Raven 2

by D M Barrett

  “Get your stuff and get out of here. This weather’s getting worse and we need everyone off this mountain,” Preacher Mann yelled.

  “My ankle is broken. That’s why we spent the night here,” Jackie Tubbs replied.

  “Let’s go in and see what we’re up against,” Sheriff Hankins said.

  The small cave entrance turned into a large 30-foot by 30-foot room with a 50-foot ceiling. The smoke from the small fire seemed to ventilate well through the cave opening and openings further back in the cave. The room was pretty well lit close to the small fire.

  “How bad is the break, preacher?” the sheriff inquired.

  “He won’t be walking down this mountain without some major splinting and assistance,” Preacher Mann opined.

  “What’s your best idea?” Sheriff Hankins asked.

  “Why is it always my idea?” the preacher replied with slight exasperation.

  “You’re the Lord’s man. You have a law degree and a divinity degree. You were trained for survival by the U.S. Army. I’m just a poor, barely literate lawman,” Sheriff Hankins said as he winked at the two boys.

  “Take this wool coat. Use your pocket knife to cut out the red satin lining and spread it across the bushes on the right side of this cave,” the preacher instructed.

  “While the sheriff followed the preacher’s instructions, the preacher looked at the floor of the cave and then at the small fire. What he saw at that moment made him smile with glee.

  “How did you start that fire?” the preacher inquired.

  “Jackie had a flint rock and I struck my knife against it,” Charles Martin responded.

  “I’m asking you where that coal came from,” the preacher explained.

  “Oh, I found it on the floor. There’re lots of small, fist-sized and smaller pieces scattered around. We figured it fell from the ceiling,” Charles Martin explained.

  Sheriff Hankins and the Preacher looked at the roof of the cave at the same time. Several wide veins of black outlined the roof of the cave as well as the upper interior walls.

  “I know what you’re thinking. I know how your mind works,” Sheriff Hankins said with a laugh.

  Let’s get these young men down this mountain and I’ll tell you what Moses said to the children of Israel when the Egyptian army was behind them and the Red Sea was in front of them,” Preacher Mann responded.

  “Come on, don’t keep me in suspense. What did he say?” Sheriff Hankins pleaded.

  “Stand still and see the salvation of the Lord, which He will show you today,” the preacher quoted.

  “Amen, brother. Bring it on Lord,” Sheriff Hankins shouted.

  * **

  Sheriff Hankins and Preacher Mann decided to get some early dinner at the BlueBird Café. It wasn’t long after they had ordered their food that Jack Wright and Louis Barrett stopped there, too.

  “I followed the boys to Dr. Marcus Whitman’s office. He checked them both out and put a cast on Jackie Tubbs’ foot. They were in good spirits when their parents took them home,” Louis Barrett reported.

  “Well, I made my peace with Deputy Tom Kelly. We both acknowledged a serious breakdown in communications. It’s a forgotten incident. Preacher, I handed him back his revolver like you told me,” Jack Wright explained.

  “I guess the Lost Boys is the story for Friday’s edition of The Mountain Gazette because what happens at the store stays at the store according to Jack Wright,” Louis Barrett remarked.

  “Preacher Mann’s got you a story just right for next Friday,” Sheriff Hankins said.

  “Are you turning into a news correspondent preacher?” Louis Barrett asked.

  “Jack Wright has got that as a lifetime second job,” the preacher remarked.

  “Tell the town busybody the news. I know that’s what you think about my naturally inquisitive nature,” the merchant said with a sigh.

  “Sheriff Hankins let me use his phone to call Blue Diamond Coal Company in Perry County, Kentucky. They’re sending people down on Tuesday to sample the coal veins and evaluate Buck Mountain for a local mine,” Preacher Mann reported.

  “Now that’s a news story. Keep talking, preacher,” the newspaper editor urged.

  “The owner said that the fact it rather uneventfully burned in the cave could be an indication that it’s very low sulfur coal,” Preacher Mann continued.

  “He told the preacher that low sulfur coal is better quality and worth more per ton than other types of coal,” Sheriff Hankins added.

  “Who owns Buck Mountain?” Jack Wright asked.

