Sweetwater Run

by Jan Watson

  The other man laughed as he slapped some money on the bar. “Probably was. She’s been threatening to do me in.”

  The three men made their way to the door. “Reckon that Shelton woman will swing?” one asked.

  “More than likely. That’s pretty cold-blooded,” another replied, shoving the door open and heading out.

  “I’d say it depends on whether he dies or not,” the man holding the door said. “They ain’t going to hang her if he lives. She might get some time, but swing, no, that won’t happen.”

  “Yeah,” one of the men said, “and if he ever comes out of that stupor they say he’s in, he might say she didn’t do it.”

  “Could be,” one agreed. “Could be.”

  Henry steeled himself to stay at the bar. Every fiber of his being wanted to follow the men out the door to hear the last snippet of conversation. He waited several minutes before he chanced to leave. After surreptitiously dumping his untouched drink in the spittoon at his feet, Henry put the right amount of coinage on the bar and stood to leave. Not one head turned to follow him out. Nobody even glanced his way.

  He was out of town, well on his way to his latest hidey-hole, when the impact of what he’d heard hit him. Ace Shelton was alive! He would swear on his mother’s grave that the man was dead when he left him on that mountain. This changed everything.

  His mind churned with torment as his horse carried him up mountain. Back at camp he built a fire and put on a pot of coffee. He wouldn’t sleep tonight. There were plans to be made.

  CHAPTER 28

  THE WATERLOGGED WOVEN BASKET that held Cara’s whittling tools collapsed at her touch. Knives, a whetstone, the strop, and several small pieces of wood spilled out on the porch floor. Picking up her favorite tool, she examined its dull, rusted blade. She vaguely remembered laying the basket aside the morning she saw little Jay running up the lane. With the broom, she swept the mess out of the way; she’d see to it later. Now she needed to face her overgrown garden while she had the chance.

  Chickens flocked round her feet, begging for attention as she walked across the barnyard. Taking pity, she opened the corncrib door and shelled two ears of corn upon the ground. The red rooster strutted around the perimeter, cawing in delight when a kernel popped his way. Since she had already detoured from the garden, she stepped inside the henhouse, took the egg basket from a peg, and started gathering the hen’s fruit. Each nest held a clutch of eggs. The hens had been faithful even though neglected.

  One fat dominick fluffed up her feathers as Cara approached her box. The hen clucked several times, stood, flapped her wings, and sat back down, determined to set her eggs. She’s out of season, Cara thought, but then so is everything. With the basket dangling from her arm, Cara emptied the other nests. She’d have to candle the eggs this evening. Some might be rotten.

  Startled by a creaking sound, she whirled around. The trellis Dimmert had made for the climbing roses now dangled across the doorway, blocking her exit.

  Everything was falling apart and she no longer cared. Just going through the motions was more than she could manage. Minding the thorny branches that snaked through the lattice, she shoved it out of the way and went out.

  Pancake ambled out of the stable and stood behind her. He hung his long, horsey face over her shoulder.

  She stroked his nose. “I know. It’s all such a mess.”

  She could swear the mule nodded; she could feel his agreement against her chest. Laughter bubbled up from a place she thought was gone forever. “Pancake, what would I do without you?”

  Quick to take advantage, Pancake walked away and planted himself by the corncrib.

  “I guess I can take a hint,” she said, pulling out another ear of corn. “Do you need me to shell it for you?”

  Showing his gums in appreciation, Pancake nibbled from her palm.

  “I’m changing your name to King or Prince or some such high-and-mighty moniker,” she said.

  Down by the creek, she left the egg basket in the shade of a tree and faced the garden. It no longer vied in beauty with the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Tomatoes lay rotting on the ground. Weeds strangled the green beans, and she could barely discern where the potato hills began. Her garden was a mishmash, a veritable vegetable stew.

  A rustling sound caught her attention. Kneeling among the itchy cucumbers, she lifted a heavy vine and looked down the row. A possum flashed a toothy grin and gave what he thought was a fearsome hiss. Cara waved the vine back and forth. Overgrown cucumbers smacked against the possum’s sides. With one more hiss and one more smile, the varmint turned and scurried away. Cara watched his long, hairless tail disappear down the bank of the creek.

