The
Scavenger by Susan Buffum
His left boot heel was loose, fallin’
away from the sole, a few odd bits of hay and some dried mud stuck in the gap
like whiskers pokin’ from a dog’s snout. I thought I could fix that boot with a
small nail or two and it’d be almost good as new. It’d be a shame to waste a
pair of boots when they wasn’t all that worn. The toe was scuffed some, but the
kind o’ man lookin’ for a secondhand pair of boots wouldn’t mind that much.
I peered hard at the right boot. Other
than a two-inch long scar in the leather of the instep, and the same heavy
layer of dust all over, it looked just fine to my eyes. I’d take ‘em just the
way they were. They were good boots. I’d be able to sell ‘em right quick
enough.
My eyes moved to the pants. Old, made of
gray wool, a few faded yellow remnants of stripes up the outside seams.
Confederate soldier. I glanced up at his
face, but in the near dark it was hard to tell what he really looked like. Did
southerners look any different from northerners? I hadn’t noticed an accent.
Maybe he’d bought these pants off a soldier? Or maybe he’d stolen them off a
dead body on a battlefield? I was prob’bly better off not knowin’. They still
had some wear in ‘em. I’d take ‘em.
The vest was brown canvas, the deep
pockets saggin’ but empty. I didn’t expect there to be anythin’ in ‘em anyway.
One button was missin’, just a piece of brown thread danglin’, but the other
two was still sewn on.
The shirt was striped hickory, white and
brown. I could see a few stains on it,
food, prob’bly. It could be laundered. Not too frayed at the cuffs. I could get
somethin’ for it, I was sure.
And the coat, well, more wear and tear
visible—dusty, dirty, frayed and worn cuffs and collar, some tears that might
be mendable with a careful needle and thread. I’d take it, see what I could do
with it. And the bandana was still bright red, fairly new. I nodded, satisfied.
That was nice.
No hat. No gloves. Belt’d been removed,
someone else’s prize.
It’d all need a good launderin’. Truth
be told, it all stunk to high heaven. But, it could be washed.
I turned my face up to the evening sky,
watching three crows wing by. Purple clouds hung like a pall over the distant
blue mountains, obscuring their peaks. A gust of wind caused the branches of
the old cottonwood tree to creak like an old granny’s bones. It moaned through
the nearly barren branches, rattlin’ what leaves remained on ‘em.
Sighin’, I grabbed the top of the left
boot and began tuggin’ downward on it. A few hard pulls and it came free. I
tossed it aside and grabbed the other. More resistance with this one. The left
leg jerked, the foot kickin’ me in the elbow. “Stop it,” I growled, soundin’
like a feral dog unwillin’ to give up its bone.
With sheer will, I tugged the right boot
free. Dusky toes poked through unravelin’ brown yarn. Not worth savin’ by any
means. I reached up to unfasten the pants, wrinklin’ my nose, wet material
brushin’ against my bare forearm. “No dignity in death,” I muttered as the left
leg jerked again, kickin’ my hip this time. “Oh, stop yer fussin’,” I grumbled
irritably, workin’ the buttons free one after the other.
The pants fell heavily to the ground. I
kicked ‘em aside, duckin’ ‘round behind him to cut his wrists loose. His hands
were dusky like his feet, fingers curled like bear claws. My knife sawed
through the rope fairly quick and his arms swung free.
I had to haul an old crate over and
climb up onto it, but still I had to reach up to grasp the shoulders of his
coat to pull it off him. I threw it aside, jumped down, moved around in front
of him, reset the crate, and climbed back up. I warned myself not to look at
his face.
I warned myself…
…but my eyes rose as of their own will
and I found myself lookin’ into wide-open brown eyes, the whites darkened by
blood. Some blood had run from his nose and one corner of his mouth leavin’
dark trails behind. Closer up, I could see blood on his shirt and vest in drips
and streaks. Well, I could wash it all out, I reasoned. Soak it long enough and
it’d all come clean.
I reached up to begin unbuttonin’ the
shirt. The vest was already undone. As I worked the second button through the
buttonhole the body began to sway and jerk around some. The wind had kicked up
again, the tree branches chatterin’ and clackin’ overhead. I shivered. The wind
was awful cold.
As I worked the third button free, his
arm came up and that claw-like hand grasped my wrist. I thought it was just
some weird trick, my wrist becomin’ trapped in the cage-like curvin’ of his
fingers, but then I felt those fingers tightenin’ around my flesh and I looked
up.
I looked up into the now leerin’ face of
the dead man…and suddenly, all around me, like terrible ornaments, a hundred hangin’
men were suddenly danglin’ from that tree, bodies swingin’ and swayin’ in the
wind, dancin’ that dead man’s jig I’d seen at every hangin’ since I was a kid.
I screamed and fell backwards off the
crate, but that hand, that horrible hand held me fast, my feet danglin’ above
the ground. “Let go!” I cried. “Let go
of me!” My voice seemed lost in the wind and the clatterin’ of the branches. My
heart felt about to burst. “Let me go!”
The three crows had circled back and
were now perched high up in the branches, their raucous cries mockin’ my own
cries.
And I knew, I knew as well as I’d ever
known anythin’ in this life, that my days of scavengin’, of stealin’ from the dead
were over.
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