  “They’ll sure be raking in the cash if there’s enough coal for a long mining stint,” Louis Barrett opined.

  “Should I tell them, preacher?” Sheriff Hankins asked with a chuckle.

  “Please, do the honor,” the preacher instructed.

  “It’s owned by three families: the Tubbs and the Martins – and the Kellys,” Sheriff Hankins announced.

  After a long pause, the preacher said, “I guess it’s fortuitous that Jack Wright made his peace with Deputy Kelly. With all that money coming in, Ned and Thelma might have set him up in business as a serious competitor.”

  “Preacher, I might have big ears like you claim, but they help me hear those Sunday sermons,” Jack Wright said.

  “Yep, they’ve saved my ass a few times, too,” Sheriff Hankins quipped.

  “James 1:19 tells us all to be ‘swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath.’ After the incident this morning, we all need that counsel,” Preacher Mann replied.

  In unison, they all said, “Amen!”

  4.

  The Goat Man

  The preacher had finished bathing in warm water provided by the portable, electric water heater. He had dressed in a pair of jeans and a long-sleeve green and blue plaid shirt. He looked more like a field hand than a preacher. But Monday was his day off or the preacher’s Sabbath as Jack Wright called it.

  Once his morning prayer and scripture studies were finished, the preacher intended to make a quick trip to Discount Grocery to re-stock on groceries. As he turned off the small electric lamp in his sleeping room, he heard a familiar knock on his door.

  When the preacher opened the meetinghouse door, Jack Wright said, “Louis Barrett was at the store a few minutes ago. He asked me to fetch you while he went to get Dr. Marcus Whitman.”

  “What’s the situation?” the preacher asked.

  “He said that he had someone that needed both a doctor and a preacher. I doubt they’re long for this world,” Jack Wright replied.

  “Indeed,” the preacher remarked.

  The two men walked across Highway 70 to Discount Grocery. The preacher noticed a plume of black smoke rising from the east. It appeared to be a couple miles past Miss Rosie’s Bed & Breakfast.

  “What do you think is on fire down the road?” Preacher Mann queried.

  “That’s The Goat Man’s fire. When he stops at a place, he sets chunks of old tires ablaze for a campfire,” the storekeeper replied.

  “Why does he build a fire with wood and chunks of old tires?” the preacher asked.

  “It’s like that sermon you preach about the Israelites wandering in the wilderness,” the merchant said.

  “Which part of the story are you talking about?” the preacher inquired.

  “It’s where you talk about the Israelites having a pillar of cloud in the daytime and a pillar of fire at night. The Goat Man’s fire gives his campsite recognition by having the smoke in the daytime and the light from a huge fire at night. People recognize when he’s passing through the area,” Jack Wright explained.

  The two men arrived at almost the same time that Louis Barrett pulled in front of the store in his black, 1936 Ford truck. Dr. Marcus Whitman exited the truck carrying his medical case.

  All four men made their way into Discount Grocery. The preacher had some serious concern about the situation because Dr. Whitman didn’t make house calls except in extreme illnesses or emergencies.

&nb
sp; “What’s all this about, preacher?” Dr. Whitman asked.

  “I haven’t a clue. I was fetched here by Jack Wright at the insistence of Louis Barrett,” Preacher Mann responded.

  “I’ll try to make this story as brief as I can but please be patient,” Louis Barrett pleaded.

  “Say on, brother,” the preacher said.

  “Early this morning I went east down Highway 70 to interview The Goat Man,” Louis Barrett said.

  “I’m not familiar with this goat man,” the preacher said.

  “Neither am I,” Dr. Whitman added.

  “The Goat Man is from Iowa. His real name is Ches McCartney. He lost his farm during the early years of this depression. He took to traveling through the country living on goat’s milk, goat cheese, and food he bought from donations, and the postcard pictures that he sells of him, his goats, and the goat wagon,” Jack Wright explained.

  “He sits by the roadside and extols the virtue of goats, goat’s milk, goat cheese, and not sinning. He’s a preacher of sorts, too,” Louis Barrett added.

  “Are his sermons effective?” Preacher Mann inquired.

  “Only partially,” The newspaper editor replied.

