Blue Ridge Billy

by Lois Lenski

  “Mammy told me to come,” answered Billy. “She told me to run tell her quick when you begun to notch the tree.”

  “She did, eh?”

  Pappy walked on with Ollie Holbrook and soon the two disappeared in the brush.

  “Reckon they’re a-goin’ to the still?” whispered Sarey Sue.

  “What still?” Granny’s voice was sharp.

  “They’re headin’ for No Man’s Cove,” insisted the girl. “Hit’s right down yonder, below the cowcumber tree.”

  “Sarey Sue!” scolded Granny. “How often do I got to tell you to keep your mouth shut and mind your own business?”

  Billy glared at the girl. She was so dumb sometimes. “My Pap ain’t runnin’ no still,” he said angrily. “He’s gone off that-a-way just to cover his tracks. He’s really headin’ for …” How could he tell Granny his own Pap was going to run her out of her home? He paused, then added lamely, “You’d better hurry home quick!”

  “Oh Gran, did you see them big blackberries we passed on the way up?” cried Sarey Sue. “Right there by that slick old rock?”

  “Granny,” Billy began again, “if Pap comes … Mammy said if Pap comes to your house … and tries to start somethin’——”

  “Why, your Pap won’t have no leg left to stand on,” laughed Granny. “I ain’t afeared one mite.”

  Billy shook his head. Granny refused to see danger even when it was coming straight at her. They walked leisurely down the mountain, picking blackberries along the trail. Billy picked with them. Granny insisted on filling her two buckets. Sarey Sue made a gay story about the chimney falling down, and told how Billy took the rocks out.

  When they reached the cabin, they saw a horse hitched to a land sled, standing at the foot of the porch. On the sled were loaded the spool bed, the bureau and the two chairs. Ollie Holbrook and Rudy Honeycutt were carrying bedding and kitchen utensils out of the house.

  Granny Trivett set her berries down, then stood still and stared, unable to say a word. Billy stared too. Pap meant what he said, after all. He was moving the Trivetts out.

  “What you doin’, you two?” screamed Sarey Sue, rushing up and shaking her fists at the men. “Settin’ us out in the road? Where can we go? Where can we go?”

  “Hush up, gal young un,” said Granny.

  “You can go to your kinfolks,” said Pappy in a loud voice.

  Then Billy remembered what Mammy had told him to say. He whispered something in Granny’s ear.

  “Yes, son,” said Granny. “That’s a good i-dee. But first, I’m fixin’ to go in my house and git somethin’. Them stones fallin’ down in that old-timey chimney made me recollect …”

  When she came out, she had one apron pocket well padded and two strong safety-pins holding it shut. Sarey Sue brought her accordion and hugged it close. Without a word to the two men, Granny went with Billy down the trail, while Sarey Sue followed at their heels.

  Mammy met Granny at the door, found her a chair and put chicken on the kitchen stove to fry. Then she heated a tub of water, so Sarey Sue could take a bath and wash the soot off.

  “What with all the work of keepin’ one’s soul alive,” said Granny, “a body don’t have much time for neighborin’.”

  “You said a true word,” replied Mammy. “You’re welcome, Granny, you and Sarey Sue, to stay as long as you’re a mind to. I’ll fix up your bed in the parlor.”

  “In the parlor?” cackled Granny, with a twinkle in her eye. “Lordy mercy, Ruthie, I never knowed you-uns was fine folks!”

  Sarey Sue insisted on being shown all over the house, as if she had never been inside before. She touched everything in every room, asking, “Whose is this?” until Letty Jo got tired of answering her, and said, “It just belongs to the family.”

  “Bless goodness!” said Sarey Sue, with a restful sigh.

  The new arrivals made themselves at home quickly.

  “Let me help you string them beans, Ruthie, and cut up them punkins,” said Granny, “so you can get ’em dried for winter.” With a large darning needle, she began to string the bean pods on a long string.

  Sarey Sue played her gayest tune on her dead Pappy’s accordion, while Billy watched and listened.

  When Pappy brought the sled-load of furniture down, he stopped by the door and came marching into the kitchen. “Where’s Gran goin’?” he asked Mammy. “Where do I haul her plunder to?”

  “Take hit around to the front door,” said Mammy. “They’re stayin’ here, Granny and Sarey Sue. I’m makin’ up their bed in the parlor.”

