by Jan Watson
“Now, Jay, that chicken’s not suffering. Once you cut off the head, it can’t feel pain. That’s just a reflex.”
“You know that story in the Bible where the pigs run over a cliff? That’s what it puts me in mind of. Maybe that chicken’s demon possessed.”
Cara had no reply. Sometimes Jay was too quick for her. “Why don’t you ask your daddy about that?”
She retrieved the pullet, dunked it in scalding water to loosen the feathers, plucked it, and singed the pinfeathers off before gutting it and cutting it up for the skillet. When she was finished, she had twelve pieces plus the liver. “Do you want to do the gizzard, Jay?”
“I reckon,” he said, taking it and washing out the grit. “I don’t mind any part of killing chickens once I know the thing’s really dead.”
Cara smiled at the brave little boy. “How about the eating part? I cut the pulley bone out just for you.”
“Thanks, Aunt Cara.” Jay added the clean gizzard to the pan. “How’d you know that’s my favorite?”
Ace had just finished saying grace over fried chicken, cream gravy, biscuits hot from the oven, cabbage slaw, new potatoes with pearl onions, and cold sweet tea when they heard a “Hello, anybody to home?” from the yard.
Cara stood so quickly her chair nearly tipped over. “That sounds like Big Boy Randall. He must be back from his visit with Dimm.”
Ace, Jay, and Wilton headed for the door. Ace pushed it open. “Come on in here, Big Boy. Dance will fix you a plate.”
Dance had one baby on her lap and another hanging off her leg.
“Don’t get up,” Cara told her. “Big Boy can have my place.” She left her chair and took a seat on the bench with the children.
Soon Big Boy was polishing off his second helping. He’d talked a little but not much, for he was too busy eating. Cara steered her heart toward patience. She’d waited this long; she could wait a little longer.
“I’m finished,” Jay said. “Can I go see Pancake?”
“Me too,” Wilton chimed.
“Go on,” Ace allowed. “But stay away from his backside. Mules got a powerful kick.”
Cara picked little Cleve up off the floor. She mashed a potato with gravy and fed him small bites.
Big Boy patted his stomach. “My, my, my. I was so hungry my belly was eating my backbone.”
Ace and Cara exchanged glances.
“Is there something you’re holding back from us about Dimm?” Ace asked.
Fear made Cara’s whole body tingle. She was thinking the same thing but couldn’t voice it. “Something has happened. I know it.” Clutching Cleve, she stood and began to pace the kitchen. Cleve waved his spoon, and gravy slopped down the front of Cara’s dress.
“Now, missus, it ain’t as bad as you’d first think,” Big Boy said. A toothpick bobbed in the side of his mouth. “Dimmert’s been through a rough patch, but things are looking up.”
Cara felt suddenly weak.
Dance handed the baby to Ace and took Cleve. “Cara, you sit down.” She poured Cara another glass of tea. “Tell it like it is,” she said to Big Boy. “It cain’t be worse than what she’s conjuring in her mind.”
CHAPTER 21
HENRY GREW MORE SUSPICIOUS each day. Someone was minding his business, and he couldn’t figure out who. He’d spent Wednesday in the Perry County Courthouse looking through record books to see if Ace had been charged with a crime over there. He got in late, tired and frustrated, only to find evidence that somebody had been snooping around in the stable. From the size of the muddled shoe prints he studied, it looked like a big kid or a woman.
It made no sense, but he’d started leaving Daisy in the stable whenever he went out. Obviously Lester wasn’t much of a watchdog—not to mention he’d not been much help in training Daisy to hunt. Not that she needed it. That dog was sharp. Daisy had outshone herself the last time he took her coon hunting with some local men and their hounds.
Henry laid his tools neatly on the workbench. He’d spent the early morning changing the lock on both his office door and the one to the back room. When you had a lot to lose—and he did—it paid to be extra careful. Lester circled his bed and plopped down. He didn’t want to do anything but sleep.
