by James Still
“I’d put small dependence in such tales,” Mother said.
The woods hurried into leaf. The cowcumber trees broke blossoms the size of plates. Dogwood and service whitened the ridges, and wheedle-dees called in the laurel. And one morning Mother showed Father strange tracks by the door. Father stood in the tracks and they were much larger than his shoes. His shoes had lasted by dint of regular mending. He wagged his head. He could only droll, “It would profit any jasper wearing leather to steer clear of me. I’m apt to compel a trade.”
“My judgment,” Mother said, “we’re wanted begone. They’re out to be rid of us. They’ll hound us off the tract.”
“I’m the appointed caretaker of this scope of land,” Father replied testily, “and I’ll not leave till I get my ready on.”
Wild greens spelled the pintos and rabbit. We ate branch lettuce and ragged breeches and bird’s-toe and swamp mustard. And again the beans and rabbit when the plants toughened. By late April the salt meat was down to rind, the meal sack more poke than bread, the lard scanty. Father hewed out a garden patch and then left the seeding and tilling to Mother. He took up ginseng hunting altogether. He came in too weary to pick at us and he rarely saw the baby awake. Dan began to look askance at him. As for his shoes, he was patching the patches.
Dan and I gradually forgot Old Jack. We waded in the branch and played at the stave mill. We pretended to work for Cass Tullock, feeding mock logs to saws, buzzing to match steel eating timber. And we chased cowbirds and rabbits in the garden. Rich as the land was, the seeds sprouted tardily, for the sun warmed the valley floor only at the height of the day. Mother fixed a scarecrow and dressed it in Father’s clothes. We would hold the baby high and say, “Yonder’s Pap! Pap-o!” The baby would stare as at a stranger.
Father happened upon the first ginseng in May and bore it home proudly. We crowded to see it—even Holly. Three of the roots were forked and wrinkled, with arms and legs and a knot of a head. One had the shape of a spindle. Tired though he was, Father boasted, “The easiest licks a man ever struck. Four digs, four roots.”
“Dried they’ll weigh like cork,” Mother pronounced; and she asked, “Why didn’t you hit more taps, making the tramping worth the leather?”
His ears reddening, Father stammered, “The stalks are barely breaking dirt. Hold your horses. You can’t push nature.”
Mother said, “I believe to my soul your skull is as hard as a ball-peen hammer.”
Father glanced about for the baby, thinking to skip an argument. The baby was asleep. He complained, “Is the chub going to slumber its life away?” He eyed Dan leaning against Mother and said, “That kid used to be a daddy’s boy, used to keep my knees rubbed sore.” And he took a square look at Holly and inquired, “What ails her? I want to know. She’s bony as a garfish.”
“You’re the shikepoke,” Mother replied. “You’ve walked yourself to a blade.” And she said, “Did you come home early as at Tullock’s Camp you’d find the baby wide-eyed.”
Holly snatched the ginseng and fondled it. “Gee-o,” she breathed in delight.
Father caught the baby awake the day he got up with the squirrels. He arrived in midafternoon swinging two critters by their tails, and he came grinning in spite of having found no ginseng. He crowed, “We’ll allow the beans and bunnies a vacation. We’ll feast on squirrel gravy.” He jiggled them to make the baby flick its eyes. After skinning the squirrels, he stretched the hides across boards and hung them to cure.
The gravy turned out weak and tasteless. Lacking flour and milk there was no help for it. Yet Father smacked his lips. He offered the baby a spoonful and it shrank away. He ladled Dan a serving and Dan refused it. Tempting Holly he urged, “Try a sop and mind you don’t swallow your tongue.” Holly wrinkled her nose. “Take nourishment, my lady,” he cajoled, “or you’ll fair dry up and blow away.”
“Humph,” Holly scoffed, leaving the table.
Father’s patience shortened. “Can’t you make the young ’un eat?” he demanded of Mother. “She’s wasting to a skeleton.”
