And Kill Them All by J. Lee Butts Page A

Lucius. Swear it’s enough to make a body wanna puke up his socks. My, oh, my. What’s this ole world a-comin’ to?”
    He repeated himself over and over, as though his brain had locked on this single notion. His thoughts appeared focused like a fifty-ton Baldwin locomotive headed in a preordained direction that had no way of diverting itself from the narrow track.
    Once finished with our fractional Devils River wash, I pulled dust-covered boots onto still-wet feet. Stamped into them, then set to toweling off with my shirt. Slid the damp garment over a sopping, drippy head and turned to find Boz staring at me with all the baggy-eyed gravity and tremulous intensity of an abandoned, starving bloodhound.
    â€œYou are gonna read over these folks, ain’t you, Lucius? Maybe say some good words for ’em?”
    I tucked a sodden shirttail inside the waist of my pants, then pulled up my blue-and-yellow-striped suspenders. Slipped into my vest before I said, “Didn’t think to bring a Bible along, Boz. Must admit, had not the slightest inkling we’d find one dead body when we set out this morning, much less five of them. And the kids, sweet merciful Jesus, the kids. Just wrings a body’s heart so hard makes you want to commence blubbering and never stop. Can’t imagine the kind of men as could commit such an act. Just can’t imagine.”
    Tatum kicked in the dirt with the heel of his boot and jerked a disconsolate thumb toward the mounded, rock-strewn, blossom-littered burial site. “Well, puttin’ them cactus flowers on their final restin’ place was a fine, thoughtful gesture. Must admit, rough as it is, the gravesite does look right nice. Glad you thought to add the flowers.”
    I nodded.
    â€œStill and all, feel as how these pitiful folks deserve to have their pathways to Heaven greased, just the least bit, with some high-soundin’ words, Lucius. Even if we don’t happen to have a Bible along with us. ’Specially them three buttons, you know. Hell, I trust your memory. Willin’ to bet these folks would appreciate whatever you can do for ’em by way of talkin’ with God. Figure anything you’d care to offer up’s better’n nothing at all.”
    I cast a corner-of-the-eye glance at the graves. Let my chin rest on the damp upper part of my shirt for some seconds, then swept my hat up from the sandy riverbank. I nodded and, followed by the closest friend I had in the world, we ambled back to a spot near the foot of the mass grave.
    With broad-brimmed hats lodged in a spot of honor over our hearts, I cleared an emotion-parched throat. After a bit of pinch-browed hesitation and thought, I began—slowly, reverently. As reverently as I knew how.
    â€œOur most gracious heavenly Father,” I said, “neither Boz nor I knew these traveling unfortunates. Pretty good chance we may not ever know who they were. Sure enough didn’t find much in the wagon to identify any of them. But that don’t matter. Can’t begin to imagine what they did to deserve such an unspeakable departure from this earthly life. Especially the children. Whole dance is sad beyond our meager ability to understand. But, as a poet of some note once wrote many years ago, ‘To every man upon this earth death cometh soon or late.’ Sad but true, what that feller said applies to innocent kids as well.”
    I hesitated for a second, gulped, then scratched at an unwilling throat. Kind of lost my train of thought there for a right uncomfortable stretch. Twirled my sweat-stained Stetson around in both hands, by the brim, while I searched for the right words.
    I coughed a time or two then added, “That stealthy ole Thief of Souls has most certainly passed our way today. Sent this poor man and his innocent family beyond any earthly aid we might have rendered. Genuinely regret as how our arrival on the scene didn’t occur early enough to