  “Is it the content or the delivery?” the preacher queried.

  “His language is pretty salty. Most folks around here aren’t used to hearing a preacher cuss,” Louis Barrett said with a smile.

  “I’m glad they weren’t around when Clifton Clowers’ daughter, Margie, accused the preacher of debauching her,” Jack Wright said with a laugh.

  “Gentlemen, I’m sure The Goat Man is quite an interesting character. I have patients to treat and I need to know why the town’s preacher and doctor have been summoned,” Dr. Whitman said impatiently.

  “I’ll just take you to The Goat Man’s campsite and he can tell you himself,” Louis Barrett offered.

  “I’m glad you’re not wearing your preacher’s clothes,” Jack Wright opined.

  “You’d never get the stench out of the cloth. I sold him a new pair of overalls two years ago and it took me several months to get the smell out of the store. I would have been better off catching him at the door and donating the overalls,” Jack Wright said with a chuckle.

  “Joe Scott has chemicals that’ll even take away skunk sent. I think we’ll be all right,” Dr. Whitman replied.

  * **

  Louis Barrett drove the preacher and the doctor down Highway 70 East past Miss Rosie’s Bed and Breakfast to the campsite of The Goat Man. It was definitely a sight to behold.

  The Goat Man had, as Preacher Mann counted, seventeen goats of differing sizes and ages. He traveled in a four-wheeled, wooden wagon with a wood-constructed, shingled roof. It resembled a shack on wheels. It was covered with several large washtubs, cooking utensils, and every sort of junk, debris, and refuse imaginable.

  A closer look revealed that the iron wheeled wagon was overloaded with pots, pans, car tags, lanterns, five-gallon pails, and bales of hay hanging from the sides. There is no doubt that it clanked and clattered as it traveled down the two-lane roads. It brought to mind what the inside of a goat’s stomach might resemble.

  The Goat Man’s appearance was pitiful, to say the least. His clothes were old, tattered, and soiled beyond belief. His salt and pepper hair and beard were long and shabby. Jack Wright wrote in his journal that it ‘reminded him of a stump full of Daddy Long Legs.’

  The smell wafted through the open windows of Louis Barrett’s truck. It was so acrid that the trio had to exit the vehicle and get into the fresh, breezy air.

  While the physician and preacher gazed in astonishment, Louis Barrett said, “You can purchase a postcard for a 25-cent donation or three cards for a dollar. I had to reprint 200 postcards for a two-hour interview.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Three cards for a dollar is 33 1/3 cents per card. That’s a higher price per card than buying a single card for a quarter,” Dr. Whitman observed.

  “I asked him about that. Mr. McCartney said it was because a person was getting the whole collection,” Louis Barrett said with a chuckle.

  “I guess the whole is worth more than the sum of the parts,” the preacher opined.

  “No doubt,” Dr. Marcus Whitman responded.

  When The Goat Man noticed Louis Barrett was driving, he motioned for the men to gather with him around the campfire. The three men walked in his direction. He motioned for them to sit on three of the wooden fruit boxes near the fire. They all chose seats upwind of The Goat Man, his wagon, and his goats.

  It was a cool day in early April. It was in the low sixties but the spring breeze made the shaded roadside campsite a little brisk at times. The campfire served to make the roadside respite a comfortable temperature.

  “I’m Ches McCartney. I’m your Goat Man,” Mr. McCartney said.

  Pointing to Dr. Marcus Whitman and then to Preacher Mann, Louis Barrett said, “I fetched the town doctor and preacher just like you asked.”

  “I guess two out of three ain’t bad,” The Goat Man said with a chuckle.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. Here are 250 postcards for that long interview,” the newspaper man said as he handed the cards to Ches McCartney.

  “The deal was for 200 cards. The Goat Man ain’t about no charity,” Mr. McCartney said firmly.

  “I couldn’t waste any paper and ink. The print run came out to 250 cards. I would have had to throw the extras away so I brought them for you. I’m happy with the deal,” Louis Barrett responded.

  “Much obliged. I’m much obliged for you fetching this preacher and doctor, too,” The Goat Man said.

  “How can we help you?” Preacher Man asked.