  “At least it wasn’t a puff adder,” she said as if someone were listening, “or a rattler.”

  Despair, thick as rock dust, choked her throat and clouded her eyes. It seemed each bit of strength and independence she’d worked so hard for all summer had dried up like the marigolds and zinnias at the edge of her garden.

  Cara grubbed and hoed for a couple of hours, cleaning horseweed and pokeberry from the rows. Rotted vegetables went in a bucket to be thrown away. She wished she had a pig to feed.

  The sun climbed toward noon, baking the garden and her with its unforgiving rays. She gathered up her skirts, then stepped into the creek and let the coursing water bathe her feet. A shaded ledge rock not ten feet away invited her to sit a spell. It was cool and quiet there on the ledge with her feet dangling in the stream. For a minute she could pretend that the last two weeks had never happened, pretend that she was just a girl with a mule waiting for her husband to come home. That seemed ever so doable now.

  Finding Ace had been hard but not as hard as what came in following days, Ace unable to talk or sit up, just existing on sips of chicken broth, and then the sheriff turning his cold, searching eyes on Dance. Cara still couldn’t believe anyone could see guilt stamped on Dance. Poor thing, she’d been sitting by Ace’s bed day and night, barely taking time to eat and hardly sleeping. It was a wonder she still had milk for the baby. Thank goodness Jean was helping. And Jean’s husband was a great source of comfort. Dance would be sitting in a stone cold jail cell today if not for Elder Foster’s interference.

  It was barely a week after Ace was found that the sheriff had come to arrest Dance on suspicion of assaulting him.

  “The law’s here,” Jay had yelled, bursting into the house and letting the screen door slam.

  “Jay,” Cara reprimanded, “not so loud.”

  “But it’s the sheriff,” he replied, his eyes round with apprehension. “What’s he want?”

  “I don’t know. Listen, I want you to slip over to the Fosters’ and ask them to come here.” She patted his backside, and he scooted out the door. “Be quick.”

  She watched the sheriff through the filter of the screen door. He was standing at the chopping block like on the day he questioned Cara about the hatchet. Wilton pushed against the door. Cara held it tight. “Wilton, don’t. Go play with your top.”

  “It’s broke. The twirler fell off.” He pushed against the door again. The screen bowed out from the force of his hands. “Where’s Jay goin’?”

  Where she’d patted Jay, she swatted Wilton. His face crumpled, and he let out a howl fit to wake the dead. She swooped him up into her arms. He wrapped his legs around her waist. Fat angry tears wetted her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Willy-boy, but you must mind me.”

  “I want to go too,” Wilton said.

  So do I, Cara thought. “I know. I know.” After wiping his tear-streaked face, she settled him at the kitchen table with a piece of gingerbread and a glass of milk. Food always worked with Wilton.

  The rocking chair by Ace’s bedside squeaked. Dance was taking the baby from her cradle. She paid no attention to Wilton. It was as if she couldn’t see or hear past Ace’s needs. Cara couldn’t fault her for that.

  “When’s Merky coming home?” Wilton said, gingerbread crumbs spilling from his mouth.


  “Soon,” Cara said while cutting him another slice. “She’s with Cleve at Mammaw’s, you know.”

  He pounded the table with his fork. “I want to go to Mammaw’s. I want to see Daisy.”

  Cara was itching to get back to the door. “Wilton, that’s enough. If you don’t stop whining, I’m going to take your cake and eat it myself.”

  She eased back to the door, not wanting to draw attention. The sheriff was not in sight, but she saw a play of shadows in the depth of the barn. What could he be looking for? What right did he have to poke around in other folks’ property?

  “Dance,” she said, “I’m going to the barn. I’ll be back directly.”

  Cara was halfway down the path that dissected the yard before she remembered her stained apron, her undressed hair, and her bare feet. Goodness, they’d all been so busy these past few days—who had time for primping? She took off her apron and hung it on a bush, then removed some hairpins from her flyaway hair and reshaped the bun at the nape of her neck. It wasn’t that she cared two figs how she looked; she wanted to be perceived by the law as a person who had authority in this place.

