TheBanyanTree: RED WAS THE COLOR OF THE MAN (PART I)

[Sharon Mack]

Written to the Journal Prompt 11/14/03-"It's been said that a person's favorite color describes their personality.  What kind of person likes blue? Red?"


RED WAS THE COLOR OF THE MAN  (PART I)

Red McGillacutty was a hot-tempered Irishman with a black side that overshadowed any good that might still be within him. His sidekick, Sam Greene was a cool cucumber of a guy and he tended to balance out the negative hues of Red's dynamite personality.  They were a strange pair and many commented on the extremities of their outward appearance, but never within hearing range.  Red's hot wiry bush of carrot colored hair sat high atop his head.  He had the frame of a bull and though not especially tall (5'7" in his stocking feet), he gave the impression of tall.  He walked hard and fast with head held high and a mean, squinty look on his face.  He seemed ready to do battle at the drop of a hat.  He always kept his fists clenched at his sides, whether standing still or walking at his usual fast gate, stepping with long strides, putting his full weight behind every step.

Sam on the other hand was gentle outwardly.  So soft-spoken, you usually had to lean in towards him to hear his words.  He usually walked three steps behind Red, his hands shoved into his pants pocket, derby hat pushed tight on his head down to meet his ears.  Sam always looked at his feet when he walked, only periodically looking up to make sure he didn't lose sight of his counterpart.  He had a thin frame spread out over a height of 6'7", a real string bean of a guy.  His face was pale and his eyes pinholes of watery blue.  He had wispy blonde hair that usually stood on end because of the static electricity produced by his hat when he removed it.

Even when the wintry air blew cold and strong and blustered its way down Mackinaw Street, you could find the two walking against the wind at any given time of the day.  Red always walked*said it was good for what ailed him.  No one ever knew what ailed him.  He went first to the Golden Tank and had a quick draft with a raw egg dropped inside.  He swore it was the nectar of life*.kept him fit and "rarin'" to go.  Sam followed as usual but declined the morning ale and egg ritual.  He took his tea light with honey and while Red stood at the bar he went to the table nearest the one and only window.  Looking calmly outside he sipped his tea.

Then it was time to head for the mill.  The mill yard resembled an anthill.  Men bustling and moving, the activity was constant.  Cars and carts filled to the brim took supplies wherever they were needed.  There were loud shouts as men called out their needs to one another, their voices raised against the din of the machinery.  Clang, clang, clang, the train sounded as it rolled through the center of the yard blowing hot and dirty steam and soot.  Men wiped the sweat from their faces with dirty bandanas in spite of the cold as they loaded or unloaded the train depending on which way it was rolling.

At four the whistle sounded.  Long, sharp blasts telling the town that the workday at the mill was done.  The men rolled out of the gates in packs of ten or twelve, some heading for home and hearth and a hot meal, others heading straight for the Golden Tank.  It was to the latter that Red and Sam headed for.  Their dinner ritual was about to begin.

At the dinner hour the Tank boasted a pretty waitress.  She was pink and pretty and the red of her hair was far from the glowering red of Red's.  It was the deepest of auburns with lights and highlights bouncing all through it.  Bluebell Binkers kept it in long curled tresses flowing down her back.  She brightened it with bows and pearls weaving in and out of the strands.  Bluebell always wore blue: baby-blue gingham, dark blue plaids, and heather-blue paisleys, gray-blue, green-blue and blue-blues. Sam was always amazed.  He'd had no idea there were so many shades of one simple color.  Yes, Bluebell was the delight of a man's evening and especially Red's.

Red always called her Miss Binkers.  He wanted to be charming.  Sam followed suit in respect for his friend.  Everyone else just called her Blue.  They forgot the Bell.  She didn't seem to mind what they called her.  She danced on small light feet approaching the tables, taking orders from the limited menu, smiling and cajoling and making the tired men laugh as she served them their drinks and dinners.  Everyone loved Blue.  She was the delight of the Tank and the darling of the town.

On one particularly dark night after a particularly hard day a new face entered the Tank.  She came in through the door on a gust of wind that shook the glasses and stirred the tables and chairs.  Napkins flew and papers whirled.  All eyes turned toward the dark blur.  Covered from head to foot in a black cloak, only her dark, gloomy eyes were visible.  Moving as though floating, she went to the bar and nestled in between two stools.  One held Red and the other Citron Jones, the owner of the Tank.  She smelled of the rain and the wind.

Red and Citron cast dark glances over her head.  Red never liked his space to be encroached by others.  He liked to have stretching room and besides, Bluebell always placed her bar order in that spot and Red didn't want that to stop.  He hated the smell of this new person.  He wanted Blue's scent of lavender under his nose.  He elbowed the woman quite harshly.

"Git!"  he growled.

To his dismay she merely smiled, a very wicked smile.  Her ruby lips became visible as she removed the hood of the cloak.  She didn't move a muscle, just stared at Red.  Citron tried to ask her nicely.  He tapped her on the shoulder and spoke into her ear.

