by James Still
The sparrows set up a clatter in the field patch. Their dull chirps were hollow and rasping, and their gray bodies blew dustily through the weeds.
“Even a sparrow-bird’s got two wings,” Clebe said at length, watching them work among the brown stalks. “A pure pity I hain’t got two legs.” He drew the palms of his hands tight and bloodless over the posts of the chair.
“Poppy ordered me a wood leg and it’s an eternal time a-coming. A leg drummer come and measured me up careful. I reckon he counted every toe of mine and measured them before he got done, but I’m of a mind Poppy’s been beat out of the fifty dollars he paid him. My opinion, he’s tuk off like Snider’s hound with Poppy’s money.
“Oh that fifty dollars will go hard with my pap if that leg don’t come. If’n it don’t, Poppy will shoot him till he looks like a rag doll does he ever get up with him. He’d had that money ’tater holed for a spell before he turned it loose.”
Clebe drew a knife from his pocket and began to whittle the round of his chair. “Hit’s been a heap of trouble I’ve give my poppy,” he said. “He was against the doc cutting off my leg when I had blood pizen but Mommy talked him to it. Aye, I can look up yonder on the point and see a yellow spot where I’d be buried now if they hadn’t.”
He stopped suddenly and pointed the blade at me. “I figure you never heard about the funeral occasion for my leg. Hit was buried just like folks are. My brother Tom fotched it from the doctor’s house in a box and tuk it by the schoolhouse before books were called.
“All the scholars they come out to the road and looked at it. Before Tom left they were daring one another to touch it. They wanted to know what Tom was going to do with my limb, and Tom said he was going to have a real funeralizing on the point.
“The teacher he run Tom off because he couldn’t get the scholars inside with my dead leg out there to look at. When he left, a bunch of the scholars tuk right along after him. They aimed to be in on anything that took place. They dug a hole right up yonder on the point. Well, now, Amos Morris preached the sermon and they tell me it was a scorcher. They tell me that if they was any devils around they’d a sneaked off with their forked tails between their legs. Then everybody took a last look and piled the dirt in.
“Then—you know what? Tom recollects that a fellow is liable to have the rheumatiz all the days of his life if his leg is buried with the toes a-curling. So up they dug my leg again and tried to pull the toes straight and they couldn’t. What they done was to get rocks and beat the toes till they did straighten out. Tom done that for me. They buried the leg again and piled big flat rocks on the grave place to keep the dogs and varmints from scratching it up.
“Oh hit’s a quare feeling to get one piece of you buried and gone to judgment before the rest of you dies. I’m afraid I might have a busted hard time getting myself together on Resurrection Day.”
A Bell on Troublesome Creek
Uncle Jabe told me about it during one of those rare intervals when he grew reminiscent. Usually at such times he had a way of looking toward the past as though the future was a shadowed, uninteresting thing to be endured when it arrived.
I began to realize that after all Uncle Jabe had the forward look. We were walking up Troublesome Creek, picking our way carefully over the frozen stones on the left bank. Suddenly a school bell rang silver clear on the frosty air.
Uncle Jabe stopped, lifted the ear-flaps of his woolen cap, and listened. When the mellow peals had echoed and died among the hilltops, we moved on and he told me about the bell.
“I’ve been a-livin’ all shet up in these hills nigh on to seventy years,” he said. “I’ve lived hard and porely at times but the good Lord has purty nigh give me every lastin’ thang I needed, ’ceptin’ one thang.
“We got us a road in hyar four years ago, though I ain’t shore now whether it’s a blessin’ or a damnation. We got us a chanct to give our young ’uns a grain o’ education.
“But every time I hyar that bell a-clangin’ down Troublesome Valley I can’t help a-thankin’ what might o’ been, but jist ain’t. Still, I’m a-mind it’s a-comin’. Shorely one o’ these days when the good Lord makes up his mind, and gits good and ready.
“Then I comes to thank, too, that the Lord has done made up his mind, but the people on the outside that can brang the Good Word in haint made up theirs.
“About seven years ago we started us a church up on Left Hand Fork. We all jist throwed in and started workin’. Dug us a foundation and laid it good and strong as would last out the days o’ any of us on this green airth.
“And we bought us a bell, a big, gongy one that could be heered clar up and down the valley. A church-house without a bell would be like a preacher with the quinsy.
