by Lois Lenski
“The high-sheriff wears a big shiny badge,” added Granny.
“Oh!” said Billy. “Then he wasn’t the high-sheriff.”
“But sometimes it’s hid under his coat.”
“Oh!” said Billy. “Then was he or wasn’t he? And if he wasn’t, then who was he?”
“Lordy mercy, don’t ask me!” said Granny.
It was more puzzling than ever to Billy. If the man wasn’t the high-sheriff, who could he be? Granny was being stubborn. These were things she refused to talk about. He might as well go home. He picked up his dulcimer and looked at it. Only a short time ago he had been so happy, playing it and singing. Now all his happiness was gone. The sun had been swallowed up by a big black cloud. His head ached. He must go home.
Then fear came.
Maybe the stranger had found out where his father lived. Maybe he had stopped at Pap’s house. What would he stop at Pap’s house for?
Pap was a good man. He went logging every day. He hauled logs to Mountain City. Pap never quarreled with anybody—only with Granny Trivett about the cowcumber tree, and that was nothing. People often quarreled over boundaries when they weren’t sure just where they were located. Uncle Pozy said only lawless men made corn liquor nowadays. Pap would never break the law. Mammy wouldn’t let him. Mammy would … but what could Mammy do about it?
Granny began to sing. What did she have to sing for, at a time like this? Then, in spite of himself, Billy was listening:
“Wake up, wake up, darlin’ Cory!
What makes you sleep so soun’?
The revenoo officers’ a-comin’
Gonna tear your still-house down.
I’m goin’ across the deep ocean,
I’m goin’ across the deep sea,
I’m goin’ across the deep ocean,
Just to bring darlin’ Cory to me.
Gonna dig me a hole in the meadow,
Gonna dig me a hole in the groun’,
Gonna dig me a hole in the meadow,
Just to lay darlin’ Cory down.
Don’t you hear the bluebirds a-singin’?
Don’t you hear the mournful sound?
They’re a-preachin’ Cory’s fun’ral,
In some lonesome graveyard ground …”
The song made him feel sadder than ever. Granny must have known how troubled he was. She began to stir about. “Let me fix you some sassyfrack tea, son,” she said. “Hit’ll give you strangth.”
Billy felt better after he drank the tea and ate a big piece of corn-bread. But all the way, running down the trail, he felt as if a heavy load had been placed on his shoulders, so heavy he could not shake it off.
“What you runnin’ from, son? Booger man chasin’ you?”
Mammy was there, just inside the kitchen door, lighting the lamp.
“Pap home yet?” he asked.
“No, he ain’t,” said Mammy.
“Did a strange man come to the door, askin’ for Pappy?”
Mammy kept on looking at the lamp, as she turned the wick lower, to keep from blacking the chimney. She gave herself plenty of time to think what to say.
“Well, did he?”
“No,” said Mammy.
She said only that one word. Then she shut her lips tight.
Billy slouched off to bed. Mammy wouldn’t talk either. That made it still worse.
CHAPTER VIII
Jeb Dotson’s Store
“You gotta walk that lonesome valley,
You gotta walk it all alone;
Ain’t nobody gonna walk it for ye,
You gotta walk it by yourself …”
“Whoa mule! Whoa, I say!”
Billy tied Old Bet to the hitching rack, took his baskets off her back and carried them into the store.
The store looked just the same inside, even though it had been switched roundabout. There in the far corner, back of the counter, was Jeb Dotson’s bed, unmade. A sheet-iron stove, cold and fireless now, sat in the center, its rickety stovepipe running into a chimney which stood out in the room. The rear of the store was shrouded in a curtain of leather harness, hanging from the ceiling.
On a barrel just inside the door stood Jeb’s phonograph, with its big horn shaped like a giant morning-glory. Jeb had just put a record on and wound the crank. Now the lively tune The Bird on Nellie’s Hat blared forth noisily.
Billy stood and stared at it, listening with all ears. He could never get over the wonder of it—music coming out of a box. He was always ready to think up an excuse that would take him to the store, just so he could see and hear it.
“Hi, bud!” Joe Farley, Jim Hardin and some other men, leaning on the back counter, were watching him. “Hi, bud!” called Pappy Weaselface.
