The Front Porch Prophet

“What the hell are we going to do with it?” Eugene asked a few days later. They stood in the clearing on the mountain and viewed their handiwork.

“We could turn it into a snow-cone stand, but I don’t know how much business we’d get up here,” A.J. replied, staring at that yellow embodiment of ten-to-twenty if they got caught. “Maybe we should run it on into the woods and cover it up with brush,” he continued, thinking this action might prove useful should Slim decide to use aerial reconnaissance.

“I can’t believe we stole a school bus,” Eugene said, shaking his head. But there it sat, quiet testimony to questionable judgment and bad luck.

As time passed, it became fairly common knowledge around town that the master bedroom of Eugene’s cabin was the infamous missing bus. It was a tribute to Slim Neal’s investigative expertise that he was perhaps the only person in north Georgia who had no idea where it was, although Eugene considered it sporting to give him the occasional hint.

As the bus became absorbed into the cabin, architectural necessity dictated the removal of some of its parts. These extra pieces would invariably work their way down the mountain and onto Slim’s front porch. A.J. had urged Eugene to discontinue the practice, but the temptation was too strong. Thus, every so often, Slim would step out with his morning coffee and stumble over a tire, or perhaps a fender. One time the engine was sitting there, cold black oil oozing all over Slim’s Protected by Smith and Wesson doormat. He invariably had a bad day after one of these discoveries, and it was best to avoid him until he had regained his composure.

As A.J. neared the cabin, he saw Eugene sitting on the ramshackle front porch, rocking gently in an old rocker. He was methodically loading the Navy Colt his grandfather had left him, the same one that had dispatched Charles Fox in the previous century. Loading the Colt was a complicated business, and he did not seem to notice A.J.’s arrival.

Eugene’s appearance was startling. His shoulder-length white hair was in desperate need of a combing. His long white beard hung to his chest and was reminiscent of Rip Van Winkle’s whiskers. There was translucence to his skin, as if the full light of afternoon was shining through. As he sat there on his front porch, he reminded A.J. of an Old Testament prophet, a modern-day Elijah perched atop Mount Eugene, preparing to read the Law to the unworthy and to enforce it, if necessary, with the Navy Colt.

A.J. cleared his throat to warn of his approach, then stepped up on the porch. Eugene continued loading, and A.J. viewed his surroundings.

An old wooden cable spool sat between the two chairs on the porch and served as an end table. Its contents included a quart of bourbon, several pill bottles, a scattering of loading supplies, one of the Lover’s hubcaps that was spending its golden years as an ashtray, and an open can of gunpowder. A cigarette was burning in the hubcap like a slow fuse. A.J. reached down and removed the cigarette from the vicinity of the gunpowder. Eugene looked up from his work and gestured at the other chair, an oversized rocker. He had taken a liking to it one night on Slim’s porch and had swapped a bus hood for it. A.J. sat.

Eugene finished loading the cylinder and slid it into the pistol. He raised the big pistol, cocked it, and took careful aim at the hackberry tree across the clearing. A.J. was gently tapping the porch rail with the bat while keeping a casual eye on the revolver. Eugene squeezed off a round at the hackberry tree. Bark flew.

“Ten dollars says I can hit that tree six out of six times,” Eugene said. He rocked gently in his chair. A.J. looked at the tree. It was riddled.

“Why are you shooting the tree?” A.J. asked. Eugene shot again. It was a hit.

“That’s two,” he said. He took a short sip from the bourbon bottle before lighting a replacement cigarette. “So how about it? Ten dollars on six out of six? I’ll even shoot left-handed.” He had won a tidy sum over the years with this inducement. Since he was left-handed, it was not the sporting proposition it appeared to be.

“A ten-dollar bet would put you under too much pressure,” A.J. observed. “If you missed, you might decide to shoot me to get out of paying. But if you need the money, I’ll give you ten dollars to shoot Rufus.”

“It would take a cold son of a bitch to shoot his own dog for ten dollars,” Eugene said, again putting his cigarette down in the hubcap and drawing a bead on the tree. He fired four more shots. The doomed hackberry shuddered, as if it could see its own short, sad future. “Make it twenty and I’ll call him up here.” He removed the spent cylinder and slipped a loaded replacement into the pistol. His movements were sure.