Henry pulled his watch fob from his pocket and flipped the watchcase open. Time to get back to business. Sam Follett needed help settling a property line dispute, and Henry was meeting him shortly. Sam’s neighbor had stirred up a ruckus, saying Sam had not surveyed the property correctly. The neighbor claimed a stand of black walnut trees belonged to him. While scouting the land in question, Henry discovered the crumbling rock foundation of an old cabin. Sam said his great-grandparents set up housekeeping there many years ago.
Leaving the door open a crack, he entered the office and took his seat behind the desk. He rarely met clients at the door. It was best that they saw him as a person with authority early on. As he rubbed his chin with his palm, he realized he hadn’t shaved this morning. What was happening to him? His mind was so stirred up over everything he couldn’t keep life straight anymore.
Dipping a pen in the inkwell that sat ever ready on his desk, he started a list.
1. Why were charges dropped against Ace Shelton after killing of man at still?
2. Check newspaper accounts from the time.
3. If need arises, call in a favor from the sheriff in Perry. . . .
His mind wandered. The bell over the door dinged. Henry loved that ding; it sounded like money. Sam Follett walked in. As Henry slid the list into the desk drawer, he noticed number four read: Darcy Mae Whitt. Foolish as a schoolboy, he’d put exclamations after her name. He was losing it.
Sam Follett’s case was much easier than Henry had expected. The man held no grudges and was more than willing to let his neighbor encroach a bit on his property line if it helped settle the affair.
Henry was astounded. Property was property, and as far as he was concerned, every inch was important. “You don’t have to give up any of your holdings to this fellow. We can prove what’s yours. We’ll take it to court if necessary.”
“I’d thought to take a sled over there and haul Grandpa’s rocks over to my place. The rest I don’t care so much about.”
“I believe you should fight for what’s yours. I’m more than willing to help you.”
Sam was elderly, and when he stood to leave, Henry could hear the creak of his bones. “Love your neighbor as yourself,” Sam said. “I reckon I’ll be leaving this old earth shortly, and I don’t want a jot nor a tittle against me in the Lamb’s Book of Life.”
Henry reached across the desk to shake Sam’s weathered hand.
The man might be old, but he held on with a death grip. His watery blue eyes pierced Henry’s own. “What about you, son? What’s writ on your page?”
Henry was taken aback. Nobody had ever questioned the state of his soul before. “It’s probably not pretty—my page.”
Sam leaned in a little farther. “It ain’t too late. Do ye read your Bible?”
“I can’t say as I do.” Henry couldn’t believe what he was revealing to this old gentleman. He had always been careful to keep himself in check—at least until Darcy came along, he’d never shown his feelings to anyone. Not since he was a young child.
With a final squeeze hard enough to bruise, Mr. Follett released his hold. “Prodigal Son,” he said, like it was some special phrase just for Henry. “The Lord loves the Prodigal Son as much as any other. All ye need do is repent and God will welcome you back into the kingdom. The other steps will surely follow.” He reached in his pocket and took out a jingle of silver dollars, which he stacked on Henry’s desk. “I thank ye for your time,” he said, his eyes never leaving Henry’s.
Henry gathered the silver and handed it back. “No charge.”
The bell rang again as Mr. Follett left, but this time it sounded like a warning in Henry’s ears. Turning to the bookcase behind his desk, Henry crouched to see the bottom shelf. Somewhere, he vaguely
remembered, was the Bible he had received when he graduated from law school. There, at the very end wedged against volume XYZ of a leather-covered law tome, was the Bible, Testaments Old and New. Henry eased it out and laid it on his desk. Then he retrieved his list. With pen in hand Henry added:
5. Prodigal Son.
Henry arched his back. He’d been hunched over his desk most of the afternoon, meticulously drawing up a new deed for Mr. Follett. Ridiculous, if you asked him, giving way to someone else just to avoid an argument. Why, people had shot each other for less. Henry tapped the cap of the ink pen against his lower lip. Every time he tried to work up a good head of steam, Mr. Follett’s eyes pierced his consciousness. His insides had been uneasy ever since the old fellow left his office.
