Copperhead Road

By Brandon Enns

1920. Life was simple for Billy Bronson. Living in the country outside of Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, he and his father Frank were secluded and happily reclusive. Fishing, hunting, and farming were enough to keep Billy satisfied. That is until a hideous man named Clayton and his young partner murdered his father and torched his home to the dirt over a territorial moonshining dispute. Capone isn't a name the folks fear. It's Sinclair.

After the prohibition, under the roof of his neighbors, the Campbell's, Billy works almost hard enough to forget. But when Frank Bronson's killer stops at their farm in need of gas, Billy must face his harrowing past. With his identity unknown to the entire Sinclair organization, he investigates their illegal operations with hopes of finding his way to the man they call Sinclair and the truths he holds.

Revenge might be just down the road. Question is, where is this road?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brandon Enns
• Release date: Nov 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005932183

Brandon Enns

Brandon Enns is a novelist and award-winning screenwriter. Brandon’s stories are suspenseful thrillers, mysteries, and dramas, often featuring a gritty and damaged protagonist. Novel or film, he simply enjoys a good story that allows him to escape, and feels inclined to tell a few of his own. When he isn’t writing, he is likely playing or watching sports. Brandon currently lives in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.

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Copperhead Road

Brandon Enns

Copyright © 2016 Brandon Enns Registered with Writer’s Guild of Canada 2016 All rights reserved Published by Brandon Enns 2018.

No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale. This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.

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For Steve Earle.

PART I

1

Qu’Appelle River, Saskatchewan. 1920.

There were hills on both sides. They towered over me, made me feel small. Pops took me fishing every morning when he figured the conditions were right. Often I’d swim if the fish weren’t biting. I liked how the cold water swallowed me up, how I could taste the algae in my mouth, how I felt a burst of excitement when I popped back up through the surface.

Our boat was small, just enough room for the two of us. We didn’t need no bigger. There was only the two of us anyhow. It was a nice boat. I helped Pops make it. He did most of the work, but said I should be proud anyway. Pops always said all you need in life is your two hands. And if you do something foolish and get one hand taken from you, you could use the other (he lost a finger from an axe accident). If you lose your second hand, reaching where you shouldn’t be reaching, then you use your two feet. Don’t take much to create something from nothing, he’d say.

We had an agreement. If we were up at five in the morning and fished till seven, then that’s two extra hours of work we’d owe after all of the other chores were done. There’s always something to fix, he’d say. It was true. He was right about a lot of things, I think. If we didn’t go fishing, he’d let me sleep till seven. He would still be up at five though. He said I needed extra rest because I was growing.

Our boat rocked when I moved, making my father frown in frustration. Pops was wearing that wrinkly old hat, the brim limp and folded along the edges. He needed it to block out the sun. He made me wear one too. It was way too big on my small head. I’d usually take it off to focus on the end of my rod. I’d rather get sunburned than miss out on a catch. It’s not like the sun was hot enough that early anyhow. I could hardly feel it.

The river ran into a lake nearby, and once in a while we would try there, though my father liked to float along our usual spot. He didn’t like to be at a standstill. There was a village by that lake. There weren’t many people living there, but they built a church and a school and a few houses. Pops said it was called Eyebrow. What a strange name for a town. It was queer, and I didn’t like it. So many names to choose from and they go picking that?

It was July and the pike weren’t biting as good as they did in spring and fall. I was really starting to crave a fish fry, because I hadn’t had any fish in two weeks. We’d only been able to come out twice during that time, and we were skunked both times.

I jigged my line up and down. Pops turned and looked at me with a frown.

No sense jigging when we’re on the river. Only on our lake spot. Won’t do you any good here.

I know.

Yeah, you know, yet you do it anyway.

I was going to tell him that I catch more this way, but I didn’t feel like arguing about that anymore. He’d get mad when I did things wrong. He was scary when he was mad, but it’d never last long.

What you wanna do tomorrow? he asked.

I’m not sure.

Well, it’s not every day you turn ten years old, is it? He hid his smirk well. Double digits.

Can we go into town? I didn’t get to leave the farm all that much, and I wanted to go to my favorite store. They had ten different kinds of ice cream and the best fudge in the world. Pops didn’t like it there. He liked being out in the country and bush. He said it was all he ever needed and hoped one day I’d see that too. I did like where we lived. Liked some of the work. Liked our horse Brownie. Liked shooting birds and critters with my pellet gun. But I also liked ice cream and fudge. And I knew for a fact the town fair was going on. They had all kinds of rides and games to play after I got my fudge.

Pops grumbled, Have to check with Brownie. See if he’s up for it.

We didn’t have any fancy car like some folks did in town. Just Brownie. But he was getting older now, so we’d have to look at getting another young horse soon, but I think Pops didn’t have enough money. He often got mad when I’d ask about certain things. He’d mention cost when he was angry.