Jeb Dotson was selling millinery now. He placed a lady’s hat on a painted, wooden head on the side counter. He looked up and frowned. “What you up to, Bill Honeycutt?” he asked crossly. “Tryin’ to run Uncle Pozy outa business?”
“I made ’em my own self,” said Billy. “Uncle Pozy showed me how.”
“The little ground hog made ’em his own self!” echoed Pappy Weaselface. Pappy’s real name was Watson, but he came by his nickname because his face was small and pinched like a weasel’s. He was from Buckwheat Hollow and always seemed to have leisure to loaf at the store.
The men laughed. Billy wondered what was funny. The record on the phonograph finished and the music ended.
“What are you going to do with your baskets, boy?” asked a woman’s voice.
Billy looked up. A strange lady stood by the counter. She wore a dark skirt, a white shirtwaist, and a straight sailor hat. Her hair curled softly about her face and her eyes were kind.
Billy hung his head for a moment. Then he looked up and said shyly, “Trade ’em in, ma’am.”
“Your Mammy out of sugar and coffee?” asked Jeb Dotson.
“Law no. I ain’t tradin’ for her, I’m tradin’ for my own self,” said Billy stoutly.
“The little rabbit’s tradin’ for his own self!” echoed Joe Farley.
The men laughed again.
“Well, I don’t need no more baskets,” broke in Jeb Dotson crossly. “I’ve got more baskets than I can sell in a month of Sundays. Uncle Pozy come by here t’other day, loaded down like a pack mule and wished all his’n on me. Can’t take no more till I get shet of what I got.”
It was true—a whole row of baskets hung from the low ceiling in front of the dangling harness. Billy’s heart sank. He looked at the second-hand banjo hanging on the wall near the front window. It was so beautiful. As long as it hung there, he would not lose hope.
Then he thought of Uncle Pozy. Uncle Pozy made his living selling baskets. If Uncle Pozy didn’t sell baskets, he could not eat. It was good of Uncle Pozy to teach him—but maybe it was all wrong. Maybe he was taking trade away from Uncle Pozy.
He set the baskets carefully on the floor. He had worked so hard and been so proud of them. He sat down on an overturned nail keg and rested his chin in his hand. He had to think things over.
“Your Pap come back yet?”
It was Walt Moseley who put the question. He had just come in, swinging a bunch of chickens by their legs, in each hand. The hens began to flap their wings and cackle noisily.
“Nope,” said Billy.
“He’s away from home right smart now, ain’t he?” The man’s eyes narrowed.
“Yep,” said Billy.
That was another worry. Why didn’t Pap stay home? He’d been away, off and on, ever since that strange man came to ask for him. Mammy refused to answer questions, and went around with her lips closed tight, as if she were holding a secret in.
Jeb wound up the phonograph and The Bird on Nellie’s Hat began to play again. Walt Moseley joined the men at the back of the store. Together they talked in low voices, now and then looking in Billy’s direction. The boy forgot them as he listened to the music.
“Lordy mercy! How’s a body to git histed up?”
A cackling voice outside the door made everybody look. There were the Trivetts, Granny and Sarey Sue, loaded down with sacks of herbs on shoulders and hips. They must have walked all the way down the mountain.
Billy jumped to his feet and gave them each a hand, pulling them up into the doorway. Then he sat down and stared at the floor again. The song on the phonograph ended abruptly.
Billy lifted his head when he heard a strain of music outside the door. Burl Moseley came strolling in, picking his father’s guitar. The brown-and-white-spotted horse was hitched to the rack out in front.
Jeb Dotson greeted the Moseleys while the Trivetts waited.
“New shoes,” shouted Walt Moseley, after he had dumped his hens in a pen at the back of the store. “New shoes for Burl and me.”
They stuck their feet into the shoes Jeb brought out, and paraded around the floor. Sarey Sue could not keep her eyes off the shiny footwear. Walt saw Granny Trivett and went over to talk to her.
“Lizy’s took bad with a misery in her stomach,” he said. “Can you come over and bring somethin’ to cure her?”
“She’s got yarbs, ain’t she?” inquired Granny. “What is it this time?” They went into a whispered consultation.
Burl twanged the strings of his guitar and came over where Billy sat. “Baskets, eh?” he sneered. “Your’n?” He touched one with the toe of his shiny new shoe.