Picking up the Bible, he turned it over and over but didn’t crack it open. What could be between its covers that held any import for him? Prodigal Son—yeah, right. Henry Thomas had been son to no one since his grandfather died. And he’d done right well by himself.
Henry walked to the back room door and tried the new lock and key. Perfect, much sturdier. Going to the safe, he let the heavy door swing open. Gold and silver and paper money in stacks didn’t give him the usual delight. Handing back Mr. Follett’s silver had given him more pleasure. Henry rubbed his forehead hard. He was losing his edge.
Daisy came to stand beside him. Her long nose sniffed the strange contents of the safe. Henry closed and locked the door. “You don’t need be nosing around in there. Let’s go check on Lester; then I’ll get you both some supper.”
Daisy loped around back and through the open stable door. Henry followed, checking the fence for loose planks. Lester usually took his afternoon nap in the front yard, right under the office window. But Henry hadn’t noticed him there today. He’d been busy, though.
In the shadow of the stable door, Daisy shook and whimpered. “What now?” Henry said, taking in the dog’s drooped ears and tucked tail. “Daisy, come.” But she didn’t answer his command, a first.
It was Lester, of course. Henry should have known something was wrong when the old dog didn’t follow his usual course. On days when Henry worked at home, he let the dogs roam as much as they liked. Daisy always chose to be at Henry’s side, but Lester’s big adventure was to move from the backyard under the lilac bush to the front yard, snug up under the window. He never did anything but sleep and eat—but he was a master at both.
It hadn’t been long, Henry figured, for the body was still warm. “I’m sorry, old buddy,” he said, stroking the dog’s bony back. He should have spent more time with Lester while there was time to be had. Most of his attention went to Daisy because she was the demanding one, the one who seemed to need him. While Lester . . . well, Lester kept his spot warm and his bowl licked clean.
Half an hour later Henry reined in his horse. He dismounted and lifted Lester down. The body was surprisingly heavy. The shovel struck rock as soon as he started digging, but Henry was determined to bury Lester right there a few feet from the worst roots of a giant water maple. Thankfully, he’d thought to bring an ax and a sledgehammer along with the shovel.
It took longer to dig the grave, what with chopping roots and breaking rock, than it did to ride to the site. But Henry recollected one glorious night when the moon was full and Lester was still the best dog in the county for tracking and treeing. He belonged to Orban Hanson at the time. Orban was rightfully proud of Lester. That one night, Henry remembered, they all followed Lester’s rich, deep bray to this same tree. When Orban flashed his lantern light upward, a dozen pairs of masked eyes looked down at Lester.
Yes, this was the spot all right. Henry figured Lester would have picked it if he could. With Lester’s body in his arms, Henry stood looking down into the open grave. He couldn’t bring himself to dump the body in. The grave looked so raw, so unwelcoming. “I’ll fix this,” he said as if Lester cared.
Back on the horse, he rode to a meadow full of ryegrass and wildflowers he had passed on the way. Once he had a good armload, he went back and lined the grave and eased the old bones down. Lester looked content lying there among nature’s bounty.
Dirt fell soft as a blanket from Henry’s shovel. He took his time. When satisfied, he packed and smoothed the mound. Finally finished, he covered the grave with the heaviest stone he could fine. Taking out his pocketknife, he scratched RIP Lester, King of the Coon Dogs on the surface of the rock.
Henry hunched down and chewed on the end of a piece of ryegrass, pondering how a body could be full of life one moment and dead the next. What was the point if all your life became worth no more than a mound of dirt and a heavy rock? A black cloud of hopelessness settled over him.
Suddenly, like the flash of Orban Hanson’s lantern, Mr. Sam Follett’s blue eyes pierced the darkness. “Repent!” Henry fancied he heard. “Repent.”
Startled, Henry fell backward. Flat on the ground, he grappled for the shovel and flailed blindly at the old man’s image. The shovel slashed the air impotently until Henry let it fall. He didn’t try to rise but lay unmoving with his arms outstretched and his feet resting on the newly dug grave. Tears trickled from the corners of his eyes and pooled in the hollow of his ears.
