Black Mangroves – Part One
A Myles Moore Story
After pushing through the crowded canopy of the forest, the remaining sunlight wasn’t hot enough to burn off the humidity cloying in the throat and condensing on cold glass. He’d paid extra for ice, even though it barely cooled his drink. The saloon was as empty as it ever got, a half-dozen perpetual drunks arrayed at their traditional places along the bar as an un-fuck-withable bartender performed her lazy rotation to each of them in turn, topping off whiskeys and collecting scratched coin. The bar was a square, formed of two whole mangrove trees, each sliced lengthwise and mounted. Petrified roots stretched up at each corner, broad hats hanging from their tangles.
It was here that Myles Moore passed his day, sipping at regular intervals from that barely frosted glass and halfheartedly counting the rings across the bar. He’d been in town for a few days. Hadn’t much to show for it but his last business had ended here, one of the last towns up the Delta. Things tended to show up when he needed them, so he figured his next work would show its face when it felt like it. ’Til then, he’d count the rings of the bar.
The saloon doors swung open as the sheriff entered. A puritanical sort, he kept himself well-assembled and always wore a crisp white shirt. His vulnerability to sweating only somewhat undermined this presentation of civility. He surveyed the lowlifes and drunkards with an air of righteous disgust. “Alright now, y’all listen up.” He barked loud enough to make the regulars wince, still early in their resolution of sobriety. “We need all folks able to carry a weapon to gather at the docks straightaway.” Nobody moved. The bartender took out her special glass, the one she liked to clean whenever someone started talking some bullshit and she wanted to look busy. The man waiting for something to happen kept his back to the door. “Mister Moore, wasn’t it? You’re certainly suited for this affair. We’re assembling a posse to help the Carson boy here rescue his family.”
Myles had heard the sheriff’s boots on the stairs up to the saloon, knew the stomp of them after only a few encounters, but hadn’t noticed a second set of footsteps at all. He still didn’t spin his whole self around, but looked over his shoulder. A skinny boy on the south border of manhood stood quietly behind the sheriff, his eyes downcast. He was composed of three colors: black, white and red. His pants were black and torn at one ankle. His skin was too pale, as though he’d just emerged from a deep cave. His shirt was white too, excepting the splatter of crimson across it. Blood, but not his. The boy didn’t look up at the mention of hisself, just kept staring at the floorboards warped by water and whiskey.
“Jasper’s family was attacked by a gang of bandits, and he thinks they’re still alive. Says the criminals want ransom.” The sheriff patted the boy on the shoulder. “According to him, there’s only five or six of them, so I figure we can talk them down with a show of force.”
Moore resisted the impulse to roll his eyes and drummed his fingers along his drink instead. Any gang worth their salt wouldn’t hesitate to kill a few hostages if they were outnumbered.
“So what do you say, Mister Moore? Would you join us? No pay in it I’m afraid, but call it a charitable deed.”
Myles turned back to the bar. Weighed his options. Silently cursing his remaining better angels, he stood and sat a couple coins on the bar. After he emptied his cup, he paused with it at his lips, relished the last hint of chill in the glass. Setting it down without a sound, he turned to face the lawman and nodded.
“Wonderful. Anybody else?” One of the drunks grumbled something about Old Man Carson into his cup. The bartender managed to find another speck in her pristine glass and polished with renewed vigor. “Very well.”
The boy didn’t say a word as they walked to the edge of town, just kept his head down and ignored the sheriff’s attempts at conversation. All told there were a dozen in the posse, if you counted the boy. About half carried rifles, one had a bow and judging by the size of her arms, could use it. The rest had sidearms. Regardless of the heat, Myles kept his coat on, concealing his person beneath the battered grey canvas. No one bothered asking if he needed an iron. They’d all heard about the business that brought him to town.
The sheriff cleared his throat, puffed his chest out to make sure his well-polished star caught some sunlight. “Alright now, young Jasper will guide us to the bandits. According to him, they’re hiding out in an old stilt house a few miles into the water. This brave young man followed them there and made it all the way back to town on foot!” He guffawed in disbelief. “Isn’t that something? But we’ll take canoes and go four to a boat. We’ll surround the place and scare them into surrendering. Deputy Collins will lead the second boat and Mister Moore, if it’s alright with him, will take the third.” The sheriff looked to Myles, who nodded. “Good. Well, we’d better not waste any more time.” Without a rallying cry, the twelve made their way to the canoes.
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