"It's best you move dear*.there's another spot open at the end of the bar*or*or*you can take a chair at a table*any table you wish."

She never turned her head but with a slight shrug of her shoulder cast off the man's hand.

All the time staring at Red, she ordered a pint of ale.  She never took her eyes off of him even while she drank.  She drank deep and heavy as though thoroughly dry to the bone, wiping her mouth with the back of her boney dark hand.  She shoved the empty pint toward the barkeep and nodded at it.  He brought her another pint.  This one she left sitting.

"Didn't you hear me, you witch, you!  I said, git!  And I mean git!  Now!"  His voice had grown loud to the point of a roar.  Everyone backed away from the bar.  The stranger never moved, even when Citron offered her his chair.  When she didn't respond, Citron moved away from the bar, too, and joined the others watching the scene unfold before them.

"Hench," Citron whispered.  "Hench, go git the sheriff, hurry up!"

Hench sidled toward the door and pulled it open.  A gust of wind blew against him bringing in leaves and twigs and gritty soil from the path outside.  Putting his head down against the wind and pulling his jacket up to his chin, he headed for Sepia Brown's office.

Now Sepia was a good man.  Looked much like an old Tom turkey with a neck so loose it hung from the middle of his chin to his chest.  He walked like a turkey, too, bobbing his head to and fro with every jerky step.  He was a good man if you were on the right side of the law and, unfortunately, those on the wrong side usually had nothing to worry about either.

Hench found the Sheriff behind his desk with his feet up perusing the Dailey Note.  He didn't even put the paper down when Hench came in and the wind blew across the top of the paper ruffling it crazily.  Sepia just tightened his grip.

"Whhaat?"  Sepia was irritated at being interrupted.

"Fight a-brewin' at the Tank."  Hench yelled at the man.

"Fight?"  Fight you say?"  He put the paper down and stared at Hench.  His neck wobbled.

"You better come fast, it's Red*" Hench's voice trailed off and his eyes grew large.

Sepia Brown looked more annoyed than ever.  He folded his paper neatly and put it in the drawer.  "Need a gun?"

"Dunno, better, I guess."

Sepia picked up his gun, opened and spun the bullet chamber and then filled it with bullets from the dirty broken box on his shelf.  Shoving the gun into his pants (never did have a holster), he grabbed his hat and coat.

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Red lay flat on his face in a pool of blood.  As the story went, it wasn't his wounds that killed him but the blood he sucked in trying to get his breath.  The place was empty save for Blue, Sam and Citron.  Sepia knelt at the body.

"Yep, he's dead alright.  Yep, he's dead."  He stood up, his turkey neck trembling.  Looking at Citron he asked, "What happened?  Where is everybody?  Anybody witness this 'sides you three?"  The trio just shook their heads.  They were obviously frightened.  Blue began to weep and Sam looked like he wanted to lie down beside Red and join him.  Citron went to the bar and started wiping.  He wondered what happened to the barkeep.  Nobody else seemed to notice he was missing.

"There was a strange girl here tonight."  Blue said through her tears.  "She kept looking and staring at Red.  It was like she hated him.  Barkeep told me her name was Ebony  Killerton."

"Black Irish," said Sam.  "Darkest wench I've ever laid eyes on.  Wouldn't give Red his space at the bar.  You know how he hates bein' crowded, specially when he's drinkin'. " Sam's eyes looked smaller than ever and the blue was almost gone.  His face was a pale shade of green.  "I think she had the gun.  She just kept a starin'.  Never said nary a word."

"Hench,"  Sepia's voice was  shaky.  "Go get the undertaker*.and then get somebody to clean up this mess.  Take the body to Doc Winters and see about that slug.  Sam you take Miss Blue home.  See that she's safe*.. and Citron, we need to talk 'bout this here Ebony woman."

As soon as everyone left Citron and the Sheriff took a seat on the far side of the room at Sam's usual table.  They watched as everyone trudged down the street fighting the wind.  It had begun to snow.

Citron knew nothing about the woman and said so plain as day.  He'd never seen her before and as far as he knew no one else had either.  He told Sepia how she'd swept into the bar.

"It was almost like the wind brought her."

Sepia shook his head.  He asked about the barkeep.

"Yeah, I wondered about that myself."  Citron shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.  "Must've took off with the others.  He ain't been with me very long.  Good boy, though.  Does his job and keeps his mouth shut."

"Where'd he come from?"

"Dunno!"  Citron shrugged again.

"What's his name?  Where's he live?"

"Copper Punce, we all call him Coppie.  Lives down the tracks at Dolly Puce's hole in the wall.  Rents a room there."

The door opened and Gus Gray entered the room.  His tall hat and short black coat gave him away to anyone who saw him.  He looked and smelled 'undertaker.'  He knelt at the body and turned it over.  There next to the bullet hole was a knife, plunged so deep as to take in a piece of the hilt.

"Somebody sure hated this poor bastard.  Sheriff, you and Citron gimme a hand."