  Standing tall, she stepped inside the barn. “Are you looking for something in particular, Sheriff?” she said, hoping to catch him off guard.

  He didn’t even flinch. “Could be.” He touched this and that, crouching to look under the workbench, then springing back up in a motion so fluid it seemed he made no effort at all.

  The sheriff put her in mind of a copperhead gracefully slithering along the ground, waiting for the proper moment to strike.

  “You don’t have any right to be going through Ace’s things.” Her voice came out whiny, like Wilton’s, instead of forceful like she’d aimed it to be.

  The sheriff walked her way. In spite of her resolve she took a step backward. From the house, she could hear Dance start up again like she did several times a day now, crying and pleading for Ace to wake up. It was sad enough to make a stone weep. They watched as Wilton came out the door and scooted like a fat puppy under the rocking chair, hiding.

  Cara raised her shoulders and let them drop. “Can’t you see we’re barely holding on here? Can’t you leave well enough alone?”

  The sheriff took off his hat. “I like Ace Shelton. He’s a good man. I can’t just ignore the fact that somebody bashed his head in.”

  Cara covered her mouth with her hands. It came back in a flash, the sheriff that dreadful day at the chopping block and those questions he asked about Ace and Dance. “You can’t seriously think Dance could do something so dreadful!”

  The sheriff’s unflinching gaze fell on her hot as a brand. “Truth be told, everybody’s got a little of Brother Cain deep down.”

  Feeling weak, she found a sawed-off stump and sat down.

  He came and crouched beside her, like they were friends or something. Snagging a long piece of grass, he stuck it in his mouth and chewed. She watched his eyes narrow. He plucked the grass from his mouth and used it to point toward the house.

  “Way I see it, she got carried away that day. Ace done something to rile her; then he left, went to his quiet place.” The sheriff chewed the stem of the grass. “She stewed over it—him leaving her with all them young’uns again. Yep, she stewed ’til she was ready to blow like the lid off a pot. She grabbed the hatchet and followed him, busting his fancy sweetwater run as she went.”

  The sheriff looked her way. She knew he was judging her reaction. “Listen,” she started, “for one thing Dance would never leave the kids alone—”

  He commenced with his theory as if she had not spoken. “There was Ace, probably bending over where the spring bubbles out of the ground, maybe getting himself a cool drink of water, maybe splashing it on his face. She finds him there. Years of resentment come to a head.” The sheriff slapped his palm against his leg. The sound cracked like lightning. Cara jumped.

  “Quick as that,” he said. “Ace reared up, then fell backward into the water. Never knew what hit him.”

  Cara felt the strength draining from her body. She knew absolutely that what he said was not true, but he was the law. “What do you aim to do?”

  “I’m going to take Miz Whitt to jail,” he said, jangling a pair of handcuffs clipped to his waist. “I’ve got no choice.”

  If Cara had had the strength, she would have lifted her hand and shoved him over—sent him sprawling in the dirt. Instead she sat there like a lump, not knowing what to do. “Lord, help us,” she said.

  They saw Elder Foster first—he came almost running into the yard. Then other folks appeared: Dylan, Jean, Brother Jasper, and Jay.

  Cara’s eyes met Jean’s, which radiated distress. The men gathered round while Jean stood back, holding on to Jay.

  The lawman stood and faced them. “I’ve come to arrest Dance Shelton for the attempted murder of Ace Shelton.”

  Jay jerked away from Jean. As if shot from a cannon, he rammed his head into the sheriff’s belly. Any other man would have doubled over and gasped for breath but not the sheriff. He stood his ground like Jay was no more bother than a flea.

  Dylan grabbed Jay around the waist. Jay’s arms and legs spun like a whirligig as Dylan carried him off.

  Now, days and miles away from that scene, Cara walked to her garden and stood over the bucket of mushy tomatoes and half-rotted cucumbers and felt a surge of anger so hot she nearly outshone the sun. In a burst of energy she carried the bucket to the back of the barn and hefted a large red globe.

  Splat! The tomato burst, trailing juice and seeds down the rough barn wall.