  “If the doctor can help, you may be off the hook, preacher,” Chez McCartney said with a smile.

  “I noticed that your left arm is mangled. Is it giving you problems? What caused the injury?” Dr. Whitman inquired.

  “Several years ago, I was working for the WPA in Iowa. I had the misfortune of a large tree falling across my body and shattering my left side. I lay there for hours until I was found. I was pronounced dead and taken to the morgue.

  “Luckily the mortician was slow. By the time he got to working on me, life came back into my body and I regained consciousness. It was as if I had been raised from the dead,” The Goat Man explained.

  “That’s remarkable,” Dr. Whitman responded.

  “Well, I ended up a cripple but I do all right. I ain’t unhappy,” Ches McCartney said.

  “What caused you to call for a doctor?” Preacher Mann inquired.

  “It’s Ol’ Billy,” The Goat Man said with a break in his voice.

  “Who is Old Billy and what’s his condition?” Dr. Marcus Whitman asked in a rather clinical tone.

  “Ol’ Billy is my biggest and oldest goat. He’s my best friend in this world. We’ve been through a lot of good times and some really tough times.

  During the tough times, we always talked about greener grass down the road. We’d pray for a few postcard sales on the morrow. He got older and slower but he never complained,” The Goat Man replied.

  “What’s wrong with Ol’ Billy?” Preacher Mann asked.

  “Back on Christmas Eve, we were camped in Hickman County, down in west Tennessee. I walked out in a couple inches of new-fallen snow and found Ol’ Billy lying on his side. I thought he was a goner. He was limp and unconscious. I pulled a hunting arrow out of his side,” Ches McCartney explained with a tear making its way down his right cheek.

  “What did you do? How did you treat him? What kept him alive?” Dr. Marcus Whitman asked quickly.

  “I prayed that God would send some passers-by to help. A semi-retired doctor headed to Nashville stopped by and treated Ol’ Billy. He stitched him up and left me some pills to give him for ten days. He said he doubted that my friend would make it, despite what he did,” The Goat Man said.

  “What’s his condition now?” Dr. Whitman inquired.

  “Time went on and I put him on some new hay in t
he front of the wagon. He got better each week but his pulling days were over. He could walk but he’d get tired easily. He really got worse during those big snows and cold weather. He’s not able to walk, and he hasn’t eaten in the past week,” Mr. McCartney continued.

  “Can I examine him?” the physician asked.

  “Yeah, he’s in the front of the wagon lying down,” Chez McCartney said as he stood and motioned for the men to follow him.

  Doctor Whitman climbed up into the wagon and examined Ol’ Billy. He listened to his heart and lungs. He felt his pulse. He shined a light into his eyes. Old Billy lay there motionless and didn’t make a sound.

  “It appears that he’s suffering from pneumonia and that he has a residual infection from that puncture wound from his side. He’s in a lot of pain. He’s going to die, but he’ll do a lot of suffering before he passes,” Dr. Whitman opined.

  “Isn’t there anything that you can do for Ol’ Billy?” The Goat Man pleaded.

  “I can have the local pharmacist to mix up something that I can use to put him to sleep. He will drift off like going to sleep. That’s the best I can offer,” Dr. Marcus Whitman said.

  “How much will that cost?” The Goat Man asked.

  “A three postcard collection for me and one for Joe Scott, the pharmacist,” Dr. Whitman said.

  “That’s fair. That’s more than fair. Let’s do it,” Ches McCartney said.

  “I’ll get the newspaper man to take me to Scott’s Apothecary, get the formula compounded, and come back. It’ll probably take about half an hour. You can discuss funeral things with Preacher Mann,” Dr. Marcus said as he faced Louis Barrett and nodded toward the truck.

  “I’m deeply sorrowful for you and Ol’ Billy, Mr. McCartney. How can I be of help to you?” Preacher Mann asked.

  “I can get Ol’ Billy buried. I can say a few words over him and commit him to the earth and his soul to the Lord. That’s iffin’ an old billy goat has a soul. But I needed you here to talk about something more serious,” The Goat Man said.

  “Are you ill? Do you need medicine? Do you need a place to rest for an extended period of time?” the preacher asked rapidly.