The fish hadn’t bit in an hour and the wind began to pick up. I wanted more time but knew Pops was gonna say we should go in. Come on you slimy snot sharks, bite! Father was starting to grumble, squinting at the trees, watching them rustle. The wind made a ruffling sound against our clothes. I liked the sound. The boat started to rock and the water was messy. Pops turned to me, mouth sour. He was about to say time for home.

The end of my rod plunged downward. I knew it was a good eater, I could tell right away. I reeled and pulled, reeled and pulled, the pike fighting back, taking some line. I didn’t look to Pops and he didn’t look to me, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw his lips slant to one side. I wanted to stand but didn’t want to rock the boat. Reel, pull.

The sun deflected off the rippling water, shining into my eyes. I kept working away at it, but my arms were burning, getting tired.

Pops said, Maybe the fish should be on the boat and you should be in the water.

I’m getting him, I said through a grunt.

That right . . . He twiddled his thumbs, leaning back with his eyes closed, the sun shining on his leathery skin.

I stood. Couldn’t help it. The boat rocked.

If you flip us, I’m hangin’ you by your ankles in the barn for a week.

I got it. Here he comes.

I got him up to the surface and boy was he a nice one. Real big. He thrashed and rolled to his side, floating, playing dead. The net was next to my father. He glanced at it and then looked back out into the trees, his mind somewhere else. I always wondered where it went.

The fish started to splash, bending the rod along with my tired wrist. I grabbed hold of the wooden shaft of the net while Pops took in a big breath that he seemed to enjoy. The fish was flailing. As stubborn as a woman, I’d heard him say once, cursing while fixing the front step of our house. I didn’t know a thing about women. I didn’t get to see girls very often, working on our farm out in the middle of nowhere. We only had a couple neighbors that were within walking distance. Pops asked me if I wanted to go to school, but I could tell he wanted me to stay. But maybe now with the new school in Eyebrow, I could go and talk to girls, see for myself how stubborn they were.

I reached forward with the net while the fish slashed about. Then, the weight was gone. Shit! I yelled louder than I had planned. My father’s boot met my shin, hard enough to hurt, and hard enough to sway the boat. I didn’t dare grab on to both sides for balance.

You can curse when it matters.

Sorry.

His face was tense, his brow all scrunched. Another lure gone?

The jack must have inhaled it and bit the line.

Yes, sir.

Well, no difference to me. I’ll take your labor as payment.

I worked plenty. It wasn’t fair. Anytime is fine, all right? No work tomorrow.

Okay.

We should get going then. Wind’s only getting worse.

Just a bit more? I’ll tie one on quick.

Hurry it up then.

I didn’t expect another bite. But we went through a school. Pops even put a hook in the water. We made a nice haul. I could already smell the buttery fish in the pan. My mouth watered.

All right, now it’s time to go, he said.

***

We paddled down the river. The current was weak. We went in on an angle toward shore. The bush was thick, so it was important that we docked exactly where our trail was.

Pops lead with the boat upside down and overhead. I held up the rear, the inside of the boat protecting my face from branches, but it stunk like fish. I had to be careful with each step as there were roots along the path that could trip me up or cause me to roll my ankle. The one time I caught my toe and fell knee first into some sharp rocks, skinning my knees badly. There was blood and little pebbles buried into my skin. Picking and cleaning the wound burned, but I hadn’t fussed any.

My shoulders burned from the weight of the boat, and I wanted to stop for a break but wouldn’t dare ask. It was about a mile through thick bush, and I was counting down the seconds until we made it through.

The sun was already hot against my skin, and I was sweating quite a lot. We made it through, but that wasn’t even half the battle. We’d gotten the boat fishy and it needed to be washed out with clean well water this time. Another three miles to go, no break; not yet, anyhow.

The birds were singing loudly.

Hickory Dickory Dock sounded in my head. Wouldn’t leave.

I flexed out a loud fart and smiled. A few seconds later, Pops answered back with one of his own.

I lifted the boat high above my head to see where we were. Just passed Campbell’s farm. I could hear their cows mooing and could now smell the shit.

A blister was forming on the back of my heel. Rub, rub, rub. It was red and tingling, and I could feel it forming into a bubble.

I was soaked in sweat.

My hands had been sliding everywhere, constantly regripping to get rid of the ache in-between my knuckles. Pops said I needed to improve my grip strength. Said I had hands of young city girl.

My shoulders were on fire, my breathing fast and short. I had a stitch in my side that wouldn’t leave, and the backs of my knees were itchy from ivy in the bush. Oh, how I wished for a cold glass of water and a cold fall breeze. Then some chocolate chip ice cream would be fine.

We had made it. By God, we had made it.

I collapsed to the ground after we set the boat down. Pops wiped his brow with a handkerchief, then his nose. I didn’t understand those rags. They were disgusting.

