Page 52 of The River We Remember

That Sunday evening in early June of 1958, two days after Jimmy Quinn’s body had been found in the Alabaster River, the boys met on Main Street in front of the theater and went about their business. They removed the display for the current film, The Long, Hot Summer. They’d both seen it, but neither had much liked it. They put up the marquee for the next film, The Proud Rebel, which Scott thought might be okay because it was a Western that starred Alan Ladd, who’d also been in Shane, one of his favorite movies.

After they’d finished and stood looking up at their work, a pickup truck pulled to the curb. Tyler Creasy got out. He swayed a little as he stood with them looking up at the marquee.

“You know about him, right?” Creasy said. “That Alan Ladd?”

Scott didn’t like Creasy. Some of it was because of all the rotten stories about him that he’d heard from Del. But Scott didn’t need those stories to be repulsed by the man. Anger came off Creasy like a foul cloud.

“He’s just a little prick of a guy, no bigger than a midget.”

“What do you want?” Del said.

“Taking your mom dancing.”

“Drinking, you mean.”

“Watch that tongue, boy. We’ll be out late. She wanted you to know. Thinks you’d be worried.”

“I got the message,” Del said.

The two of them stared at each other in a way that made Scott think trouble was on the way. But Creasy finally returned to his truck and drove off. Del watched him go and said, “Fuggin’ Creasy.” He turned to Scott. “So what do you want to do now, Madman?”

“I don’t know. What do you want to do?”

“Funny you should ask.”

Del shouldered the knapsack he always carried with him and smiled huge. It was clear to Scott that what he had in mind might well land them both in hot water.

THE LITTLE MOTORBIKE kicked up dust behind them. Above Fordham Ridge, the light in the sky was pale blue-white, as thin and fragile as a dusting of frost. There were already stars in the east, and the air was cooling into night. Scott knew they’d never make it back to town before hard dark settled over Black Earth County. He worried about this, but perched on the back of Del’s motorbike with the wind in his face and his heart, that imperfect organ, thumping hard with excitement, he put away his concern and gave himself over to the promise of adventure ahead.

Del turned off the road onto the overgrown lane that led to the end of Inkpaduta Bend and guided the motorbike along one of a pair of tire tracks barely visible in the weeds and tall wild grasses. Scott could see the line of trees that marked the course of the Alabaster at the end of the Bend, nearly a quarter mile distant, and he felt the thrill of anticipation. When they reached the trees, Del braked to a stop; he killed the engine, and they dismounted.

“Come on,” Del said and began to move toward the river.

The evening was quiet, the birds already roosting. The air was still and smelled of the river and mud. From high on Fordham Ridge came the glimmer of scattered yard lights on the farmsteads there.

“Jesus!” Del stopped suddenly and pointed. “Will you look at that.”

Scott saw it, too, a black staining of the bare earth near the river’s edge, dramatic even in the descending dark.

“That’s his blood, Madman.”

Del spoke in a whisper, and Scott thought it must be because Del felt exactly what he felt, that they were in the presence of some enormity, something both holy and wholly terrifying. A man had died here—right here—and not just died. Died brutally. At their feet was the evidence, that great soaking of blood.

Del began to walk slowly around the black stain in the dirt until he’d circled it completely. Then he looked into his friend’s eyes, his own eyes round with wonder and excitement, and said, “Do you fuggin’ believe this, Madman?”

“Maybe we should go,” Scott said.

“Not yet.” Del knelt and touched the blood-fouled earth. He drew his hand back and studied it. “Creasy says it wasn’t any accident and he didn’t kill himself. Creasy says Quinn was murdered.”

“By who?”

“Some Indian who worked for him. Guy named Bluestone.”

Scott knew who Bluestone was. Every once in a great while, the man sat at the counter of the Wagon Wheel and drank coffee. Always just coffee, always alone, and never saying much.

“Why?” he asked.

Del stood and wiped his fingers on his jeans. “Creasy says Quinn caught the Indian stealing and fired him. Creasy says Indians are like that.”