“We’ll all lose flesh directly,” Mother said.
Holly said, “Was I at Tullock’s Camp, I’d eat a bushel.”
Father opened his mouth to speak but caught himself. He couldn’t outtalk the both. He gritted his teeth and hushed.
When ginseng proved scarce and goldenseal and seneca thinly scattered, Father dug five-cent dock and twenty-cent wild ginger. He dug cohosh and crane’s bill and bluing weed and snakeroot. He worked like a whitehead. Mornings he left so early he carried a lantern to light his path and he returned after we children had dozed off. Still the bulk of the herbs drying on the hearth hardly seemed to increase from day to day. Again Mother reported strange tracks but Father shrugged. “It’s not the footprints that plague me,” he said, “it’s the puzzle.”
The garden failed. The corn dwarfed in the shade, the tomatoes blighted. The potato vines were pale as though grown under thatch. We ate the last of the bread and then we knew beans and rabbit plain. Father hammered together box traps and baited for groundhogs. A covey of whitebacks sprung the stick triggers and we had a supper of them. Dry eating they made, aye-o! The groundhogs were too wise.
Awaking one evening as Father trudged in, I heard Mother say direfully, “We’ll have to flee this hollow, no two ways talking. They’ll halt at nothing to be rid of us.”
“What now?” Father asked wearily.
“Next they’ll burn us out,” Mother said, displaying a bunch of charred sticks. “Under the house I found these. By a mercy the fire perished before the planks took spark.”
“May have been there twenty years,” Father discounted. “Who knows how long?”
“Fresh as yesterday,” Mother insisted. “Smell them.”
“To my thinking,” Father ridiculed, “scorched sticks and big tracks are awful weak antics. The prank of some witty, some dumb-head.”
“We can’t risk guessing,” Mother begged. “For the sake of the children—”
“Women can read a message in a chicken feather,” Father declared. “They can spin riddles of rocks. For my part, I have to see something I can understand. A knife brandished, say. Or a gun pointing in my direction.”
Mother threw up her hands. “You’re as stubborn as Old Billy Devil!” she cried.
Father yawned. He was too exhausted to wrangle.
The day came when Father’s shoes wore out completely. He hobbled home at dusk and told Mother, “Roust the old boots. My shoes have done all they came here to do.”
“They’ll swallow your feet,” Mother objected. “They’ll punish.” She was close to tears.
“It’s a force put,” Father said. “I’ll have to use the pair do they cost me a yard of skin.”
Reluctantly Mother brought the boots and Father stuffed the toes with rags and drew them on. They were sizes too large and rattled as he walked. Noticing how gravely we children watched, he pranced to get a rise out of us. Our faces remained solemn.
“I’ll suffer these till I can arrange otherwise,” he said, “and that I aim to do shortly. I’ll fetch the herbs to the Kilgore post office tomorrow.”
“They may bring in enough to shod you,” Mother said, “if you’ll trade with a cheap-John.” She dabbed her eyes. “A season’s work not worth a good pair of shoes!”
His face reddening, Father began sorting the herbs. But he couldn’t find the ginseng. He searched the fireplace, the floor. He looked here and yon. He scattered the heaps. Then he spied Holly’s dolls. The forked ginseng roots were clothed in tiny breeches, the spindle-shaped ones tricked in wee skirts. They were dressed like people. “Upon my deed!” he sputtered.
Father paced the bunkhouse, the boots creaking. He glared at Holly and she threw her neck haughtily. He neared Dan and Dan sheltered behind Mother. He reached to gather up the baby and it primped its face to cry. “Upon my word and deed and honor!” he blurted ill-humoredly and grabbed his hat and lantern. “Even the Grassy folk
s wouldn’t plumb cold-shoulder me. I’m of a notion to spend a night with them.” He was across the threshold before Mother could speak to halt him.