  Pappy’s mouth fell open. “What did you say?”

  “They’re fixin’ to stay till you mend their chimney, Rudy,” said Mammy. “Hit ain’t safe, with rocks fallin’ down every day. That ole cabin ain’t fitten for a chicken to live in. Roof leaks too—you’ll have to get Uncle Pozy to rive ’em some clapboards for a new roof.”

  “I told ’em to go to their kinfolks,” said Pappy, frowning.

  “They ain’t got no kin but us,” said Mammy, with a gleam of triumph in her eye. “Them that sets traps sometimes goes and puts their foot in ’em.”

  There was no answer to that. There was nothing for Pappy to do but let them stay.

  But he did not like it. He hated Granny’s cackle and her everlasting chatter. He disliked Sarey Sue’s giggle and the noisy clamor of her accordion, which she played any time, day or night. It was bad enough when they were all over the mountain, but it was still worse to have them all over his own house.

  “They got to get out o’ here!” Pappy said at last. “I’ll take ’em anywheres!”

  “You don’t have to go far,” said Mammy, with a smile. “All they want is to go half-way back up the mountain.”

  “Then why don’t they go?”

  “Granny won’t go till you look at that paper of her Granpap’s,” said Mammy. “She had it hid behind a stone in that ole-timey chimney, and forgot hit. When the rocks fell out, she found hit again.”

  “Fiddlesticks! I’ll give her the house and the cowcumber tree and the whole mountain, if she’ll go and take that gal young un with that ear-bustin’ cantrapshun away from here,” threatened Pappy.

  “You won’t give ’em to her,” said Mammy. “They’re hers already.”

  Pappy looked at Granny’s paper, and when he handed it back, he said, “All right. I’ll mend the chimney and fix the roof. Get ’em out of here.”

  The very next day the Trivetts moved home again.

  CHAPTER XI

  The Cry of a Panther

  “I see my mule a-comin’

  He’s a-comin’ with a smile;

  If you don’t watch out

  He’ll kick you half a mile …”

  “Whoa mule! Whoa, I say! Ary letter for me, Miss Viney?”

  Old Bet was getting older and bonier, and Billy’s long legs seemed to almost touch the ground, as he leaned over and put his head in at the post-office door.

  As usual, the postmistress shook her head. “Who’d be awritin’ to you, Billy Honeycutt?”

  “Dunno … but the mail-wagon’s always bringin’ the mailbag over from the depot, with letters in hit, and——”

  “Go ’long with you now. Shoo!” Miss Viney lifted her broom to chase him from the door.

  “Hi, there, son!” called a hearty voice. “Where you been a-keepin’ yourself?”

  There in the road stood Uncle Pozy with a load of baskets. He was on his way to Jeb Dotson’s store. All summer long, Billy had never once gone to see him, and had purposely avoided him. Now he could not escape.

  “How be ye, son?” asked the old man.

  “Common,” grunted Billy.

  “You ain’t been to see me lately, son.”

  “No, sir,” said Billy. “Right smart o’ work to do at home.”

  “Sold all your baskets, didn’t ye, son? And so did I. Mighty lucky, wasn’t we, to find such a good customer? Did Jeb tell you about Miz Lucy Sutherland who bought ’em all and paid money f
or ’em?”

  Billy hung his head and did not reply.

  “I reckoned you’d come over right soon after that,” Uncle Pozy went on, “to make a heap more. See how many I’ve made? But you never come. I been hankerin’ for you, son. Livin’ all alone like I do, I kinda craved your company.…”

  “I ain’t makin’ no more baskets,” said Billy bluntly

  Uncle Pozy pondered the boy’s reply but did not question it.

  “Likely you’ve been practisin’ on your dulci-more,” he said, smiling. “Like as not you’re so busy makin’ purty music, ye ain’t got time to make old ugly baskets.…”

  Then it came out. “Don’t never want to see nary dulci-more again, long as I live!”

  “What you done with hit, son?” asked Uncle Pozy, startled.

  “Pap burnt hit up in the fire first day he seen it,” the boy blurted out. “Ain’t had none the whole endurin’ summer.”