“Hit was a bell you’d find hard to turn down on Sunday mornin’. And when you heered it, somehow it was sort o’ the voice o’ the Lord callin’ you down to the church-house, spite o’ the weather or that coon hunt you’d planned on right big like.
“We had us a preacher that had fotched hissef on. We thought a whole heap o’ him. We’d been usin’ the Mill Creek school till our church got through buildin’.
“Well, all of a sudden-like, our preacher got called away, and that good foundation jist stayed thar without anything to hold up except the puore air that don’t need no support.
“The bell stayed thar and got all rusty. I would liked to ’ve pulled down on that rope jist oncet. It got around that the school down at the Forks could use a bell and we give it to them and they fotched it along.
“That bell rings every day.
“When I’m in hyarin’ distance I thanks to myself that one o’ these purty days we’ll have us another preacher, build us a church-house and have another bell as clar and sweetenin’ as the one we had afore.
“But I don’t know when. I reckon one o’ these days agin I lay these old bones down fur the last time and take my peace.
“One o’ these purty days.”
The Scrape
I was walking up Ballard Creek and reckoning to myself that foxes were abroad and sparking on such a night when I happened upon Jiddy Thornwell sprawled in the road at the mouth of Sporty Hollow. Though the moon was low and the ridges in the shadow, there was enough light to yellow the ground along the creek.
On seeing Jiddy I expected to tickle-toe past and go on to the square dance at Enoch Lovern’s where I’d headed. I was traveling late on purpose to dodge rowdies of his ilk. A body with the gumption of a gnat wouldn’t fool time in his company, for if ever one was routed to burning Torment, he was the jasper. Fractious and easily riled, and as folks say, too mean to live. Then I bethought myself. I couldn’t allow any man to get his neck broken by a wheel or brains stepped in by a nag. An unworthy way to perish. Anyhow, being drunk, he’d have a bottle on him, and after borrowing a gill I’d skeedaddle.
I gave Jiddy a poke with my shoe. He moved a speck and cracked his eyelids. He sat up and made to yawn. And I saw there wasn’t much if any whiskey in him, and I knew something was afoot, something to nobody’s good.
“Jiddy,” I chided, “what the hoot are you doing sleeping in the road?”
He laughed, and jumped up. He had been shamming. Without a doubt he had spotted me before I did him. He aimed to test what I’d do.
“You were laying pretty to have your skull cracked,” I jabbered, slapping his pockets. I felt no bottle, just a knife and the 32-squeeze-trigger he regularly packed. When sober, Jiddy wasn’t too prickly and overbearing. You could horse around with him. “I’ve seen characters blind drunk acting with more sanity,” said I.
Jiddy inquired where I was headed, and I answered, “Where do you reckon?” Except to attend the square dance at Enoch Lovern’s what other reason would either of us have to be on the Ballard road of a Saturday night? He was talking to hear his head rattle. I cautioned, “If you’re wanting more than a couple of sashays with Posey, you’d better get a hump on. You’re already late.”
Jiddy had been
sparking Woots Houndshell’s daughter for near on to a year but lately Cletis Wilhoyt had been cutting in on him. In headstrongness and pride, Cletis and Jiddy were fair matches. Put them both in a poke and shake it, and it would be a question which would pop out first. Well, I’ll confess to it. I was soft on Posey Houndshell myself. Yet I’m no witty, no dumb-head. I believed three’s a crowd, and especially when it included these two gents.
“I’m waiting on Cletis Wilhoyt,” Jiddy said. “We aim to settle some business tonight. Settle it for all time coming, hereinafter and forever. The winner might travel to Houndshell’s, be he in shape to. You’re our eyewitness, the prover neither of us bushwhacked the other.”
“Gosh dog!” I blustered, and then, “Uh-uh. You’re not talking to me. I’m a short spell here.” The boilers of hell would explode did this pair lock horns. Hard numbers, the both. Stubborn as peavies. Fellows who don’t care whether it snows oats or rains tomcats, they’re dangerous to be around. The preachers say what’s written to happen will come to pass, whether or no. But I didn’t count it my duty to stand by and eyeball this showdown. Hell-o, no!