A trio of heavy sobs escaped his lips before he got hold of himself and turned to crouch on hands and knees. It took all his strength to stand, gather his tools, and heave himself into the saddle.
Well before he reached the edge of town, he managed to discount the strange happening by the side of Lester’s grave. This was no time to turn maudlin. The certitude of avenging his grandfather’s memory was close at hand. Henry determined to let nothing get in his way.
Daisy was waiting when he got home. He had picked up supper from the boardinghouse: two steaks, Daisy’s rare and his well-done. Her enthusiasm restored him somewhat as he cleared his desktop and spread his meal. He left the Bible on the far corner of the desk, afraid if he touched it the strange piercing light would come back. Henry had had as much of that as he could deal with in one day.
CHAPTER 22
CARA HIT THE FLOOR with a thunk. She felt her head bounce like a ball thrown against the side of a barn. The room spun like a merry-go-round. She thought she might lose her supper.
“Cara!” she heard Dance say just before something cold and wet hit her.
Little Merky patted her face while Dance wiped it with a rag. “Here, sit up,” Dance said.
Cara closed her eyes, willing herself to ride the spinning room to unconsciousness. Lord, she prayed, don’t let Big Boy’s words be true. You know I can’t take it if Dimm doesn’t come back.
“Now, little lady,” Big Boy said as he lifted her off the floor and set her in a chair, “Dimmert is going to be fine. Fine, you hear?”
“My word, Mr. Big Boy,” Dance fussed, flapping the skirt of her apron like a fan in Cara’s direction, “ye scared her near to death.”
Cara held the cold tea glass to one cheek, then the other. “Goodness,” she said, straightening the skirt of her dress, embarrassed to tears, “I’m sorry to be such a bother.”
“For pity’s sake,” Dance said, “you men give her some air.”
Ace and Big Boy stepped back from the table.
Cara took a deep, steadying breath. “Tell me true. I have to know.”
“Well, to make a long story short: There was a ruckus in the prison stable and Dimm—”
Cara could feel the blood drain from her face again. “Just tell me he’s all right, please.”
“Now,” Big Boy said, “would I tell you different if it wasn’t gospel true?”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
Chairs rattled as the men sat down. Tea splashed as Dance refilled glasses. Merky climbed onto Cara’s lap, like she was settling in for a story. Ace jiggled Cleve on his knee, and Dance rocked Pauline in her arms. Wilton followed Jay back in and sat at his mother’s feet. Jay leaned against Cara’s arm.
“Like I said,” Big Boy started after a long draught of tea, “Dimmert
had a spell of trouble. There was a—”
“Start at the beginning,” Cara interrupted.
“I got there to the prison early in the morning,” Big Boy said. “Fog off the river was so thick I had to take out my pocketknife and cut me and Pancake a door to go through.”
Jay gasped. His little arm thrummed with excitement against Cara’s own. She was glad for Big Boy’s slow yarn-telling ways. She needed time to get ready for the end of the story.
“First thing I seen was several big fellers with big guns standing in little open huts high up on the walls of the prison. All the guns were pointed our way and us with no handy protection save that pocketknife. Pancake didn’t like it the least bit. He slicked his ears and took to walking backward. He wanted to be shut of that place. Clear as day, I could hear every one of them guns being cocked. ‘State your business,’ one of the men hollered.
“I hollered back, ‘Don’t shoot. Me and Pancake here has come to visit Dimmert Whitt.’ I held the lard bucket high so they could see it. ‘I’ve brought victuals from his wife.’
“‘Approach the gate,’ we was told, but you know Pancake—once he started backing up, he wasn’t about to change his mind.
“I gave him a little poke in the side. ‘You’re going to get us shot.’ I want to tell you I nearly swallowed my chaw when Pancake refused to put on the brakes. I was pulling one way—him the tuther. But before you could whistle Dixie, there was a dozen armed guards heading our way, and none of them looking for a social visit.
“‘Set down that bucket,’ one of them fellers said.
“And I says, under my breath to Pancake, ‘This here’s the time for a smiling mule, if there ever was one.’