  “Shoo, now!” Uncle Pozy’s voice was full of sympathy. “Ain’t that just too bad. But you come from a tune-makin’ family, Billy. All your Mammy’s folks can sing and play, and you got the knack for it, I can tell. Your Pap ought to sense that. Hit ain’t somethin’ he can step on and stamp out. Hit’s there and hit’s bound to grow. Course I don’t want to set you agin your Pappy.… Why, there’s your Mammy’s brother, Fiddlin’ Jamie, the best fiddler in the mountains, a singin’ fiddler too.…” Uncle Pozy paused.

  “Would hit pleasure you to come and spend the day with me,” he asked, “and make you another dulci-more, son?”

  “Never want to see none again, long as I live!” repeated Billy.

  “Would hit pleasure you to play on my dulci-more now and again?”

  “Never want to see nary dulci-more again, I said.”

  Uncle Pozy pondered. He could see that the boy had been deeply hurt.

  “Do you see them cousins o’ yours in Last Hope Holler sometimes?” he asked.

  “Pappy says they’re sorry old boys——” began Billy.

  “But your Mammy lets you go spend the day with ’em now and again, ’cause they’re your kinfolks, don’t she?”

  “Law, yes,” admitted Billy.

  “They’re as fine a batch o’ boys as ever I see,” said Uncle Pozy. “Good workers, but ready for a bit o’ fun, too. Hit pleasures you to go visit ’em, don’t hit?

  “Law, yes,” said Billy, smiling feebly.

  Uncle Pozy turned to go to the store. Billy gave Old Bet a slap on the rump and started off.

  “Your Uncle Jamie’s got a mighty fine fiddle!” Uncle Pozy shouted loudly so Billy could hear it over the clop-clop of the little gray mule’s hoofs. “A mighty fine fiddle … a mighty fine fiddle …” the words seemed to sing themselves over and over again, as Old Bet trotted along.

  He hadn’t told Uncle Pozy, but he was on his way to Uncle Jamie’s in Last Hope Hollow. He’d worked hard, helping cut the hay and stack it in the pastures, and fence the stacks in. He’d hoed corn all summer till it was laid by, and after that, pulled fodder for days. So when Pappy went off to the county seat, Mammy said he deserved a rest and sent him to Uncle Jamie’s. He was to spend the night too.

  The boys were out when he got there, so he sat down in the front room and had a good visit with Uncle Jamie and Aunt Tallie and Ettie Bell. After they had talked a while, Uncle Jamie took down his fiddle and began to play. Billy forgot everything else as he listened.

  “Want to try hit, Bill?” Uncle Jamie handed over the fiddle and bow. “Not one of them boys o’ mine takes to hit. You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him play the fiddle.”

  It was very different from the dulcimer, but Billy hadn’t watched Fiddlin’ Jamie all his life for nothing. He liked the feel of the fiddle under his chin and the bow in his hands. With a few instructions from his uncle, he was soon playing a passable tune.

  “Not bad, not bad!” said Uncle Jamie, in great excitement. “Shake hit out, boy, shake hit out! Ruthie’s boy will be a fiddler yet. Won’t she be the plumb tickledest woman in the mountains! I’ll tell you what I want you to do, Bill. You come over whenever you can and soon I’ll have you rattlin’ some bang-up tunes outa that little ole fiddle o’ mine. You’ve got the knack, Lord love ye!”

  Glen and Jack came tearing in, with Rick not far behind them. “Have you heard the news?” they cried.

  “What news?” asked Billy.

  “There’s a panther loose in the mountains!” He pronounced the word “painter.”

  Uncle Jamie threw back his head and laughed.

  “You needn’t laugh, Pap!” said Rick. “Hit’s been seen on Phoenix Mountain.”

  “Hit killed a pig on Jeff Allison’s farm and two sheep in Harm Higgins’ pasture,” said Glen, his eyes bulging.

  “And Lem Bowlin seen it today on his way to Wiley’s mill,” added Jack.

  “Golly!” cried Billy. “Right here on Little Laurel Creek?”

  “Yep,” said Rick. “Guess what I’m fixin’ to do. I’m goin’ out tonight and ketch that ere painter.”

  The boys looked at each other. “We’ll all go,” they said.

  “Go ahead!” laughed Uncle Jamie. “You’re only young once!”

  “We’ll camp on the mountain all night,” said Jack.

  Aunt Tallie had a good supper as she always did, and afterwards, the boys began their preparations. They put corn-bread and biscuits in a sack and got two guns, but decided that blankets were too heavy to carry. They put oil in the lantern. The dogs came running, all four of them—Troop, Nip, Punch and Gum.

