“Wish I’d taken longer,” said Snipe Witherspoon. “I might be eating beef tonight.”
Cut Nose primed his pan with special care, and planted his left moccasin to the mark.
His ungainly-seeming body suddenly drew itself taut, and took on an unmistakable appearance of knowing what it was doing in every inch. The clumsy rifle stock came to the hollow of Cut Nose’s shoulder and appeared to take root there. Cut Nose’s broad brown left hand cradled the gun barrel at the balance, his right elbow raised itself outward and upward. His long right forefinger slid across and around the trigger. For a moment he held his breath and stood, rifle and all, as motionless as an untidy bronze statue. Then:
Whangl sounded the report.
Lowering his rifle, Cut Nose drew his ramrod and carefully swabbed out the bore. He did not look as Squire Colquitt and Mr. Parham walked to the target, bent their heads to study it, and suddenly whooped loudly, as though in the same breath.
“He drove the cross—perfectly!”
There was a headlong charge forward by everyone. Jason ran in the very forefront.
It was true. Cut Nose’s bullet had struck the exact intersection of the lines, partially obliterating the peg that had filled in the hole left by Asper Enderby’s shot.
“He couldn’t have put it better if he’d carried it here in his hand!” Mr. Parham was saying. “Plumb center, if I ever saw the like!”
Cut Nose strolled up, last to arrive. Asper Enderby faced him.
“Hark you, that’s a splendid gun you have there,” said the planter.
“Maybe lucky,” replied Cut Nose.
“Your luck got you first choice of the beef, then,” chimed in the sheriff. “Am I right, gentlemen?”
He spoke as though to all, but he was looking at Asper Enderby.
“You’re right, Sheriff,” replied Enderby. “As for me, I’m only second best,” and he glanced sidelong at Major Westall. “Now, Cut Nose—that’s your name, eh ?—what do you want for your gun?”
“No sell,” said Cut Nose firmly.
“Twenty dollars?” offered Enderby.
“No sell,” repeated Cut Nose. “Like my gun plenty.”
He walked away again, this time toward where the beef hung. The whole group followed him, curious and expectant.
“Pick your quarter, Cut Nose,” invited the sheriff.
Cut Nose pointed to the choicest quarter. “Him the best.”
“Good judge of meat, too,” remarked Alexander Kift.
Cut Nose beckoned to Jason. “You pay for shot. You take meat.”
“No,” insisted Jason. “It’s yours.”
“Then you.” Cut Nose pointed at the editor. “You come here to new place. Find good friends here. They make new house for you.”
“Yes, and I thank them,” smiled Kift.
“Need good meat in house. Look,” again Cut Nose waved toward the quarter of beef his marksmanship had won. “Give to you. Take meat. Eat.”
He tucked his old rifle under his arm and walked silently away toward the woods.
Everyone watched him.
“Egad,” said Major Westall at last, “there walks a gentleman if ever I saw one. And, since he mentioned eating, I think supper’s about ready. The ladies are waving to us from over yonder by the tables.”
8 The Indian Way
Around the tables gathered the crowd that had raised alexander Kift’s house, suddenly aware of a mighty hunger following hard work.
Food was there, lots of it. Huge platters were heaped with slices of the barbecued hog. Other dishes held wild turkeys, boiled and jointed, squares of corn bread, and greens cooked with smoked pork. And there were tub-size bowls of burgoo, the holiday-dish of the frontier, savorily concocted of pork ribs, venison, and partridge, stewed with vegetables into a delicious blending of flavors.
“This is the wrong time of year for burgoo,” apologized Betsy Colquitt as she served Jason’s plate. “It really needs more fresh vegetables. All we could put in were some turnips and potatoes, last of what we saved from the winter crops.”
“I protest, Miss Betsy, that more would be too much,” said Milo Kinstrey, spoon in hand, from across the table. “This burgoo is a feast for the gods.”
“A feast for Alabamians, anyway,” chimed in Mr. Parham. “Here, let me help you to the turkey,” he added to Jason. “Too bad we don’t have wheat-flour bread or fritters—we’ll just rough it on corn dodger.”