“Keep your feet offen my baskets!” said Billy angrily.
Burl gave the basket a kick that sent it spinning across the floor. The next minute Billy was after him. Burl went tearing out the door and hid around the corner of the building.
“He don’t want to fight this time,” said Sarey Sue, grinning.
“Law, no,” said Billy, dusting his hands off. “He ain’t forgot that licking I gave him. He ain’t got the wits of a pet coon.”
“He’s got a guitar,” said Sarey Sue. She pronounced it git’-tar. “He’s got new shoes too.”
“Law, yes,” said Billy, sitting down on the keg again. “I’ll spoil them purty new shoes o’ his’n, sure as sun-up!”
Walt Moseley went to the back of the store and the men laughed noisily. Walt was friendly to all. He slapped the men on the back.
“Shoes feel good?” asked Jeb Dotson.
“Toler’ble” laughed Walt.
The storekeeper approached the strange lady. “What for you, Miz Sutherland, ma’am?” he asked. “A purty new hat?”
Everybody in the store looked at her. A whisper of gossip went around. Walt Moseley whispered it to Granny Trivett and Sarey Sue repeated it to Billy:
“Her name’s Miz Lucy Sutherland and she’s from Asheville. She come on the train to Cranberry, and rid all the way over here in the mail-wagon. She’s stayin’ at the Wilcox’s in Sugar Grove—they’re kin to Jerusha Wilcox on Cabbage Creek, and they brung her over here. She’s waitin’ till Jerusha comes back from visitin’ her sister-in-law, old Hamby’s niece, who keeps house for him …”
Everybody waited to see what Lucy Sutherland would buy. But she disappointed them all by buying nothing. “I’m just waiting,” she said.
Then Jeb Dotson remembered his manners and brought her a chair and she sat down. Pappy Weaselface and some of the men went out and it seemed quieter after that. Billy listened to the babble of the creek through the open door.
“Bring your yarbs over here,” called Jeb Dotson.
Granny Trivett and Sarey Sue walked over to the scales in the corner. They stood by uneasily, as Jeb opened each sack, looked inside, sniffed, and pinched the contents with his fingers. One sack he took to the door, and without a word, dumped it into the creek.
“O-o-o-oh!” wailed Sarey Sue.
“Hush up!” said Granny. “I told you poke-root never gets dry.”
Jeb weighed the sacks one by one and looked at the scales. Then he went to the desk behind the counter and wrote some figures down.
Lucy Sutherland was looking at a roll of flowered calico. Sarey Sue slid over. “That’s plumb purty, ain’t hit?” she breathed.
“Are you going to buy a new dress?” the lady asked.
The girl did not answer. She hung her head, overcome with shyness. Lucy Sutherland asked the question again.
“Law, no,” said Sarey Sue. Her shyness overcome, she grew talkative. “I don’t never wear store-bought clothes—only linsey that Granny weaves on the loom, and cotton-check for aprons. Gran says cotton-check’s cheaper and wears longer’n calico. I been cravin’ a calicker dress since I was a knee-baby, I reckon, but usually we get somethin’ else. One time Granny had to have a new fryin’ pan, ’cause the handle on the old un got broke. Another time we got a hip basket to tote yarbs down off the mountain. Last year, Gran had to have new shoes, ’cause her poor old feetses is so tender. Seems like we’re always cravin’ somethin’. If hit ain’t one thing, hit’s two.”
“You don’t wear shoes?” asked the lady, looking down at the girl’s bare feet.
“Law, no,” said Sarey Sue. “My feetses is tough. I can go right up the mountain and walk in a briar patch. Course I always look where I’m a-goin’ and don’t step in no bull-nettles. ’Twas a bull-nettle killed my Uncle Fred, Pappy’s brother. He was cuttin’ wood on the Peak a long time ago and touched one, and them little ole nettles stung his hand, and he took blood pizen and hit killed him.”
“Better not step on no rattlesnakes, Sarey Sue,” warned Billy.
“Shore won’t,” said the girl, laughing. She turned to the lady. “That’s Billy Honeycutt,” she explained, pointing her thumb at the boy. “He’s cravin’ that banjo——”
“Shut up, gal, don’t you go tellin’ that,” growled Billy.