  “We’ll take the hounds,” said Rick. “Old Gum too—he’s part bull-dog—for protection.”

  “There’s a big rock-cave up on Laurel Mountain,” said Jack, as they started out. “The painter might be denning in there.”

  “We’d ought to go where the varmint’s been seen,” said Rick. “We’ll go by Wiley’s mill first, then cut across Harm Higgins’ pasture and come up around Jeff Allison’s farm.”

  “Then if the dogs don’t get no scent, we can go on up to the cave,” said Jack.

  The boys agreed. They followed Little Laurel Creek till they came to Wiley’s mill. The sun had just gone down over the mountain, and the little valley was bathed in a soft purple glow. The boys listened carefully, but there was no noise except the rushing of water over the water wheel.

  “Painters prowl when they’re hungry,” said Glen, “mostly early morning and right after sundown. This is just the time for ’em to be out.”

  Lee Wiley’s house looked quiet and peaceful beside the mill. The boys saw his wife go in the back door carrying two buckets of milk.

  “Aw, this ain’t no fun,” complained Jack, “a-huntin’ a painter when there ain’t none. Pap said the painters was all killed out forty years ago.”

  “Not all!” protested Rick. “Lem Bowlin said he seen one today.”

  They followed a winding dirt road which curled around and up the side of Ivy Mountain. All the way to Harm Higgins’ place, which was perched like a bird’s nest on the steep slope, the boys grew more doubtful of the panther’s existence.

  “I tell you what let’s do,” suggested Rick. “Let’s make out like there is a painter loose, and see if we can scare folks.”

  The boys agreed this would be fun.

  “You do the squealing, Rick,” said Billy. “You got the singingest voice. I recollect how you called them quail that time and they come up and walked all over you. Likely you can make a noise like a painter too.”

  “I never heard none,” said Rick, “but I’ll try.”

  They perched themselves on a rail fence, where the road made a bend in plain view of Harm Higgins’ house. The hounds and Old Gum lay down quietly.

  “What’s that house all lit up for?” asked Billy.

  “Golly!” said Glen. “I clear forgot. Higgins’ wife died today, Mammy said. All the neighbors is there, settin’ up all night.”

  “They say painters like to hang round where somebo
dy’s dead,” said Rick, laughing. “A good chance to scare all them folks. I’ll just see what I can do.” He let out a high-pitched cry which shivered with a long-drawn-out tremolo.

  “Golly, that was wonderful, Rick!” said Billy.

  “Hit sounded just like a woman a-screamin’. That’s the way a painter does hit, I heard Pap say,” added Glen.

  “Looky! Looky!” cried Jack, pointing to the house.

  They saw the door open and a shaft of light shine out. They saw a number of people come out on the porch to listen.

  “I’d better give ’em somethin’ more to hear,” said Rick. He gave his cry again, loud and long.

  “Let’s run,” said Jack, “afore some o’ them men come to shoot the painter.”

  So they all ran. “We’ll make for Jeff Allison’s farm now,” said Rick, “where the pig was killed.”

  They cut across several cornfields and pastures, and came within sight of the Allison house. Rick wailed his panther cry again.

  Allison’s dog came running out, barking furiously. Glen held the dogs back and told them to keep quiet. Allison’s dog sniffed around a bit, then ran back to the house.

  “Hit’s that painter again,” they heard Allison say, as he stood on his front porch. “The dog’s smelled hit, and hit’s scared the gizzard outa him!” He took the dog indoors and soon the light in the window went out.

  “Jeff ain’t takin’ no chances when there’s a painter loose,” laughed Rick. “He’s goin’ straight to bed, him and his dog.”

  “Let’s give him somethin’ to see when he gets up in the mornin’,” said Jack. “Let’s show him the painter’s been here.”

  They took out their knives and made scratches on some fence rails, throwing several down on the ground. They scratched the bark of a tree to imitate the work of a panther’s claws.

  “Why don’t he come out and shoot it, when hit’s scared his dog so bad?” asked Glen.

  “Oh golly, we better go, afore he starts shootin’,” said Billy.

  “Likely he ain’t got no gun or pistol,” said Rick. “He’ll come over tomorrow to try to borry some from Pappy. And Pappy’ll lend him some, and he’ll get all the men on the mountain out a-chasin’ a booger painter!”