The Run for the Elbertas (11 page)

“Amen,” Leander said.

Mrs. Buckheart spoke nervously. “We ought to o' saved a couple gallons o' juice for candy, to please the chaps. We've got more sirup now than can be sopped till Jedgment.”

“Invited or not,” Gid said, “I want folks to pleasure themselves. What's become o' the fiddlers?”

Leander shrugged. “Ever hear of a fiddler loving the Law? They high-tailed.”

Old Gid cocked his chin and spoke low. “The size o' this crowd is onnatural. Something's drawed folks.”

Jimp's mouth opened, but he'd no chance to get a word in edgeways. Gid latched his thumbs on his galluses and spiked his elbows. “I'm not a born fool,” he said. “Why, I know the magistrate come to speak a ceremony. Everybody knows. Even Peep Eye's got the fact writ on her face.” He glanced defiantly at Mrs. Buckheart. “Woman! That spindling Branders stranger couldn't make a hum-bird a living.”

Mrs. Buckheart's neck reddened. “Stranger to nobody but you. You've ne'er tested his grit, to my knowing.”

“Why a daughter o' mine would choose a shikepoke to live with is ontelling.”

Peep Eye emerged from behind Leander. “Plumey worships the dirt betwixt Rant Branders's toes,” she said. She threw her neck like a hen; she flicked a spiteful glance at me.

My hunger fled. I thought, “I'll not eat a bite o' Buckheart foam,” and I tossed the molassy spoon into the fire. I turned away and saw Jimp whispering to U Z; I saw Jimp thrust the brass knuckles into U Z's hand.

Old Gid snapped, “Tell that young jake to git his growth.”

“Speak to his face,” Mrs. Buckheart challenged. “Come, I'll acquaint you.”

“Sick him, Pap,” Jimp crowed happily.

Gid's brows raised. “Ah,” he said. His woman had him cornered. “Ah,” he mumbled, “I don't mind shaking Rant Branders's glass hand, but first let me blow a spark o' life into the gethering.” And just then Jimp raised on tiptoe, calling,
“Looky yonder. They's two fellers rooster-fighting.” Two fellows had their feet on marks, their arms doubled. They smote each other.

“Be-dog,” Jimp cried, “wisht I was rooster-fighting with some'un my size.” We hustled to see, crawling between folks' legs, getting inside of the circle.

The rooster-fighters halted and the gathering made a roar of joy for Old Gid stepped into the ring, walked past Rant, and leveled a finger at Squire Letcher. Gid's voice rose goodnaturedly. “Me and the square have a bone to pick. Allus ago we fit, and nary a one could whoop.”

A flat smile withered on the squire's cheeks. He'd not the chance of a rabbit scrapping a ferret.

Gid said, “Let's move nigher the fire for light.”

The crowd moved, leading the squire; it pushed and spread until the sorghum hole lay inside the ring. The butterweed stalk vanished. I saw Old Gid's boys bunching behind the crowd, their faces bright and tricky. U Z had left the kettle, edging close to Bailus; and both Leander and Bailus grinned oddly at me and Jimp.

But Gid didn't tip the squire. The magistrate stepped off the marked line, giving up ere he'd begun. He didn't even box his arms. He walked backward, keeping Gid at arm's length; he sidled and crawdabbed until he had sorghum-holed himself. He came out green as a mossed turkle. And then it was Old Gid's boys began pushing, and fellows shoved and fought to keep clear of the hole. Jimp and I were in the midst of the battle. Gid's boys soused a plenty; they soused folk invited or not, and they ducked one another too. U Z grabbed Bailus, rolling him in headforemost; and Leander caught me, and Bailus snagged Jimp. They dipped us.

I wiped the green skims off my face. I saw old Gid walk up to Rant Branders, saying, “Hit's time we're acquainted,” and stuck out his arm. They clapped hands. Gid's jaws clenched as he gripped, his neck corded. Yet Rant didn't give down, didn't bat an eye, or bend a knee. He stood prime up to Old Gid, and wouldn't be conquered.

Old Gid dropped his hand. he cut a glance about, chuckling. “Roust the square if they's to be a wedding,” he said. “Night's a-burning.”

Jimp and I hid behind the cane pile, being too hangheaded and shy to watch a marrying. Under the gilly trees Jimp said, “Me and you hain't never fit. Fighting makes good buddies.” He clenched his fists.

I knew Peep Eye spied upon us. “You hit first,” I said, acting cagey, taking my part.

“Say a thing to rile me.”

