the thick liquid from the mush. “I need to get home,” he said.

    Ames chewed faster. “Have some coffee,” he said while offering a cup.

    Brody took it and shifted on the log. “I’m worried about my folks. We ain’t got no food. I was trying to kill some game when I had my accident.”

    “Fell and hurt yer foot, did ye?” Ames asked.

    “Hurt my face,” Brody said.

    “Fell and hurt yer face?”

    “No, I was shooting and-”

    “Shot yourself in da foot,” Ames interrupted.

    “No, I hurt my face first.”

    “Ya shot yourself in da face?”

    Brody sighed. “Never mind,” he said. “I just need to get home.”

The smoke from the fire shifted and a breeze blew it toward him for a moment. He fanned it away with his hand, and then took a sip of coffee, only to discover the coffee was nothing more than hot water. Regardless, the warmth felt good on his lips.

    He watched Ames. Brody guessed the black man to be at least a flour sack heavier than his father. The man’s muscular frame probably put him over two hundred pounds.

    Brody sat the pretend coffee on the log. “Can you take me?”

    “Me?” Ames asked, while pointing to his chest with a weathered hand. “Oh, no. Ain’t got no way to get ya there.”

    “You could carry me.” Brody glanced around the campsite, nestled on the side of a mountain. “You carried me here didn’t you?”

    “Can’t carry ya that far, and Ames can’t go traipsin’ around with patrols out there.”

    “But Ames.”

    The black man shook his head. “Got a good hide out here. I ain’t leavin it.” He squinted one eye and stared at Brody for a second. “Not sure I want ya leavin’ neither.”

    “The war’s over,” Brody said, not liking the way Ames was looking at him.

    “They could make ya talk, boy.”

    Brody picked up his crutch and jabbed its end into the dirt. “Ain’t nobody out there to make me talk. Ain’t no soldiers been in these parts since before I was born.” He strained to raise his voice and it hurt his throat.

    Ames poured his coffee water out. “Oh, they’s still there. I heard a shot just a couple days ago.”

    “That was me, Ames. I done tried to tell you.”

    “I ain’t goin’,” the man said. Ames stood, kicked dirt at the fire, and then stomped off toward the tent. The big man disappeared inside, and Brody heard him throwing things and mumbling.

    Brody gripped the stick and pulled himself up. “I’ll just go by myself,” he whispered. He stuck the limb under his arm, hopped forward, and almost tripped. His ankle throbbed. Brody paused. “Soon as my foot is better. Then, I’ll be on my way.”

    Ames avoided him the rest of the day, but Brody didn’t care. He took the opportunity to explore the camp, hoping to find a way to get home, but Ames did not seem to have a horse or even a donkey anywhere.

    The black man had chosen the side of a mountain to make camp. He had set up his tents and tucked them into the only level spot Brody could see.

    Brody looked toward the top of the mountain. Two hundred steps. He turned and looked down, across the valley below. Thick treetops covered ridges that went in every direction. Even if he had two good feet, he would not be able to find the right way home, not without the black man’s help.

    The smaller tent caught his attention, so he hobbled over to it. The flap had been cinched tight. Brody untied the rope and pulled the canvas back. Small crates were stacked in the middle. Some of the boxes were labeled, some not.

    A large chest sat near the back of the tent. It had shiny tacks on the top, arranged into letters. CABELL. Brody went to the wooden trunk and traced the letters with his finger. Cabell must be his last name.

    Something clicked behind him, and Brody recognized the sound. He leaned on the stick under his arm, and raised his hands.

    “You turns around, real slow like,” Ames ordered.

    Brody eased a hand down and shifted his crutch around, and then he turned. Ames had a long-barrel trained on him.

    “It’s just me,” Brody said.

    “Are ye Union or Confed-”

    “I’m with you. Remember?” Brody said. He had an urge to grind his teeth together.

    Ames lowered the gun, took a deep breath, and huffed. The corners of his mouth turned downward. He stuck his chin out, and walked away. “Better get on outta there,” he mumbled.

    Brody tried to catch up. “I really need to get home, Ames.”

    The man didn’t answer. He went into the large tent, and pulled the flap closed.

Over the next week, Brody’s voice changed. His tone lowered, and the raspy sounds went away. It no longer hurt him to speak or swallow. His vision also improved. By the sixth day, he could put some weight on his ankle.

    Small scabs had formed on his cheeks and forehead, but all of the soreness had left. Brody spent some time every day feeling the stubble growing on his eyebrows and hairline, even his eyelashes were coming back.

    He delighted in the fact that he would not be blind or deformed, but the thought of his folks always brought his spirits down. They had probably given up on finding him by now.

    Before bed every night, Brody prayed for them. Sometimes he cried, but stayed quiet so Ames would not hear. No matter how hard he tried, Brody could not stop the guilt. Each time he ate some of the black man’s mystery stew, he felt it. When he crunched up the hard biscuits Ames called hardtack, he felt it. Brody had food, but his family did not.

    Ames only pulled a gun on him twice more. The man didn’t talk much, and each time Brody tried to convince Ames to take him home, the black man refused, and then talked even less.

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Robert L. Bacon
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