“McShaw? Yeah I’ve heard of ‘em. Survivor of the bugs out west. Well, one is anyway. Supposedly marched into town, battered, bloody, bearin’ irons. Talked of a carnie killing a queen, didn’t make no lick of sense. Sat down at a barstool, tipped back one shot, and then fell still as a doornail, passed out on the spot, quiet as the dead.”
This is the most coherent news I’ve heard about the man yet, news was Malta Rocha faced some sort of invasion, talk about behemoth bugs or something, utter hogwash. Or so I thought. A few survivors, an Audrey smith, and an Annabelle Tanner, were sent to the bins for hysteria. After that, other survivors shut up about it, clammed up but good.
Maybe the town hero will have something to say though? By all accounts, Jessie’s the reason there are any survivors, whatever really happened. Though, by the sounds of this, perhaps the young man has gone and convinced himself the same as the hysterical women.
On the sly I slip my new ‘friend’ a whole dollar bill as I ask, “Any idea where one might find the man now?”
There’s a scoff that says the information’s worth a whole lot more than a dollar, which is a tad surprising. That’s ten day’s wages for most of these folk. The man’s privacy is worth this sort of loyalty, from strangers? What charisma does Jessie McShaw possess? I check my wallet, a few more ones, a five, and a ten. If I offer the five, and he scoffs again, he’ll expect a ten. Hopefully I’ll head this shrewd gentleman off at the pass by offering him the ten, to be able to keep my five. Pulling the ten out of my billfold, I slide it to the handsome fellow wearing the sheriff’s badge ‘round these parts.
The fellow flashes me a bright smile as he extends his hand, “Name’s Jessie McShaw, pleased to meet ya. This might just be ‘nuff to bring my sister back. Shaman out west was charging an arm and a leg.”
My jaw hangs low. I’ve been swindled! Well, sort of. What was that about a shaman? I suppose any hope for a grieving man. As long as he didn’t say it was a *bug* medicine man. I ask, “Could you tell me about her? About Malta Rocha?”
Jessie McShaw sighs belatedly, and responds, “Sis was, is, an angel. Straight outta heaven, the only peace of mind I ever had was sitting next to her as she hummed and did her whittlin’. Good with a knife, and a leather punch, she done good craftwork at most anything she tried, but her favorite was whittlin’. Voice pure as heaven, face what god gifted, and hair, like mine, red as tarnation. Y’all won’t believe me ‘bout Malta Rocha, no one does.”
Huffing, hoping for more than a fluff piece about a dearly departed, I state, “Try me.”
The man wears a grim smirk. Don’t know how you can smirk and still look so dour, grim, dark, but he done it. Takes a while, looks at the ten dollar bill, and the one what I’d given him just before. He holds up the one, and tries to hand it back to me. I shake my head, and try again, “Please, the money’s yours, I just want the truth. I’m a reporter for th—“
Jessie interrupts, “I know who y’are. I been military, I been law, I been a few things outside ‘n’ inbetween too. I catch news sometimes Mister Jackson. Fine, I’ll tell y’the truth, but y’aint gonna believe me, no one does.”
He seems put-together, sane, shrewd, intelligent, and ten dollars, no, eleven, tends to buy a whole lotta honesty. So I’m prepared to write what he tells me, damn what I believe. Jessie sums it up, “Got home after discharge, Sis been dead only a couple hours. Kicked myself, almost ate the end of a forty four Wesson. Townies told me what done it, giant bugs. So I sat out at the hill, waited for ‘em to come back, and plugged the suckers one after ‘nother. Ran outta ammo on I think it was day three guardin’ the pass, and I’m bashin’ some giant ant’s head in with the butt end of that same forty four Wesson, when I hear sizzle, and see nitro sticks flyin’. Look behind me, and Arnie the Carnie done been run through by some hog-suckin’ burrowin’ scorpion. He done loaded up with ammo, and water for me and my foolish, grief-stricken ass.”
Jessie shakes his head, perhaps experiencing some dismay at the supposed memory before he continues, “I still had to bludgeon the damn scorpion to death, to get Arnie’s body off it, and get the ammo, and some sorely needed water for my too-parched throat. Big-ass queen lookin’ thing shiftin’ sand like a dune on the move showed up, and that’s what Arnie threw sticks at. The red went sailin’, and shewee that boom is louder’n’hell up close. After she died, was two more days of shootin’ with the ammo Arnie done brought me, drinkin’ that barrel o’ water, and, after a time, eatin’ some damn bug meat cause my shootin’ arm was gettin’ weak and tired. And no, weren’t all done with a single pistol. Had me a mess o’ guns up there, just brought up the Wesson forty four for the reasons I spelled out.”
His voice quiets, and he leans low, as if speaking a secret for my ears alone, “Had me thinkin’ on those lines the whole time. Just end it Jessie, Sis is gone, just end it. Didn’t do it. Couldn’t do it. Couldn’t imagine what she’da thunk o’ me if I did it. Wouldn’t do that to her if she were alive, couldn’t do it to her while she were dead. Now, I’ma march back out to Malta Rocha, and talk to that goddamn ant shaman, and get the bastard to bring back my baby sis.”
Governor Kyle gave me strict orders if I heard anything about someone dealing with insect medicine men, that I was to shoot anyone that spoke of it. Dangerous delusions supposedly. I gulp as I draw irons on the local sheriff, loathe to cut down a man in his prime, one that’s obviously still hysterical with grief. Never thought anything would come of it. Never, ever thought I’d have to actually go through with a cold-blooded kill, and assassinate someone. I try to reassure myself, that at least I got the story, got his last words. I pull the trigger, my finger trembling the whole time.