Manhunt. Volume 2, Number 10, December, 1954

We both jumped and turned to the road again when the first bloodhound came through the trees. He was big and ugly, with dripping jaws and red eyes that looked mean. There was a short piece of chain fastened to his collar and he was pulling a skinny little man along behind him. The man was tired and acted meaner than the dog as he jerked hard on the chain to slow the dog down.

Another hound and chain and man came through the trees on the heels of the first. They looked about like the first two, except the second man was having more trouble holding his dog. They both managed to haul the hounds down into the dirt of the road as they reached it, and there waited and rested, staring across the road at us.

Behind them five men came out of the woods spread out in a line and about ten yards apart. They stared at the two men and their dogs in the road, and then at Pa and me sitting on our front step. I recognized three of them as farmers, and one as the blacksmith who worked in a shed next the general store. The other man leading them was the storeowner.

The storeowner glared at Pa and me for a long minute, and I could feel Pa’s hand tighten on my shoulder to stop my trembling. All the men had shotguns ready in their hands as they went over to where the dogs were struggling in the dust on their chains. The men stood there whispering and looking at the house and the barn. Finally, the store-owner said something in a low voice to the two hound men, and they started again, with the hounds scrambling to the gate.

Both bloodhounds clawed hard through the gate, barely stopping at the dark wet spot in the dirt. They pulled harder as they came to the wagon, and low, rumbling moans slobbered from their dripping jaws. When the dogs reached the wagon, both of them tried to climb up the side and were jerked back. Their deep bellowing cries were making such a racket now that it was hard to hear anything.

One of the farmers laid his gun on the ground and picked up the pitchfork that I’d dropped by the wagon. He stepped up on one of the wheels and plunged the fork into the hay, up and down as hard as he could. After stabbing three or four times, he hit something and jumped off the wheel, leaving the pitchfork standing straight and quivering in the wagon. The black man hidden in the hay jumped up, throwing the hay in every direction, with the fork stuck right through his middle.

He stood there with his long arms stretched to the sky, paying no attention to the men and the guns pointed at him. His streaked bloody face reached for the heavens too, and I stared at the warm, rosy glow that bathed it. For just a tiny beat of time there was a fearsome quiet. Even the snarling dogs were still.

“Oh, Lord...” the black man called, and then the shotguns drowned him out. The heavy blasts shook Pa and me where we sat on the steps, their ugly red voices cutting through the deep purple of the twilight. Pa pulled my head down on his chest, but my eyes stayed on the black man swaying in the wagon. I saw one of the stretching hands disappear and a shredded stub take its place. The shining, reaching face turned into a red mush, and two big holes spilled out on his straining body. Then the dead man fell out of the wagon into the dirt of the lot, and it was quiet again.

The men watched as the dirt around the body got darker and wetter, then they turned quickly to the gate. When they all had gone through, one of them very carefully closed and latched it. Pulling the hounds with them, they crossed the dirt road, with never a look at Pa and me, and entered the woods again.

When they were gone at last, I was sobbing in big hard gulps as I turned to look at Pa. He was still staring toward the wagon, and I’d never seen a face grabbed with so much pain. It was all there for me to see and understand, and I sat there and was sick with the understanding.

I don’t know why, but after awhile I had sort of a proud feeling when I looked at Pa, and then it didn’t hurt so bad to go out in the dirt of the lot to help him pick up the body of my brother.

For a Friend by Bob McKnight

No smart man plays the horses when he needs money. But Joe had a special system worked out...

* * *

Joe Rossotti’s luck ran out the day he put five hundred fish on Arab Dancer. It was “to win” and it was in the fifth at Jamaica. His pal Tony booked the bet.

“It’s past post time,” Tony said, “but for a friend I’ll book it.”

“Sure,” Joe said. “Sure, Tony.”

Less than thirty seconds later, when Tony posted the results, Joe was stunned to find Arab Dancer had run second in a photo finish. Carmen had said he was a cinch to win.

He looked at Tony, still not quite believing a truth that had been proving itself to him for weeks. Hell, you don’t get to suspect a lifetime pal overnight, or the girl you want, either.