They lifted the heavy body up by feet and hands and dragged it to and out the door.  Down the street they went with the remains of Red McGillacutty.  The wind had stopped as though in respect for the dead man and the snow began to lie softly on the ground.  It began to accumulate on Red's body as it cooled.  Only the bloodstain remained visible and the topmost part of the hilt of the knife. 

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It wasn't long before the whole town knew.  Rumors of the strange dark lady flew.  People were frightened.  If someone like that could get to Red than none were safe.  They offered up all kinds of reasons as to why she hated him, why she would kill the man in cold blood.  Some thought she might be a jilted lover from days gone by before he left Ireland.  Others thought she might be the wife of one of the many men he had swindled.  Some even thought she might have been a long lost bastard child, but no truth came forward.

Sam grudgingly took over the mill.  He did the best he could.  Sam hadn't the strength that Red had.  He only knew the numbers, the end result of what Red produced.  The men recognized his weakness and slacked off.  The mill didn't bustle the same.  Even the whistle signaling the end of the workday had graduated to short low blasts.  Sam worried.  He tried to find a good man to manage but no one applied for the position.  What to do?  What to do?  No one wanted to step into big Red's shoes.  They were afraid.

The Tank became a somber place.  Fights broke out amongst the patrons.  Blue got married to Job Silverbell and quit and Coppie was never seen again.  Citron was worried about business.  Things just weren't the same without Red and Blue.

Sheriff Brown had the slug and the knife old Doc Winters removed from the body.  He put it in a brown paper sack and put it on the shelf with his meager broken down law books, his gun and his box of bullets.  He never looked at them again nor did he ever try to find the murderer.  He read his Dailey Note and left well enough alone.  It was the best he could do.

Spring came late that year.  The farmers from Lower Forty complained when they came into town to buy supplies.  Cold and wet, they couldn't plant.  They hoped the summer would be long.  Along with them they brought their new hands.  Amongst them, Coppie, or at least a man that looked like Coppie.  Citron thought he recognized the man as he was loading a wagon with farm supplies.

"Coppie!  Hey, Coppie.  Where ya' been?"  

The farm hand ignored Citron and kept on packing.  Citron went up to him and planted his big hand on the man's shoulder.  "Coppie?"

"You must have me mistaken for someone else, names Brass*Brass Jones."

Citron just stood there and blinked his eyes.  "Sorry!"  But he didn't believe the man.  The look, the face, the voice, it was all the same.  Citron walked away and looked back twice, but the man continued with his work and never lifted his head to meet Citron's eyes.  Citron went straight to the Sheriff's office.

"He's here I tell ya'.  It's him!  I know it's him!"

Sheriff Brown looked doubtful, "So what if it is?  What can I do?  No way to know if he be tellin' the truth or not.  No way to check on him."

"So you're gonna do nuthin!  He mighta been the one to kill Red.  Maybe he was in cahoots with the woman.  You need to check it out."

Sheriff Brown rose from his seat and planted his feet firmly on the ground. "I'll look into it," he said and took off out the door.

Sheriff Brown got no further than Citron had with the young man.  A bunch of 'yups' and 'nopes' and 'none of yer business' was the extent of the man's conversation.  He wasn't talking.  Sepia walked away disgusted but decided it was time he did something about Red's death.  He would follow the man and keep an eye on him, at least for a few days.  He didn't want folks to think he wasn't doing his job. 

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And follow him Sepia did.  Up into the farmlands, down into the valley and back again.  He watched him work in the day and saw him sleep at night.  >From time to time, he followed him into town where Brass (as he called himself) would pick up supplies.  Brass, seemingly, had no friends or acquaintances and merely nodded if forced to say hello.  Four weeks went by consisting only of this monotonous activity.  Sepia was ready to give up.  Figured he made a mistake. This whole thing seemed a big waste of his time.  Then, without warning, things began to change.  

On Tuesday of that last week, the man who called himself Brass went to his bunk as usual but unlike the other nights he awoke in the middle of the night and crept out under the full moon.  He hunkered down low so it was hard to see him as he skulked around the barns and buildings.  Twice that week while attempting to follow him, Sepia lost him, but on his third run he was finally able to stay with him.  Sepia followed him past the barn and up through the woods and into the mountains.  The trail was dark and tangled but Sepia kept up with the young man using ears as well as eyes.  Higher and higher they went until they reached a plateau surrounded by huge rocks and boulders.  Sepia stayed low and watched as Brass walked across the plateau to the back of the mountain.   After standing very still and making an odd whistle, a door set into the side of the mountain became visible. Slowly it opened.  Brass looked over both shoulders and entered.

Several hours later Brass left, Sepia stayed.  He was freezing in the mountain night air but he was determined to see behind that door.  He was hoping that whoever had opened that door would eventually leave.  Just before daylight Sepia was roused from his half-sleep by movement.  As he looked over the edge of the rock he had taken refuge behind, he saw a dark cloaked figure emerge from the mysterious door.  A child had attached itself to the figure by holding onto the cloak.  As they moved forward Sepia recognized the figure.  It was Ebony, Ebony Killerton and with a child as dark and as cloaked as she. 

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