The Last Days of Dogtown

“Stubborn son-of-a-bitch.” Stanwood moved to the other side of the table and said, “That ’un don’t want to let go just yet. I’ll just try the other.” He put the wedge smack at the center of the left tooth and broke that across, too.

By then, Tammy’s eyes showed all their whites and she started to struggle against the rope. But Stanwood put his hands on her shoulders, held her down, and started

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bellowing in her face, “Where’s the gold, you old bag?

Where’s that money?”

Tammy thrashed her head from side to side.

“I know you got it here somewhere. Everyone knows you got it. You give it to me or I’m going to let you bleed to death. So help me God, you tell me where you keep it or . . .”

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nbsp; Tammy couldn’t speak even if she wanted to; she could hardly breathe for the blood in the back of her throat. But Stanwood took her head between his hands and started banging it on the table. “You give me that money or so help me, I’ll kill you. I’ll do it, you know, you stinking, ugly, hateful old hag. So help me.”

Oliver backed up against the wall, unable to speak.

Tammy would kill him for bringing Stanwood. And if Stanwood killed her, God wouldn’t let him off. He had not only wished for this, he had gone and brought it down on her.

Stanwood was slapping Tammy now, hitting her with an open hand, back and forth, one cheek and the other, a malicious grin on his face. Oliver could see that he was enjoying himself, and it made his stomach turn. He bolted outside: it’s the next ship out for me, he decided. No turning back.

But his shoe caught on a rock, and he fell face first, cutting his chin and knocking the wind out of him. He lay panting while Stanwood bellowed more threats and curses.

It took a moment before Oliver made out the other sound coming from the house. As he got to his feet, he recognized the sobbing of a woman, hopeless, in fear for her life.

He stumbled to the woodpile and grabbed the ax.

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The house was a mess. Stanwood had knocked the

kettle and pots out of the fireplace and overturned everything else, hunting for money or, failing that, something more to drink. Tammy had managed to get loose and was crouched below the table, her dress spattered with blackening blood. Her eyes were wild and her mouth leaked bright red spots onto the floor.

Having found nothing resembling a treasure yet,

Stanwood turned back to see if he could beat some clue out of Tammy. But she scuttled farther under the table and he stumbled trying to get her. If Stanwood hadn’t been so drunk, Tammy would have been dead for sure.

“Get out,” Oliver screamed as he lowered the flat of the ax across Stanwood’s back with a blow that brought him to his knees.

Oliver stood over him, the ax raised high. “Get out or I’ll kill you.”

Stanwood peered up at him. “Good thing you’re such a little girl.”

Oliver brought the blade down hard but it caught the edge of the table and stuck there; Stanwood rolled away on the floor and snickered at the miss.

“You’re down,” Oliver screamed as he yanked the blade out of the table. “You’re on the floor, you bastard. You’re down and drunk and I’m standing here with an ax.”

Stanwood smiled and slowly put his hands up. “No need to go off on me, boy,” he said in a singsong voice that mocked his own apology. “I was just having some fun. You can’t blame me, can you? She’s got it coming, ain’t she?” As he pulled himself to his feet, Oliver made ready to swing the ax roundhouse if he had to.