“I’ve roughed it on worse than that,” Jason told him.
“Have you, indeed ?” said Milo Kinstrey, slicing venison. “You suggest that your life has been hard and meager.”
“And so it has, Squire,” said Jason, who continued to dislike Kinstrey’s patronizing manner. “Whatever I’ve gained has come to me the hard way.” •
“And now you seek to gain a license to practice law.”
“I seek to gain a good dinner,” replied Jason shortly, and dipped into his burgoo.
There was hearty eating everywhere, with some rivalry between Snipe Witherspoon and Darby Baugh as to who could eat the most burgoo. The upstanding Snipe won by half a bowlful, to loud applause, and Darby bowed acknowledgment of his adversary’s triumph.
“But wait till green corn season,” said Darby. “I’ll out eat you by a dozen roasting ears, and that’s a pledge.”
“I’ll be there,” promised Snipe.
Night had fallen, and the dinner was finished by the light of bonfires. As the ladies gathered up pots and plates, a sudden new commotion was heard. Wheels trundled, hoofs stamped, and a driver shouted to his horses.
“It’s here!” shouted Alexander Kift happily. “My press, and all the machinery for the new Sentinel. I’ll go get help—”
“You already got help,” vowed Snipe Witherspoon, wiping his mouth. “The boys will be proud to get your stuff indoors. Finished, gentlemen ? Let’s unload those things yonder.”
Jason made one of the dozen strong men who followed the wagon to the door of the new house. He helped ease the heavy press down from the tail gate and into the front chamber of the new house. Kift supervised the placing of desk, chairs, fonts of type, crates of equipment. In a matter of minutes, he declared himself ready to start publishing.
“But not tonight, Mr. Editor,” said one of the volunteer workmen. “Listen out yonder.”
Shrill music had begun, promising more festivities.
“Dance! Dance!”
Out rushed the men from the building, as furiously as though to repel an armed attack. The tables had been pulled aside to make a level open space, and under a tree stood Mr. Parham, scraping nimbly away at a fiddle. Jason knew the lively tune— Money Mus. Several listeners slapped their hands in rhythm, and two half-grown boys jigged shufflingly.
“I declare, we might have danced before you all cluttered up that floor in there with those presses and things,” complained the tall dark daughter of the blacksmith.
“Shoo, when did an Alabamian need a floor to dance on?” a young man in checked homespun flung back at her. “Give me ground flat enough so I won’t fall down and I’ll dance the world bowlegged!”
“Who’s calling this dance?” asked Kift.
“Squire Colquitt,” said one of the crowd. “Let Squire Henry Colquitt call us a reel.”
“Aye! Squire Colquitt!” approved others eagerly.
The Squire took his place beside the fiddler, who played on.
“Choose your partners as you go!” he called out. “Eight couples to begin—quick’s the word!”
Near Jason, Milo Kinstrey was bowing to Betsy Colquitt. “Miss Betsy, if you will so honor me—” he began.
“Thank you, Squire,” she said, “but I promised to dance with Jason.”
She stepped to Jason’s side and put her hand on his arm.
“But Miss Betsy,” began Jason, surprised.
“Come on,” and she urged him toward the open space. “I don’t want to dance with Squire Kinstrey,” she whispered in his ear.
“I’m no dancer,” Jason still protested.
“It’s easy. Watch the others.”
He found himself lined up with the men on one side, with Betsy opposite. Confusion and embarrassment almost drowned him. Left parentless as a boy, he had had time only for work. The closest he had come to dancing was to watch once or twice at parties. Now he stood uneasily as others took their places. Last of all was Alexander Kift, with the blacksmith’s daughter for partner.
“Down the center and do-si-do!” chanted Squire Colquitt, rhythmically commanding.
From opposite ends of the double line, Kift and a lady paced and met, bowed in time to the music, circled each other and returned. Another couple repeated the maneuver, and still another. When it came Jason’s turn, he managed to imitate the man who had preceded him, but he felt awkward and shaky and his feet seemed as heavy and numb as anvils. He spied Milo Kinstrey in the crowd, grinning scornfully above the glowing coal of a slender cigar.