I said, “Yore pappy's a bully man, and I'm glad Rant Branders locked his horns.”

We fought. We fought with bare fists, and it was tuggety-pull, and neither of us could out-do. And of a sudden Peep Eye stood between us. Her cheek bore a soot mole, and she was fairer than any finch of a bird, fairer even than Plumey. She raised a hand, striking me across the mouth, and ran. Jimp said, “Jist a love lick.” The blow hurt, but I was proud. And then we heard Old Gid's voice ring like a bell, and saw him waving his arms by the forgotten molasses kettle. “Land o' Gravy!” he shouted. “We've made seventeen gallons o' candy jacks.”

The Burning of the Waters

W
E moved from Tullock's lumber camp to Tight Hollow
on
a day in March when the sky was as gray as a war penny and wind whistled the creek roads. Father had got himself appointed caretaker of a tract of timber at the far side of the county, his wages free rent. We were to live in the oneroom bunkhouse of an abandoned stave mill.

Father rode in the cab with Cass Tullock, and every jolt made him chuckle. He laughed at Cass's complaint of the chugholes. He teased him for holding us up a day in the belief we might change our minds. Beside them huddled Mother, the baby on her lap, her face dolesome. Holly and Dan and I sat on top of the load and when a gust blew my hat away I only grinned, for Father had promised us squirrel caps. Holly was as set against moving as Mother. She hugged her cob dolls and pouted.

The tract lay beyond Marlett and Rough Break, and beyond Kilgore where the settlements ended—eleven thousand acres as virgin as upon the first day of the world. Father had learned of it while prospecting timber for Cass and resolved to move there. To live without work was his dream. Game would provide meat, sugar trees our sweetening, garden sass and corn thrive in dirt black as a shovel. Herbs and pelts would furnish ready cash.

Father had thrown over his job, bought steel traps and gun shells and provisions, including a hundred-pound sack of
pinto beans. He had used the last dime without getting the new shoes he needed. He told us, “Tight Hollow is a mite narrow but that's to our benefit. Cold blasts can't punish in winter, summers the sun won't tarry long enough overhead to sting. We can sit on our hands and rear back on our thumbs.”

Once Father made up his mind, arguing was futile. Still Mother had spent her opinion. “Footgear doesn't grow on bushes to my knowledge,” she said.

“You tickle me,” Father had chuckled. “Why, ginseng roots alone bring thirteen dollars a pound and seneca and golden seal pay well. Mink hides sell for twenty dollars, muskrat up to five. Aye, we can buy shoes by the rack. We'll get along and hardly pop a sweat.”

“Whoever heard of a feller opening his hand and a living falling into it?” Mother asked bitterly. “By my reckoning you'll have to strike more licks than you're thinking to.”

Mother's lack of faith amused Father. “I'll do a few dabs of work,” he granted. “But mostly I'll stay home and grow up with my children. Kilgore post office will be the farthest I'll travel, and I'll go there only to ship herbs and hides, and rake in the money.” He poked his arms at the baby, saying, “Me and this little chub will end up the biggest buddies ever was.”

The baby strained toward Father, but Dan edged between them. Dan was four.

Mother inquired, “What of a school? Is there one within walking distance?”

Holly puffed her cheeks and grumbled, “I'd bet it's a jillion miles to a neighbor's house.”

“Schools are everywhere nowadays,” Father said, his face clouding. “Everywhere.” He was never much for jawing.

“Bet you could look your eyeballs out,” Holly said, “and see nary a soul.”

Annoyed, Father explained, “A family lives on Grassy Creek, several miles this side. Close enough, to my notion. Too many tramplers kill a wild place. The earth dies under too many feet.”

“Tullock's Camp is no paradise,” Mother said, “but we
have friendly neighbors and a school. Here we know the whereabouts of our next meal.”

Father wagged his head in irritation. He declared, “I'll locate a school by the July term, fear you not.” And passing on he said, “Any morning I can spring out of bed and slay a mess of squirrels. We'll eat squirrel gravy that won't quit. Of the furs we'll pattern caps for these young'uns, leaving the tails for handles.”

“Humph,” said Holly. “I'll not be caught wearing a varmints skin.”

Mother would not be denied. “Surely you asked the Grassy folks the nearest school?”

Father's neck reddened. “I told them we'd moved the first Thursday in March,” he spoke sharply. “They acted dumfounded and the man said, “Ah!” and his woman mumbled, “Well! well! The whole of the conversation.”

“They don't sound neighborly,” Mother said.