“Come, Sarey Sue.” Granny bustled up. “Let’s go. H’ist that poke up and we’ll light out for home.” She placed a sack of wheat flour on the girl’s shoulder.
“But ain’t I …” Sarey Sue’s skinny hand still touched the piece of calico. “I might could——”
“Get along, Sarey Sue.” Granny Trivett’s face fairly shone with happiness. She patted the two patch-pockets on her cotton-check apron. Both were bumpy-looking, pinned tightly shut with two safety-pins above the bumps.
Sarey Sue dropped the calico and stared. “Did you get a heap o’ cash money?”
“I takened a poke o’ white flour and a box of snuff,” said Gran, “and he give me the rest all in silver. That makes hit seem twicet as much. With what’s hid at home, we’ll soon have enough to buy us a new cow-brute.…”
Sarey Sue said nothing. As she lifted the heavy sack to her other shoulder, her eyes filled with tears.
“Ain’t you proud we got us a poke o’ white flour, Sarey Sue?” asked Granny.
Still the girl did not speak.
“Just think of all the biscuit-bread we’ll be eatin’, gal.”
No reply.
“We been hungry for biscuit-bread the whole endurin’ winter, Sarey Sue,” Granny went on. “You hustle on home now and make us some.”
“Don’t want none,” mumbled Sarey Sue.
“You’re a master-hand for notions, gal,” scolded Granny, as they jumped from the high doorstep.
Billy had heard it all. He knew just how Sarey Sue felt. She had set her heart on a calico dress, just as he had set his on a banjo. But nice things like that never happened. Maybe Granny was right. Maybe store-bought clothes were wicked. Granny never bought anything except what she had to have to keep the two of them alive. Calico dresses and banjos were extra things. They were not things you had to have to keep alive, but things that made you want to be alive.
Billy looked out the window. Granny climbed on the back of the Moseley horse and rode away, while Sarey Sue, with the sack of flour on her shoulder, stood and watched her go.
Then Billy heard Jeb Dotson speaking: “Let’s see your baskets, young feller.”
The boy picked up the basket which Burl Moseley had kicked across the floor. He set them all in a row on the counter.
“What’s your M
ammy want for ’em—sugar, salt, flour?” asked Jeb.
“I’m tradin’, not my Mammy,” said Billy firmly.
“What you want—coffee?”
“No, I don’t want no household truck, I want money.”
“Your Pap know about this tradin’ of yours?” asked Jeb.
“Well no, I ain’t told him yet. How much can I have? I’ll take hit in silver like Granny Trivett, so’s I can hear it rattle in my pocket.”
“Think you’re gettin’ a fortune, eh?” laughed Jeb.
Jeb seemed friendly again, like he did the day the spring freshet turned his store roundabout. Or, was it only because Lucy Sutherland was listening? You never could tell about Jeb, whether he was your friend or not.
There was the banjo, hanging by the window, glittering like a ripe gourd in the sun.
“Oh Jeb!” cried Billy, his eyes sparkling. “I’m cravin’ that banjo more’n anything else in the world. Will you trade hit for my baskets?”
“Law no!” snorted Jeb angrily. He spat on the floor behind the counter. “That banjo’s worth money.”
“Well, give me money then.”
“You little ole fool, I can’t give you money,” growled Jeb. “You’d have to make baskets till Judgment Day before you’d earn that banjo.”
Jeb was cranky again. Billy realized he shouldn’t have mentioned the banjo.
Jerusha Wilcox came in and Lucy Sutherland got up off her chair, but she wasn’t ready to go yet. She asked Jerusha to wait a while longer.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Jeb, now conscious of his audience. “I’ll give you credit.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ll write it down in my book—the amount you get—each time I sell one of your baskets. I’ll write it down and tot it up. And when you’ve got enough for the banjo, I’ll tell you.”
Billy thought it over. The offer seemed fair enough.
“But I wanted money,” he said.
“You might lose silver, or have it stole,” warned Jeb, “and then where’d you get a banjo? Credit’s the same as money that I’m keepin’ for you—keepin’ safe.”
“But somebody might could come in and buy the banjo with money,” said Billy, “before I get enough baskets made.”