“Honor your partners and allemand right!” came Squire Colquitt’s explicit direction.
The Squire might have spoken Chinese so far as Jason was concerned; but he moved forward with the line of men. Betsy met him, caught his hand, and pulled him into a turning maneuver, then pushed him away as Colquitt chanted the next command.
After that, the dance assumed for Jason something of a dream fantasy. Somehow he copied the motions of the others, usually no more than a beat or so behind. At last he repeated figures through which he had gone, and his unsure feet caught up the rime of the music. But he was grateful when the fiddle fell mute with a final flourish and the reel formation melted away.
“May I have the next, Miss Betsy?” Milo Kinstrey asked at once.
“But Fm tired from this one,” she replied. “Please ask one of the other ladies.”
A second set formed to a new tune, and Betsy and Jason stood by to watch. Livelier music rose from the fiddle, and the dancing began. Snipe Witherspoon danced this time, and so did Milo Kinstrey. The two strove to outdo each other in agile jigging and posturing, and applause rose from all around.
Jason, lately so clumsy at the reel, could not but envy as both these skilled, confident performers varied the progression of dance figures with their own improvised shuffles and pigeon- wings. Snipe’s moccasins slapped and jigged a drum-roll rhythm of their own, matched by the kick and tap of Milo Kinstrey’s impeccable boots.
“Double cross-hop!” yelled the youngster who had sworn to dance the world bowlegged. “Cut us a double cross-hop, Snipe!”
Snipe obliged, with a mighty leap into the air. Hanging momentarily in space, he crossed one leg in front of the other, then reversed them in a reverse scissor-like motion before he struck earth again, and was off with his partner without missing a beat of the music. War whoops and handclapping rewarded him.
“Beat that, Squire!” a voice challenged Kinstrey.
Kinstrey, who had just come to the head of the set, bounded high. His right leg cut in front of his left, then his left in front of his right, and as he came down his right leg cut forward and across yet again.
“Triple! Triple!” shouted admiring voices. “Champion’s what that is, I vow you!”
The set jigged to a halt, and there was gay chatter.
“Law me, Squire Kinstrey’s better than any,” Snipe Witherspoon was saying. “Ary Alabamian can cross-hop four times is his master at dancing; but I never seen the one can do it.”
“The Squire can fairly shoot, too,” added another. “He didn’t win beef today, but he marked the bull close to the winners. Aye, and he’s a caution to anybody at the law.”
“But he took water last week, in that case about Brundage and Mr. Parham,” reminded a third. “You don’t often see him do that.”
“Come on, Jason,” said Betsy suddenly. “Dance this next with me, before Squire Kinstrey asks.”
“Honored, of course,” agreed Jason as they went to help form the new set. “But why, Betsy ? Are you vexed with him because he’s against your uncle in that courthouse suit?”
“No. I wouldn’t spite him on that account. But—well, Squire Kinstrey’s too sure of himself, too scornful of folks.”
“Yes, he is,” nodded Jason. “He needs taking down.”
Betsy’s blue eyes were bright in the firelight. “Maybe you’ll take him down some day, Jason.”
Mr. Parham’s fiddle was playing a new dance tune. Jason began the figure with more assurance, giving all attention to following the others and keeping time. From the watchers burst words of song:
“My pretty little pink, I once did think
That you and I would marry,
But since you’ve turned your back on me,
I shall no longer tarry.
“I’ll take my sack upon my back,
My rifle on my shoulder,
And march away to the western states
To view the forest over. . . .”
Jason now felt himself perfectly in the swing of the dance. Betsy smiled encouragement as they came together, touched hands, locked arms, or whirled around each other. The voices sang a last verse:
“And don’t you think she’s a pretty little pink,
And don’t you think she’s clever,
And don’t you think that you and her
Could make a match forever?”
It was late when everybody exchanged happy good nights, and the gathering broke up.
Squire Colquitt and Jason escorted Betsy between them as they headed for home.
“My boy, you’ve a handy way with things,” remarked the Squire. “Log-splitting, arguing, and now dancing.”