“Everything is fixed,” Jiddy said, not listening. “Cletis swore he’d meet me when the moon is up plumb.” He cocked his chin and sighted the moon-ball. “She’s low, the old sister, but she’s climbing.” He grinned. “We’ll have what the almanac calls ‘useful moonlight.’ ” And he said, “You’ll view a fight that will make the records.”
“Yeah,” chuffed I, “the courthouse records,” and I complained, “Are you figuring I’m going to referee a shooting match? I wasn’t born on Crazy Creek, recollect. Bullets are like horses’ hooves, they don’t have eyes.”
Jiddy said, “Pistols are for the chickenhearted, and that’s not our case. Not mine or Cletis’s. We’ll manage otherwise.”
“Dadburn it, Jid,” I ranted, “you’re an idjit if you think I’m mixing in your and Cletis’s scrapes. Where do I profit? Sheriffs, summonses, roosting in the witness chair, a big rigmaroar. Aye, no. I’ve been here, and I’m done gone.” Yet you didn’t leave Jiddy until it suited his notion. Not unless you wanted your hair parted with his 32-squeeze-trigger.
“Let’s round us up a drink,” smoothed Jiddy. “Shade Muldraugh has an operation on Rope Works, yonside of the ridge. What say we make a raid on him?”
“Shade’s likker is the worst in Baldridge County,” I faulted. “The sorriest since Adam made apple-jack. Why, he can’t even boil water without scorching it.” But I might as well have been talking to a mule.
Jiddy declared, “Whatever Shade is distilling, we’ll down. Tonight we’ll cull nothing. Pass nothing by.”
We set off. Legging it up the ridge I juggled plans in my head to shake off Jiddy, and in a fashion which would leave me blameless. We mounted by knee and main strength, climbing ground so steep you’d nearly skin your nose, and emerged in a clearing where moonlight made blossom the hazel bushes. Jiddy told me to stay there, he’d prospect a bit. I heard twigs snapping for a while, then the heavy breathing of the Muldraugh bull in the valley. A fox barked, an answering yap followed. It was a lonesomey place and I longed to hightail it. But I bethought myself: who at the dance would bother to cut eyes at me? All the girls I fancied were spoken for, Posey Houndshell included. Well, I’d get away from Jiddy in due course. Not just yet. It wasn’t good sense to.
Presently I heard Jiddy’s squeeze-trigger pop and I dropped flat on the ground, and I stayed flat until I heard leaves rattling and Jiddy walked out of the woods.
“What happened?” I choked, picturing Shade Muldraugh with a bullet in his gizzard, his toes curled.
“Ah, I let off my gun to scare him,” said Jiddy. “And did he skeedaddle! Aye gonnies, you could of shot dice on his shirttail.” And Jiddy said, “Come on. We’ll take our pleasure.”
We footed along a bench of land some three hundred yards, and of a sudden there it was in a pocket of a cliff. Muldraugh’s works were hid as clever as a guinea’s nest, and I doubt I could have spotted it at twenty feet even in broad daylight. Although a fire burned under the pot, the steam wasn’t yet up. The worm hadn’t begun to driddle.
The lack of the finished product didn’t faze Jiddy. He leaned over the tub of still-beer and scooped a gourd dipper full. He drained it, my belly retching at the sight. Then he dipped up a second. I never could swallow such stuff myself. It’s sour as whigs. Causes a wild head and too many trips to the White House. “Quit guzzling that slop,” I grumbled. “Hit would stop a goat.”
Unless you “funnel it,” the beer hasn’t much power, and Jiddy funneled. He took loose the wire the dipper hung by and thrashed his leg with it as if forcing himself. Finally I said, “Hell’s bangers, Jid! Lay off and I’ll locate some real stuff, pure corn, the old yellow kind.” A big-eyed lie on my part. Nobody made such spirits any more. All you could find was who-shot. But it wasn’t merely the beer, or my wanting to vomit watching him that made me promise it. I had finally hatched a scheme.
After a sighting of the moon, Jiddy agreed. She was fully an hour from high. First, he peed into the beer, not that you could nasty it worse than it was. We dropped down the ridge to the Ballard road and backtracked a piece to Pawpaw Branch, Jiddy thrashing his leg with the wire, spurring himself it seemed. “Now,” says I, “you do the waiting.” Epp Clevenger wouldn’t have pardoned me for bringing such a character along. What I’d decided to do was to get Jiddy hoot-owl drunk. With the beer already in him, an easy matter according to my calculations. A few gills of real likker would serve. He’d pass out, and I would scoot.
