~
~ 1950 ~ ~
“Get
off my property, Buck. I got too many chores to waste time with the likes of
you,” Motega Sweetwater dismissively told the scowling man that just entered
his barn from the rear.
Though
the sun hadn’t risen in the sky over Blue-eyed Hollow, Virginia yet, trouble
had already found its way to the Sweetwater farm...again. When would it stop? More
specifically when would that trouble stop having Buck Benjamin’s name attached
to it?
“I’ll
go away after I finally make you go
away,” Buck replied, pulling a shotgun from behind his back. Though his eyes
looked bloodshot from too much drinking and too little sleep, his hands were
surprisingly steady on the gun. The silver flask sticking halfway out of his
right pocket looked just a secure.
“What
good is that gonna do? Whether I’m dead or alive, Annabelle still won’t have
nothing to do with you. Can’t you get it through your thick head that she loves
me, not you?” Motega said calmly, not
bothered in the least by the man’s shotgun.
This
wasn’t the first time Buck had pulled a gun on him. It happened twice before.
Once when Motega first started courting Annabelle – the pretty little redhead
that they both fancied at the same time ten years ago. The second gun
confrontation occurred on the day Motega married Annabelle.
Buck
hadn’t pulled the trigger then. Motega seriously doubted if he was going to
pull it now. The man was a coward at heart.
“She
used to love me before you came sniffing after her.” Buck kicked some of the
hay on the barn floor in anger. “Why couldn’t you just marry one of your own kind?” he said, referring to
Motega’s Native-American heritage.
“Why
can’t you be happy with your own wife? Why keep trying to get mine?” Motega
replied with two questions of his own. He sighed and shook his head.
Motega
was tired of the constant conflict between them. After ten long years, marriage
and children on both of their parts, he thought Buck would have been tired,
too. But the blond-haired man clearly wasn’t. The pain of Annabelle’s rejection
and jealousy against him were still fresh in Buck’s eyes. It was as if he just
lost her yesterday.
“B…because
Sallie Mae can never measure up to Annabelle, that’s why. She don’t have that
same fi…fire,” Buck slurred out.
He must really be drunk to admit that,
especially to me, Motega thought. He could only hope that
Sallie Mae had never been told that. The woman was beat down enough by Buck’s
fists on a regular basis, along with their son, Buford.
“Fire,”
Buck reiterated with a chuckle as a wild look took up residence in his eyes.
“To this day nobody has been able to prove who started that fire on your land.
Since you gonna die today anyway, I’ll tell you who done it.” He pointed
proudly to himself. “It was me,
that’s who. I took out most of your crop and shot your best horse, too.” He
outright laughed this time. “Nobody could prove that either thanks to my son,
who is quite the convincing liar when I need him to be.” He lowered his shotgun
briefly to take a swig from his silver flask.
Motega’s
hands balled into fists at his sides. He suspected Buck’s hand in those calamities
all along. Yet because Buford had vouched for his father’s whereabouts each
time, it was Motega’s word against Buck’s. Unfortunately, people around here
had been too quick and too willing to believe a white man’s word over an
Indian’s. Thus no one had bothered to investigate the matter deeper.
“See,
I know that like Sallie Mae, Annabelle dreams of one day living in luxury. I
figured if I pushed that day even farther in the future, she’d get tired of
living hand to mouth with you and come back to a real man. A man that could take good care of her right now,” Buck
said in a braggadocios tone.
“You
didn’t work for the riches you got. They were passed down from your
grandfather. Yet for all of your riches, Annabelle still chose me. And for all
of your sabotage, she continues to choose me every day. In fact, hard times
have only drawn us closer.” Motega fought to hold his anger. He had to remain
calm, lest he provoke his enemy to really get violent this time.
“I
know you got your hooks in her real good. But she’ll come around eventually
after you’re dead and gone. Matter fact, I need you dead and gone right now!”
Buck said in a deadly serious tone. He threw his flask down and lifted the
shotgun again.
Realizing
too late that he’d underestimated his enemy’s level of desperation and the fake
courage that was unique to excessive alcohol consumption, Motega lunged toward
his own weapon to rightfully defend himself. It was propped behind the barn
door. He put it there upon entering the barn since it sometimes got in the way
when he tended to his animals. Now he just hoped he got to it in time.
“Uh-uh.
You ain’t going nowhere but to hell,” Buck said maliciously. Then he cocked the
shotgun and fired, shooting Motega square in the back.
© 2014 by Mi’Chelle Dodson/Suprina
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