“Jason will learn to dance,” Betsy assured her kinsman. “I’ll teach him myself, against the next frolic.”
“As for Milo Kinstrey,” the Squire went on, “I doubt if he’s comfortable with his nose out of joint.”
“What do you mean, sir?” asked Jason.
“Why,” and Jason could just make out the lawyer’s smile in the darkness, “you made a fool of him in court last week, with your help to Mr. Solicitor Parks. Then, buying a shot at the beef for Cut Nose—Kinstrey, being Enderby’s friend, disliked that. And you wound up dancing with Betsy when Kinstrey hoped to.”
“I made Jason be my partner, Uncle Henry,” said Betsy.
“Did you so, girl? You spoil his appearance of gallantry, then.”
They approached the house. A dark figure rose from where it had squatted beside the door.
“Who’s that?” demanded Squire Colquitt sharply.
“Me,” came back a deep voice. “Cut Nose.”
“What do you want?”
“Talk to him.” The Indian gestured toward Jason.
“All right, Cut Nose, what is it ?” asked Jason.
“Talk alone.”
Squire Colquitt unlocked the door. “Go in, Betsy,” he said, and followed her into the house.
Alone with Cut Nose, Jason waited. The Indian folded his arms.
“You,” said Cut Nose. “I like what you do. You act like good man.”
“Why,” said Jason, wondering, “thank you, Cut Nose.”
The big dark head shook. “Don’t thank me. I don’t make you good man. I only see you are.”
“All right. I’m glad you like me, Cut Nose. What can I do for you?”
“You act like my friend today. When I shoot.”
“I only wanted you to be treated fairly,” said Jason.
“Good. You my friend. I be your friend.” A pause. “I wait here, to tell you that. Alone.”
He put out his hand, and Jason grasped it. The old Indian’s grip was strong and firm.
“You, me, we be good friend,” said Cut Nose. “Indian way to be friend is this. Talk alone. Say nothing to other men. To be friend is for two men—you, me, like that. You see?”
“I see,” Jason assured him.
It had been a ceremony of a sort, this quiet, almost secret meeting and declaration. Jason recognized the importance
of the gesture, and shook Cut Nose’s hand warmly.
“The Indian way is a good way, Cut Nose. We’re friends.”
“Good,” said Cut Nose again. He released Jason’s hand. “I go.”
Turning, he slid at once into the darkness.
9 An Offer from Enderby
Next morning at breakfast, squire colquitt agreed with Jason that Cut Nose had offered a very special kind of friendship.
“It’s like a simple ceremony of blood-brotherhood in some other tribes,” explained the Squire. “That old Indian sees with a very clear eye indeed, Jason. And he’s been lonely here without his people—he’s the only one still living where they used to live. He was sick when the tribe went West, and couldn’t make the trip.”
“But he recovered,” said Jason. “How does he live, and where?”
“I don’t think anybody knows where he camps out. He supports himself by hunting and fishing, and he traps a few furs to trade for powder and lead and so on.”
A sudden thought came to Jason. “Might not Cut Nose straighten out the question of where Sun Chief was really buried?”
Colquitt shook his gray head. “I’ve asked him, and so have others. But, in the first place, Cut Nose doesn’t talk to white men —he’s talked as much to you as to anyone. In the second place, his tribal custom won’t let him speak the name of a dead chieftain.”
“But if he was put on the stand as a witness and asked questions—” Jason began to suggest.
“In the third place,” went on Colquitt, “you should read your state statutes more thoroughly. Alabama law doesn’t allow an Indian to give testimony in court.”
At the office, Major Westall appeared again to discuss the courthouse suit.
“How shall we get ready for them next fall?” the Major inquired of Colquitt.
“Be sure of what we know, and try to find out what they know,” was the reply. “I had intended to make our evidence brief indeed. I was going to call you to tell the story of the land sale, and offer in evidence the deed of sale we have here.” He took it from his top drawer. “Then, as Enderby’s witnesses came to the stand, cross-examine them and make them show that Enderby was wrong and we were right.”
Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1956 Page 6