“Now, no,” agreed Holly.

“Upon my word and honor!” Father chuffed. “They're good people. Just not talky.” And on his own behalf, “Let a man mention the opportunity of a lifetime and the women start picking it to pieces. They'd fault heaven.”

Mother had sighed, knowing she would have to allow Father to whip himself. She asked, “When you've learned we can't live like foxes will you bow to the truth? Or will you hang on until we starve out?”

Of a sudden Father slapped his leg so hard he startled the baby and made Dan jump. “Women aim to have their way,” he blurted. “One fashion or another they'll get it. They'll burn the waters of the creek, if that's what it takes. They'll up-end creation.”

Daylight was perishing when we turned into Tight Hollow. The road was barely a trace. The tie rods dragged and Cass groaned; Cass groaned and Father chuckled. The ridges broke the wind, though we could hear it hooting in the lofty woods. Three quarters of a mile along the branch the stave
mill and bunkhouse came to view, and, unaccountably, a smoke rose from the bunkhouse chimney. The door hung ajar, and as we drew up we saw fire smoldering on the hearth.

Nobody stirred for a moment. We could not think how this might be. Father called a hey-o and got no reply. Then he and Cass strode to the door. They found the building empty—empty save for a row of kegs and an alder broom. They stood wondering.

Cass said, “By the size of the log butts I judge the fire was built yesterday.”

“Appears a passing hunter slept here last night,” Father guessed, “and sort of fanned out the gom.”

We unloaded the truck in haste, Cass being anxious to start home. Dan and I kept at Father's heels and Holly tended the baby and her dolls, the while peering uneasily over her shoulder. Our belongings seemed few in the lengthy room, and despite lamp and firelight the corners were gloomy.

At leaving, Cass counseled Father, “When you stump playing wild man you might hanker to return to civilization. Good sawsmiths are scarce.” And he twitted, “Don't stay till Old Jack Somebody carries you off plumb. He's the gent, my opinion, who lit your fire.”

“I pity you working fellers,” Father countered. “You'll slave, you'll drudge, you'll wear your finger to nubs for what Providence offers as a bounty.”

“You heard me,” Cass said, and drove away.

The bunkhouse had no flue to accommodate the stovepipe, and Mother cooked supper on coals raked onto the hearth. The bread baked in a skillet was round as a grindstone. Though we ate little, Father advised, “Save space for a stout breakfast. Come daybreak I'll be gathering in the squirrels.”

Dan and Holly and I pushed aside our plates. We gazed at the moss of soot riding the chimney-back, the fire built by we knew not whom. We missed the sighing of the sawmill boilers; we longed for the camp. Mother said nothing and Father fell silent. Presently Father yawned and said, “Let's fly up if I'm to rise early.”

Lying big-eyed in the dark I heard Father say to Mother, “That fire puzzles me tee-totally. Had we come yesterday as I planned, I'd know the mister to thank.”

“You're taking it as seriously as the young'uns,” Mother answered. “I believe to my heart you're scary.”

“Not as much as a man I've been told of,” Father jested. “He makes his woman sleep on the outer side of the bed, he's so fearful.”

When I waked the next morning Mother was nursing the baby by the hearth and Holly was warming her dolls. Dan waddled in a great pair of boots he had found in a keg. The wind had quieted, the weather grown bitter. The cracks invited freezing air. Father was expected at any moment and a skillet of grease simmered in readiness for the squirrels.

We waited the morning through. Toward ten o'clock we opened the door and looked up-creek and down, seeing by broad day how prisoned was Tight Hollow, The ridges crowded close; a body had to tilt head to see the sky. At eleven, after the sun had finally topped the hills, Mother made hobby bread and fried rashers of salt meat. Bending over the hearth, she cast baleful glances at her idle stove. Father arrived past one and he came empty-handed and grinning sheepishly.

“You're in good season for dinner,” Mother said.

Father's jaws flushed. “Game won't stir in such weather,” he declared. “It'd freeze the clapper in a cowbell.” Thawing his icy hands and feet he said, “Just you wait till spring opens. I'll get up with the squirrels. I'll pack'em in.”

The cold held. The ground was iron and spears of ice the size of a leg hung from the cliffs. Drafty as a basket the bunkhouse was, and we turned like flutter-mills before the fire. We slept under a burden of quilts. And how homesick we children were for the hum of the saws, the whistle blowing noon! We yearned for our playfellows. Holly sulked. She sat by the hearth and attended her dolls. She didn't eat enough to do a flaxbird.