The Bully of Order by Brian Hart Page A

could dig with our fingers, and we couldn’t get it out without cutting him open. We talked of doing it, and I said I could because I’d done surgery before. A man who has hung up his scalpel to work in the woods is a man that scares people. They started calling me Doc then, and there wasn’t an endearing sound to it. We decided against the surgery because what difference would it make and who wanted to see such a thing anyhow.
    For this work it’s not so much strength that is required as endurance. You cannot quit. Like chain and cable don’t quit, like the donkey engine doesn’t. Often I feel as if I’m drifting into another life, a prouder one. I could be a strong and sober man someday. I could rise from this field of battle. My father had a war; I have this. I hope you’ll wait for me. Who knows, perhaps I’ll return and you won’t recognize me for the obvious improvements. Your loving husband, Jacob.
    The letters stayed tucked under the mattress, and when Jacob returned and we were alone and Duncan was sleeping I would read them back to him. The darkness he forced on me, I mirrored back to him, and I suspect the sting of it was nearly enough to break him. I felt out his weaknesses with my words, probed his very joints like a butcher. But he liked the place at the foot of the bed, under my hand, and seemed to develop a taste for my spite and venom. He begged me for it, and without knowing what he was doing created more reasons for me to lash out.
    â€œIf you ever hurt me again, I’ll leave and never come back.”
    â€œI’ll never leave. I’ll never hurt you again. Stay with me.”
    Belief is a fast runner.

Tartan
    F our days they’d been locked in the union hall. Knives had been thrown at the taxidermy. Nice shot, the elk nostril. Not bad, the beaver ear. The lovingly designed flower constructed of crab shells by Bellhouse’s recently absconded girlfriend had been torn down and trampled. His desk had been used for a sawyers’ contest that he’d won. They were waiting on a telegraph. A vote was to be made, and after that an announcement. Bellhouse sent for women and liquor. Said: What the fuck is the bolero? But they’d all danced it now. Where are these women from? Skin like polished oak, but soft. Someone, Nitz maybe, had dragged beds in from next door in the rooming house. Must’ve evicted someone. He had a gash on his forehead, and he’d lost his sidearm. The beds kept coming, and couches. Bare legs spilled out from hairy backs. It was a wet, fouled slaughterhouse of a room, vomit and blood. If it weren’t for the drunkenness, no one could’ve stood it. There was a tin of whale fat that had traveled from the Arctic and Bellhouse had it smeared all over the front of his pants and his bare chest and lathered on his face. Caligula had nothing on their sinning. There was a dead man in the corner; Bellhouse had shot him for being glum or lying. Either way, he’d need to go for a dip when the tide came up.
    Tartan had managed to take a turn with five of the whores, but three remained. He sat on the floor and worked out the math. Someone needed to slow it down or he’d never make it. Bellhouse had finally paid him for the last few months, and what did he say? “Blood is required.”
    â€œI don’t know what you mean, Hank.”
    â€œThey don’t take paper money in Alaska, and they don’t take coin either.” He had his hand down the front of his britches, applying more whale fat as he eyed a dark-skinned woman with a man’s haircut. She’d taken a smack at some point that had split her lip but she didn’t seem to mind. The blood had dried in a nice straight dribble from her mouth to between her tits, disappeared into the dark hair at her crotch.
    â€œThey take gold where gold is being taken. I’ve heard that before,” Tartan said.
    â€œHave you? Well, everybody’s got