Epp had a run on and when I came up he was acting mighty uncomfortable. My rattling rocks approaching his furnace had near panicked him. After recognizing me he cried, “Son of a dog! Why didn’t you holler, say who you was?” He had to sit five minutes to let his heart stop knocking. He sold me a short-quart on credit, fresh-run, hot from the worm. Bad stuff, he would of admitted. Epp wasn’t guaranteeing nothing. Though winded by the climb, I started back directly. The moon wasn’t slowing, so I couldn’t either. I raced her, you might say.
Well, s’r, when I reached Jiddy the beer hadn’t touched him. And he had imbibed nigh on to a half-gallon, the least. A few slugs would of put me under for a day, provided it stayed down. But I’ve heard it claimed, no matter how much you drink, if you don’t want to get drunk, you won’t. Beginning to get nervous, I handed Jiddy the bottle, and though it wasn’t agey or yellow or pure corn as I’d promised, he upped it and didn’t grumble. I skipped it myself, for it had a whang of coal oil and lye, and the pig shorts in the mash didn’t recommend it. I eyed Jiddy pulling at the bottle. I watched the moon-ball soar.
The moon took off like Lindbergh. The old sister was flying, and if anything, the more Jiddy drank the soberer he became. Never saw the beat. If Epp Clevenger was fidgity, you ought to of seen me. Hardly a fourth of the whiskey was gone when the moon peaked. The valley lit up wholly, the waters of Ballard shimmered. The ridges were lumpy with trees. And there came Cletis Wilhoyt walking.
I trotted to meet Cletis, vowing to him none would gain in a ruckus between him and Jiddy. Woots Houndshell’s Posey would slam the door on the both of them when she heard. I even made up a rumor she had already dropped Jiddy like a hot nail, and he didn’t need to bother. For my trouble I got called a bad name, and told to go drown myself. That was Cletis. Mean as a horsefly.
There I was between hell and a flint stone. Come a thousand years I couldn’t have changed their minds. Their heads were as hard as ball-peen hammers. And this was to be no fair fist scrap either, no mere knockdown combat, with the one who hollered “gate post” first the loser. There would be no pausing, no blow counted foul. Win or perish, endure or die. And gosh dog! They weren’t even mad. They talked chin to chin, plotting the battle, cool as moss. By now I was in possession of the bottle and I made up for time lost. Coal oil, lye and pig shorts didn’t stop me.
Jiddy called me over to them and gave me his 32-squeeze-trigger. Cletis surren
dered an old German luger. The luger was as neat a handgun as ever I fingered. I laid the weapons on a rock. Jiddy produced a wire—the wire he’d packed from Muldraugh’s works. He had it doubled in his hippocket. He ordered me to tie an end around his left wrist, and the other about Cletis’s. A thing they had agreed on. I did what I was bid do. I bound them to their satisfaction, skin-tight. Next I was asked to treat them to a drink. As Cletis tipped the bottle I noted his face was the color of the air. Following him, Jiddy took a long pull. His countenance—aye, I can’t describe it. I recollect his eyes flicked like a wren’s tail.
Then Jiddy told me to stand clear. I retreated a couple or three yards. “Farther, farther,” ordered Jiddy, and I was stumbling backwards crawdabber fashion when I saw them clasp left hands, and fish in pockets for knives with their right. They opened the knives with their teeth. I saw arms raise and metal glint. It was that moony. My heart didn’t knock. It plain quit.
Cletis struck first, as I recall, swinging outward, elbow angling, and had there been a wind the blade would have whistled. I heard a rip like an ax cleaving the limb of a tree. I froze, and I couldn’t have moved had the hills come toppling. The span of Jiddy’s back hindered my view, and I couldn’t swear for certain, but I figured Cletis’s knife had split him wide. Yet Jiddy only grunted and plunged his blade as if to sever the key-notch of an oak. Cletis rocked and gurgled. Cletis gurgled like water squiggling in the ground during rainy weather. They kept to their feet, backing and filling, breathing as heavily as Muldraugh’s bull had, arms rising and striking. And they kept on striking.
