Free Bull Mountain by Brian Panowich Page B

nothing. He just stood with his back to the men, staring at the main house.
    “Or what, Delray? Am I suppose to be scared of him just ’cause he’s the boss? Nobody was scared of Rye.”
    “And look what that got him,” Delray said, and regretted it immediately.It just slipped out. Cooper turned around.
    “What do you mean, Delray?” he said.
    “Hell, Coop, I didn’t mean nothing.”
    Cooper took a few steps toward the two men. Delray took a step back and Ernest moved to the side.
    “I’m not sure what you’re implying there.” Cooper stared at Delray hard enough to knock him down.
    “I ain’t implying anything, Coop, I mean, come on, we all knowwhat happened.”
    Ernest stepped farther away from Delray. He was going to get them both killed. Standing up to the boss about fair treatment was one thing, but accusing him of killing his brother was something else altogether. Rye was killed in a hunting accident. That was the official story, and whether anyone chose to believe it or not, you didn’t question it. Not to the man’s face, anyway.Cooper and his son had tried their best to save Rye’s life that day. They grieved his death for months. Cooper depended on that truth to be the only truth.
    Gareth came out of the house with the glass pitcher of tea and a stack of paper cups and held them both up for his father to take. Cooper took the pitcher and held it in his hand like a hammer. Delray tried to get off a last word, rightbefore Cooper bashed the glass pitcher into his head. The glass shattered and spun Delray down to his knees. A large sliver of glass was wedged into Delray’s skull, and smaller chunks, all shiny and reflective in the sun’s light, stuck out of his cheeks and bottom lip. It looked like his jaw was broken as well, because it just hung there open and loose, disconnected from the rest of his face. Coopershoved a booted foot into Delray’s back, forcing him down flat in the dirt, then pulled a nickel-plated Colt Python from the waistband of his trousers. He didn’t thumb the hammer or point it at anyone. He just held it, letting it be known.
    “And that . . . is that,” Cooper said. “Ernest, you and Horace get this sack of shit off my mountain, and don’t let me see no more of him.”
    Ernest didn’ttry to keep Cooper’s stare this time. He was too scared to even look at him. He grabbed Delray by the shoulders, careful of his ruined jaw, and dragged him toward his truck parked by the tree line, leaving a trail of red mud, iced tea, blood, and broken glass. Gareth helped without having to be asked. Before they reached the trees they heard Cooper call out, “Ernest.”
    Ernest turned and lookedback at the truck, where Cooper was already working on the next bale.
    “Yeah, boss?”
    “After you get Valentine up here, take the rest of the day off. But tomorrow, bring a friend. We’re going to need to catch up.”
    “Yessir.”
    2.
    Gareth came into the main house dirty and tired, his hands caked with dry blood and glass dust. Cooper ran him a tub of water to wash up in and went backoutside to tarp down the load on the truck. It was getting dark and Gareth’s mama would have supper ready soon. Roasted venison, butter beans, and fresh-cut collards were a welcome diversion from the day’s events, but thoughts of supper vanished like steam from a kettle with the sound of trucks coming in from the Western Ridge. Cooper pulled the canvas tarp down tight over the bales of marijuanabuds and tied it off. Gareth appeared on the porch, toweling off his hands, hoping he wouldn’t have to get them dirty again.
    “That’s far enough,” Cooper said, and held up a hickory ax handle he kept under the seat of his truck. The first vehicle stopped and Ernest got out with Horace, Albert Valentine, and a few other men Cooper had working the crops. A second truck following swiftly behindthe first carried Valentine’s wife, Mammie, and his young son, Albert Junior. Gareth and Albert Junior were