  Cara wound up and let an overgrown cucumber fly. “Yahoo,” she yelled when shards of green sailed her way. Backing away, she let go again. Tomato followed cucumber, which followed tomato until Cara was panting and the bucket was empty. She could feel a wicked relief as she headed for the egg basket.

  The first brown egg she aimed at the imagined image of the sheriff, who, she fancied, was now covered with vegetable guts. But the next was meant for Darcy, and when it popped she lobbed another. Soon she was cackling like an old, fat hen, her hairpins falling out, her dress no protection from the slimy, reeking mess she was creating.

  “Good grief, missus,” a voice she recognized broke through her tantrum. “What’s got into you?”

  She was midmotion with the last egg from the basket. Big Boy’s eyes widened as he backed away. “Ha,” she said. “I’ve got you on the run.”

  “Whoo-wee!” he said. “That stuff stinks.”

  Cara tossed the last egg. “Life stinks.”

  “I know. I heard about Ace. I’m sorry I wasn’t around to help out. Me and Shacklett have just got back from a visit with our sister Aloda in Lexington.”

  “It’s been terrible, just terrible.”

  “Tell you what,” Big Boy replied, “why don’t I do some work in the garden while you clean up a bit. Then we’ll talk.”

  “That sounds good,” she said, “but I don’t have much time. I only came home to see about a few things. I need to get back to Dance’s.”

  “I’ll walk over with you,” he said. “Might be something I can do for Ace.”

  Getting cleaned up took more time than Cara expected. Venting her anger was fun while it lasted, but now she had to pay the price. The wavy mirror over the dresser in her bedroom revealed bits of eggshell and stringy yellow yolk in her hair. While she heated water for a bath, she washed her hair with tepid water from the rain barrel. Taking a towel and her comb, she went out the back door, sat on the stoop in a patch of sunlight, and worked the tangles out. Her dress front was soaking wet, but nobody could see her out here, and the sun felt so good.

  She felt her muscles relax. How long had it been since she’d had a moment not laden with worry? Her fingers worked her damp hair into a braid that hung halfway down her back. The teakettle whistled on the stove, calling her. She twisted the braid into a knot and secured it with pins, then hurried inside to finish her toilet.

  Cara felt refreshed as she
walked with Big Boy up the lane to the Sheltons’. Pancake followed, stopping now and then for a morsel of grass.

  “So, what’s the latest?” Big Boy asked.

  “You won’t believe this,” she replied. “The sheriff has charged Dance.”

  “Charged her! With what?”

  “Lord help us. He thinks Dance tried to kill Ace.” Turning to face Big Boy, Cara walked a few steps backward. “He figures Dance followed Ace all the way up that mountain and whacked him in the head with the hatchet Ace kept for killing chickens.”

  “That’s a stretch,” Big Boy said.

  “Isn’t it just?” Cara said, her voice rising in anger. “Then she’s supposed to have walked home and cool as a cucumber laid the hatchet back on the chopping block.”

  “I never figured her for such a woman as that,” Big Boy said.

  Cara stopped dead in her tracks. “You mean you believe it!” His words made her mad enough to melt.

  “Now, missus, I never said that.”

  Cara plucked a leaf from an overhanging tree limb, shredded it, and let it fall. “I’m sorry. I’m just so angry I don’t know what to do with myself.”

  “Did the sheriff lock her up?”

  “Oh, on the morning he came for her . . . Big Boy, it was awful. I reckon the sheriff was fixing to drag Dance away from the sickbed with all the young’uns looking on. But, praise the Lord, Elder Foster intervened.”

  They started up the path again, walking slowly as they talked. Pancake passed them by. He knew the way by heart.

  “Poor Jean, she’s practically living at Dance’s now. Elder Foster gave his word to the sheriff that Dance wouldn’t escape if the sheriff would leave her home until the law could prove something one way or the other. Escape,” Cara spit the word out. “Where’s she supposed to go? What’s she supposed to do with her children?”

  Cara could feel anger and sorrow settling on her shoulders like stone. If she stood still, the weight of it would drive her right into the ground. She’d be just another bump in the road. “And Fairy Mae’s taken a turn.” She paused and shook her head. “I’m afraid all this will do Dance in. Oh, if only Ace would wake.”