Sturm introduced the rest of the barn. It was stuffed with fifty-three boxes of liquor—mostly whiskey, bourbon, tequila, scotch, gin, and tequila—five Army tents, four giant generators, twelve lanterns, two portable showers, sixteen kegs of water, four axes, two cords of firewood, three gas BBQs, and enough knives, tables, chairs, bar supplies, and cigars to keep a small army comfortable for weeks. “And we got sheep in the corrals out back, case anyone gets excited.” Again, nobody was sure if Sturm was making a joke or serious. Frank suspected that Sturm was joking, and didn’t know how to deal with the lack of laughter. “Case you got the shits, we got approximately four hundred rolls of toilet paper. The portajohns’ll be here in three days.”

The rest of the stalls held, tiki torches, mirrors and washbasins for cleaning and shaving, furniture for the tents—couches, beds, tables, chairs—and on each of the tables there was bug spray, condoms for the hookers.

Sturm had led them around the barn, and now they were back at the door. “Any questions. Anybody think of anything we forgot?”

“I know we got the barbeques, but I don’t see anything else for cooking,” Jack said. “These guys, these hunters, they’re rich old boys. Can’t see them eating off the grill with their fingers.”

“True, true. They ain’t that type at all.” Sturm smoothed out the dirt in front of him with the flat leather sole of his right cowboy boot. “Fact is, I’ve made an arrangement for an outside party to handle the food situation. You are to treat this party with the utmost respect and offer them any and all assistance if necessary.”

“Just who is this outside party?” Jack asked.

“The Glouck family.”

The clowns recoiled as if Sturm had just told them they’d be eating dogshit for dinner.

“Fuck them. Fuck all of them,” Jack said.

“You questioning my decision?” Sturm asked quietly. He didn’t wait for Jack to respond. “Anybody here questioning my leadership?” Sturm kept moving his foot in a slow, circular motion, smoothing the soft dirt directly in front of him. “If so, then let’s have it out right fucking now. Any dick licker here got a problem with my decision? Speak up. Any employee of mine has himself a problem with the boss, the only man that signs every goddamn check in this county, then step up and say what you have to say.”

Sturm kept the flat sole of his boot drifting effortlessly back and forth across the dirt, the sharp toe like the movements of a stalking rattlesnake. The dirt was smooth as the hood of his Dodge.

Sturm’s foot was really the only thing moving within the barn. Even Sarah, down at the far end, had enough presence of mind to freeze, to breathe slow and easy so as not to attract the attention of a predator. Everyone was as still as the lion hide stretched tight against the corrugated roof, slowly cooking in the heat. Especially Jack. He’d seriously overstepped his bounds and he profoundly regretted his transgression. He kept the brim of his hat aimed at the ground, watching everyone out of the corners of his eyes.

Sturm’s foot sank into the surface of the dirt like a semi tractor settling into a still pond in slow motion. He searched out every man’s eyes. Jack was the last to look up. Looking directly at Jack, Sturm said, “But say it like a man. Be honest. Let’s have it out. Right fucking now. Or, so help me god, you will either do your fucking job or I will hurt you.”

Sturm waited about the time it takes to unlock and open your front door, then finally said, softer this time, the sandpaper grit of his voice much finer now. “I didn’t like it at first neither. But you listen. You all know what I got in my head. Nobody knows how much time I got left. I am not a patient man. I am a man who needs things done.” Sturm let that sink in for a moment. “The family will handle nearly all of the food—with only the exception of when we BBQ—but even then, the family is responsible for dressing and butchering the animals. And they handle everything else, the dishware, the tablecloths, the wait staff, the cleaning of dishes, pretty much anything related to the food. So let’s have an understanding here. That family has their place. They understand that. Every ruling power has its serfs. You goddamn hotheads, you don’t think. You don’t use the mind God gave you. Beer, pussy, and fighting. That’s it. Hell, I know. I been there. My boy, he’s about to understand that. I’m asking you to trust me. Not just with this family, the goddamn Gloucks. Not just them. No, I’m talking about the future of this town. I’m talking about the hunts. Thanks to Frank here, we have ourselves a genuine opportunity here. So you are either with me, or you can get the fuck out.”

Nobody said anything. Sturm walked over and ripped open a box. “That’s it then. From now on, you listen to me. I’m goddamn running this show.” He started pulling bottles of Jack Daniels out of the box, all smiles now, as if black clouds had passed over the sun momentarily, but now the light was back, sizzling and brighter than ever. “This calls for a celebration.”

Everyone took a tiny, hesitant breath.

Sturm tossed bottles at the men. “We got ourselves a lot of hard work ahead, but you done good. Tonight, you earned yourselves a good time. Theo’s got a keg on ice in the back yard. Let’s go outside and have ourselves a drink.”

* * * * *

Two blocks east of the park in the middle of town, the First Lutheran Church of Whitewood stood guard over the corner of Fifth street and Elm, a heavy, rectangular building flanked by two strips of dead grass. It reminded Frank of a fortress; tiny stained-glass windows were sunk into the thick concrete walls and it didn’t take much imagination to picture rifles sticking out of the slits. Even the steeple was short and squat, plopped on the roof like a relative who’d had too much pork stuffing on Thanksgiving. The steeple was capped off by a wooden cross; the redwood timber, black from over a century in the sun, was two feet thick and over ten feet tall.

Four pickups congregated in the street below, headlights splashed against the granite steps and double oak doors. The men gathered on the steps, beer cups in hand. Pine and Chuck had thoughtfully loaded the keg into the back of Chuck’s pickup. Chuck drained his cup, belched, and started taking a leak against the wall of the church.

Sturm watched this silently for a moment from the open toolbox at the back of his truck. He spit, then jerked a crowbar from the toolbox.

Everyone flinched as the crowbar bounced off the concrete wall next to Chuck in a burst of burst of concrete chips and sparks. The stream of piss dried up and died.

“Show some respect, dammit,” Sturm shouted. “I was fucking baptized in this church.”

Chuck carefully zipped up, ashamed. The crowbar had landed in the puddle of urine, so Chuck wiped it off on his jeans before he handed it back to Sturm who was stomping up the steps. “Sorry, Mr. Sturm. Won’t happen again.”

Sturm took the crowbar. “You gotta take a leak so goddamn bad, do it on the fucking lawn. Christ Jesus.” He jammed the tip of the crowbar into the gap between the double doors and shoved the other end sideways. The wood split and cracked with a sound like bacon grease popping. Sturm swung the doors wide and tapped the blade of the crowbar on the steps, knocking off the splinters.

“Theo. Get my chainsaw.” Theo ran to the truck. Sturm eyed the men. “You wait here. Show a little respect, for God’s sake.” When Theo ran back, huffing and lugging the thirty-pound chainsaw, Sturm and his son melted into the darkness of the church.

There was an unspoken decision to wait down the steps at the back of Chuck’s truck. More beer was drained from the keg. Boots scuffed the asphalt. Sideways glances were cast at the church.

“Gotta say, I dunno ‘bout that fucking family helping us out,” Jack said softly, trying to salvage a little pride. “Didn’t think we needed any help. I wasn’t trying to start trouble. I just don’t fucking know about that family.”