"Who's the boy with the shotgun?" I asked.
"Oh him. That's Duffy, my first wife's nephew."
"Why is he out there?" If the goat party included something illegal, I at least wanted some notice.
"Don't worry. Duffy ain't all there, and the gun ain't loaded. He's been guardin' nothin' for years."
I smiled as if this made perfect sense. He guided me to the pit where I saw my first goat, dead or alive. With the exception of head and hide, it appeared to be intact. I was introduced to the many chefs. With each name I got an occupation - a lawyer, a bail bondsman, a car dealer, a farmer. As I watched the goat spin slowly on a spit, I soon learned that there were many competing theories on how to properly barbecue one. Harry Rex handed me a beer and we moved on to the cabin, speaking to anyone we bumped into. A secretary, a "crooked real estate agent," the current wife of Harry Rex. Each seemed pleased to meet the new owner of the Times.
The cabin sat on the edge of a muddy pond, the kind snakes find attractive. A deck protruded over the water, and there we worked the crowd. Harry Rex took great delight in introducing me to his friends. "He's a good boy, not your typical Ivy League asshole," he said more than once. I didn't like to be referred to as a "boy," but then I was getting used to it.
I settled into a small group that included two ladies who looked as though they'd spent years in the local honky-tonks. Heavy eye makeup, teased hair, tight clothing, and they immediately took an interest in me. The conversation began with the bomb and the assault on Wiley Meek and the prevailing cloud of fear the Padgitts had spread over the county. I acted as if it was just another routine episode in my long and colorful career in journalism. They drilled me with questions and I did more talking than I wanted to.
Harry Rex rejoined us and handed me a suspicious-looking jar of clear liquid. "Sip it slowly," he said, much like a father.
"What is it?" I asked. I noticed that others were watching.
"Peach brandy."
"Why is it in a fruit jar?" I asked.
"That's the way they make it," he said.
"It's moonshine," one of the painted ladies said. The voice of experience.
Not often would these rural folks see an "Ivy Leaguer" take his first drink of moonshine, so the crowd drew closer. I was certain I had consumed more alcohol in the prior five years at Syracuse than anyone else present, so I threw caution to the wind. I lifted the jar, said, "Cheers," and took a very small sip. I smacked my lips, said, "Not bad." And tried to smile like a freshman at a fraternity party.
The burning began at the lips, the point of initial contact, and spread rapidly across the tongue and gums and by the time it hit the back of my throat I thought I was on fire. Everyone was watching. Harry Rex took a sip from his jar.
"Where does it come from?" I asked, as nonchalantly as possible, flames escaping through my teeth.
"Not far from here," someone said.
Scorched and numb, I took another sip, quite anxious for the crowd to ignore me for a while. Oddly enough, the third sip revealed a hint of peach flavoring, as if the taste buds had to be shocked before they could work. When it was apparent that I was not going to breathe fire, vomit, or scream, the conversation resumed. Harry Rex, ever anxious to speed along my education, thrust forward a plate of fried something. "Have one of these," he said.
"What is it?" I asked, suspicious.
Both of my painted ladies curled up their noses and turned away, as if the smell might make them ill. "Chitlins," one of them said.
"What's that?"
Harry Rex popped one in his mouth to prove they weren't poison, then shoved the plate closer to me. "Go ahead," he said, chomping away at this delicacy.
Folks were watching again, so I picked out the smallest piece and put it in my mouth. The texture was rubbery, the taste was acrid and foul. The smell had a barnyard essence. I chewed as hard as possible, choked it down, then followed with a gulp of moonshine. And for a few seconds I thought I might faint.
"Hog guts, boy," Harry Rex said, slapping me on the back. He threw another one in his large mouth and offered me the plate. "Where's the goat?" I managed to ask. Anything would be an improvement.
Whatever happened to beer and pizza? Why would these people eat and drink such disagreeable things?
Harry Rex walked away, the putrid smell of the chitlins following him like smoke. I placed the fruit jar on the railing, hoping it would tumble and disappear. I watched others pass around their moonshine, one jar usually good for an entire group. There was absolutely no concern over germs and such. No bacteria could've survived within three feet of the vile brew.
I excused myself from the deck, said I needed to find a restroom. Harry Rex emerged from the back door of the cabin holding two pistols and a box of ammo. "We'd better take a few shots before it gets dark," he said. "Follow me."
We stopped at the goat spit where a cowboy named Rafe joined us. "Rafe's my runner," Harry Rex said as the three of us headed for the woods.
"What's a runner?" I asked.
"Runs cases."
"I'm the ambulance chaser," Rafe said helpfully. "Although usually the ambulance is behind me."
I had so much to learn, though I was making some real progress. Chitlins and moonshine in one day were no small feat. We walked a hundred yards or so down an old field road, through some woods, then came to a clearing. Between two magnificent oaks Harry Rex had constructed a semicircle wall of hay bales twenty feet high. In the center was a white bedsheet, and in the middle of it was the crude outline of a man. An attacker. The enemy. The target.
Not surprisingly, Rafe whipped out his own handgun. Harry Rex was handling mine. "Here's the deal," he said, beginning the lesson. "This is a double action revolver with six cartridges. Press here and the cylinder pops out." Rafe reached over and deftly loaded six bullets, something he had obviously done many, many times. "Snap it back like this, and you're ready to fire."
We were about fifty feet from the target. I could still hear the music from the cabin. What would the other guests think when they heard gunfire? Nothing. It happened all the time.
Rafe took my handgun and faced the target. "For starters, spread your legs to shoulders' width, bend the knees slightly, use both hands like this, and squeeze the trigger with your right index finger." He demonstrated as he spoke, and, of course, everything looked easy. I was standing less than five feet away when the gun fired, and the sharp crack jolted my nerves. Why did it have to be so loud?
I had never heard live gunfire.
The second shot hit the target square in the chest, and the next four landed around the midsection. He turned to me, opened the cylinder, spun out the empty cartridges, and said, "Now you do it."
My hands were shaking as I took the gun. It was warm and the smell of gunpowder hung heavy around us. I managed to shove in the six cartridges and snap the cylinder shut without hurting anyone. I faced the target, lifted the gun with both hands, crouched like someone in a bad movie, closed my eyes and pulled the trigger. It felt and sounded like a small bomb of some sort.
"You gotta keep your eyes open, dammit," Harry Rex growled.
"What did I hit?"
"That hill beyond the oak trees."
"Try it again," Rafe said.
I tried to look down the gunsight but it was shaking too badly to be of any use. I squeezed the trigger again, this time with my eyes open, waiting to see where my bullet hit. I noticed no entry wound anywhere near the target.