Clean the boat. I’m taking Brownie to check the wheat. When you’re done with the boat, feed the chickens, check the coop, then you get going on that fence. You’ve been dragging your butt on that the last week.

I was exhausted. The day had just begun, and I couldn’t wait for it to be over. The thought of that homemade fudge was the only thing that kept me going.

2

It was going to be a catch and release morning. We didn’t want to get the inside of the boat all slimy, and we had leftovers to eat yet. I could tell Pops didn’t want to fish, but he didn’t complain. Not a word. It was another perfect morning.

I loved that feeling when you get your line in the water, expecting a bite to come. If it happened within the first five minutes, it was sure a good sign. I kept my eyes on the tip of my rod, watching the line sloped into the water, slowly dragging with the current, bending the tip. I had to hold it at a certain angle, not too upright. The hills across the river looked smaller today for some reason. The odd time I would catch a deer walking between slopes, but typically they’d steer clear, sticking with open flat fields, chewing on grass around the edges. Five minutes had passed, and I gazed out all around me. Bushes to my right were ruffling with little loud birds. The hills to my left were bright green, a quiet road splitting them down the middle going uphill. The water sparkled east to west. We hadn’t drifted all that much. We approached a spot with some seaweed along the edges. I liked the murky smell. Pops called it our honey hole.

A jack hit hard. It was heavy. I fought it for quite some time.

I got the fish over the edge and Pops helped with the net this time. Its belly was fat. I looked at my father and he looked at me. The way his lips shifted I could tell he wanted to smile, but he didn’t. He did that a lot.

You’re filleting the fish and cleaning the boat.

Thank you, sir.

Don’t need to thank me. Just be thankful for another day in the sun. And I’ll be thankful for the rain that better come in the next few days.

Is it bad? I asked.

Not bad yet. Doesn’t take much to get bad though. Need some drops sooner than later.

Should we pray on it then?

No harm in it I suppose.

Pops and I didn’t go to church. I think he was too sad about Mom leaving earth to do much talking with the Lord. He stole her when I was born. Pops didn’t talk much about her. I could tell he’d get upset when I asked questions, so I stopped asking.

We caught fewer fish this time, but they were bigger eaters. We even got a walleye in the batch. I liked the taste of ‘em better, but Pops liked the pike better. He said they were denser.

I stopped and we coasted along the river, watching the water, the odd fish splashing up. I was getting excited for our trip into Moose Jaw. There were butterflies in my stomach.

Our landing spot was close, but there was something there. We got closer and I realized that it was two men. Closer yet, I could see one was Pop’s age, one was young, maybe three or four years older than me. The older man grabbed hold of the nose of our boat and pulled us onto the sandy grass. I didn’t like his smile; it looked mean, and his teeth were yellow and spaced.

Pops looked very uneasy all of a sudden. His eyebrows were doing that squinting thing again. He stepped in front of me, blocking my view.

Good day, gentlemen, said Pops.

The boy seemed nervous and the man looked all wrong. He smiled like he knew something we didn’t. He extended his hand and Pops took it. They pulled the rest of the boat onto the grass with me in it. The man’s shirt was dirty and torn in places, a white shirt underneath. He smelled of rotten sweat.

What brings you two here? Pops asked with a friendlier than usual voice.

They didn’t answer. The boy stepped back toward the bushes and that ugly smile grew on the older man’s face. But he didn’t speak. He spat into the bushes instead.

Can I help you boys with something? Pops was getting mad.

You can help us with givin’ us them fish.

Pardon?

Now we both know I didn't stutter, Mr. Bronson. The fish. We'll take those off your hands.

Do I know you?

I had never seen father like that before. He looked worried, maybe even scared.

The man’s yellow-stained smile was terrifying. He played with a toothpick on the side, nestled up against pasty-white dried saliva.

I know you. That’s all that really matters.

Pops’ eyes narrowed. He looked back at me and breathed loudly through his nose. He turned back to the ugly man. You boys don't have any rods of your own? Not too difficult. River’s been hot as a pistol. Six miles west there is another trail wider than this one. You can toss your line from shore if you’d like, nice little sandbar there. Lay a towel down, have a picnic with your boy.

The man’s laugh was horrible, cracks of phlegm in his throat. A picnic . . . He gurgled another nasty chuckle. I ain't no fisherman, Frank. Busy operations these days. Be nice if we had the time to sit out on the creek. We don't have that, ah, luxury.

Pops looked back at me with sad eyes. Yeah, well we can spare you a few fish I s'pose.

Nah, that's all right. We'll take 'em all.

Yeah, of course.

They grabbed the crate of fish, the younger boy taking it. It was heavy from the big pike and almost brought him to his knees. He grimaced and held it up.

The man wasn’t finished. He took the tackle and rods, reaching past my knee. He looked up at me and winked. His breath was foul, like