Read Online Justice by Larry Watson - Free Book Online

getting away from this. You don’t jump in there yourself Mr. Rawlins and Mr. Rozinski are going to push you down, and you might not like the way they do it.”
    Out of the corner of his eye Wesley saw Tommy hobble, his pants around his knees, right up to the pile of snow.
    â€œLet’s go,” Sheriff Cooke said. “Your friends are getting cold out here.”
    â€œShit!” Tommy said, and more than leap toward the snow, he simply let himself lean and fall forward into it. He kept his arms folded in front of him; the instant his body hit he let out a shout that was half-laugh, half-cry.
    Sheriff Cooke commanded, “You get up when I tell you,” and at the same time the deputy with the rifle moved over and pinned Tommy down by putting his foot on his back.
    â€œAll right, Clarence,” the sheriff said.
    The man with the shovel braced his feet, brought his shovel back like a baseball bat, and swung. The flat back of the shovel’s blade hit Tommy square on the ass, and in the cold air the metal rang like a bell, as if the shovel had met not flesh but iron. Tommy yelped like a dog, as much in surprise as in pain.
    Clarence delivered four more blows, and with each one
Wesley could see Tommy’s body arch and spasm with the indecision of whether to press further into the snow or to rise up and meet the shovel.
    â€œLet him up,” the sheriff said.
    Tommy crawled backward out of the snowbank before getting to his feet. As soon as he stood he began frantically brushing snow from his bare skin, concentrating first on the clumps stuck in his pubic hair. He sniffled a bit, but Wesley couldn’t be sure if Tommy was crying or if his nose was running from being facedown in the snow. I won’t cry, Wesley resolved. They can split me open with that shovel but I won’t cry.
    Tommy clumsily pulled up his trousers, but his hands and fingers had too little feeling to enable him to work the belt and buckle.
    Sheriff Cooke nodded at Lester. “Next.”
    Staring straight ahead, Lester took a long stride forward.
    â€œI believe you know how this is proceeding. You can keep things moving by getting those trousers down right quick.”
    Lester’s heavy wool hunting trousers were held up by suspenders and he shrugged them off his shoulders with a deft flip of his thumbs. Without looking down he began to unbutton his fly.
    Lester muttered, “A spanking. A goddamn spanking. I ain’t been spanked since I was six years old.”
    Under the snow in the alley was dirt—Wesley could see black patches of it showing through in places where the deputy had shoveled or where the wind had swept the ground clear. Nevertheless, the footing where they stood was poor—either
packed snow or frozen, rutted ground—so when Lester decided to run there was a moment when his boots could find no purchase, and that slowed his sliding, skidding first step just long enough for the deputy to get his shovel up and into Lester’s face.
    The deputy had swung his shovel—of course he had—yet it seemed to Wesley as though all the deputy did was place the shovel in the air and Lester ran right into that square of steel.
    Lester stumbled backward, his hands to his face, and then he fell, one leg bent awkwardly under him.
    â€œGod damn it,” cursed Sheriff Cooke. Then to Rawlins and Rozinski: “Go ahead. Finish it for him.”
    Rawlins, with his rifle in one hand, grabbed Lester by the back of the shirt and pulled him partially to his feet. Lester’s boots were moving under him but to no effect, just kicking and scrabbling uselessly on the snow. Clarence Rozinski put his shovel aside so he could work on pulling Lester’s pants down.
    Once his trousers were bunched around his knees, they could all see: Lester was wearing his union suit, buttoned tight throat to crotch.
    â€œReach in there,” the sheriff said to his deputy, “and pull his pecker out for