Father was gone two days and Mother was distraught. She scrubbed the bunkhouse end to end; she mended garments and sewed on buttons; she slew every weed in the puny garden. And there being nothing more to do she gathered up the squirrel skins and patterned caps.
The afternoon of the second day she told us, “I’m going downcreek a spell. Keep the baby company and don’t set foot outside.” Taking Father’s gun she latched the door behind her. We watched through cracks and saw her enter the garden and strip the scarecrow; we saw her march toward the mouth of the creek, gun in hand, garments balled under an arm. She returned presently, silent and empty-handed, and she sat idle until she saw Father coming.
Father arrived wearing new shoes and chuckling. I ran to meet him, the tail of my fur cap flying, and he had to chortle a while ere he could go another step. He chirruped, “Stay out of trees, mister boy, or you may be shot for a squirrel.” But it wasn’t my cap that had set him laughing. Upon seeing Mother he drew his jaws straight. He wore a dry countenance though his eyes were bright.
Mother gazed at Father’s shoes. “What word of the Grassy people?” she asked coolly.
“They’re in health,” Father replied, hard put to master his lips. He had to keep talking to manage it. “And from them I got answers to a couple of long-hanging questions. I learned the nearest schoolhouse; I know who kindled our fireplace.”
Dan, hiding behind Mother, thrust his head into sight. Holly let her dolls rest, listening.
“Kilgore has the closest school,” Father said. “A mite farther than I’d counted on. As for the fire, why, the Grassy fellow made it to welcome us the day he expected us to move here. But he’s not the Mischief who planted tracks and pitched burned sticks under the house. Nor the one who waylaid me at the mouth of the hollow a while ago.”
Mother cast down her eyes.
Father went on, struggling against merriment. “A good thing I made a deal with Cass Tullock to haul our plunder back to the camp. Aye, a piece of luck he advanced money for shoes and I had proper footgear to run in when I blundered into the ambush.” He began to chuckle.
Mother lowered her head.
Swallowing, trying to contain his joy, Father said, “Coming into the hollow I spied a gun barrel pointing across a log at me—a gun plime-blank like my own. Behind was a bush of a somebody rigged in my old coat and plug hat. Gee-o, I traveled!” His tongue balled, cutting short his revelations. His face tore up.
Mother raised her chin. Her eyes were damp, yet she was smiling. “If you’d stop carrying on,” she said, “you could tell us how soon to expect Cass.”
A gale of laughter broke in Father’s throat. He threshed the air. He fought for breath. “I can’t,” he gasped. “You’ve tickled me.”
Chicken Roost
A horseman broke out of a cove into the road as Godey and Mal approached, declaring to the world, “I’ve been here and I’m done gone.” That this was the new jockey ground was evident from the squeals and neighs issuing from it.
“What’s the trouble, old son?” Godey inquired. “Too early to be skipping off.”
“Two hours from now there won’t be a soul hereabouts.”
“Don’t go away mad,” said Godey.
“Mad?” cried the horseman, giving his mount a cut with a switch. “I’m madder’n forty hornets.”
At the behest of Judge Solon Jones, the county agriculture agent had chosen Chicken Roost Hollow as a makeshift swapping area, the judge paying four dollars out of his pocket for a day’s rent, as well as putting up five as a prize for the log-pulling contest. The hollow was some eighteen poles in length, three at the widest, hemmed by wooded slopes. The lower reaches were mostly cleared, with a tree standing here and there. Save for the dry bed of the branch there was not a level spot in it, and a spring for watering man and beast was lacking. Drovers used it for an overnight cattle pen. Giant beeches higher up filtered the light, permitting the sun to look in only at midday.
A pair of horsemen were in parley at the entrance, wheeling and turning, barring the way, one astride a stud with fuzzy ears, whiskery muzzle, and bulging hindquarters, the mount of the other a slight blue-hued mare with little except color in the course of distinction.
“Hod dammit, I aim to swap,” blared the master of the blue.
“Offer me something,” returned the owner of the stud.
The boys drew up to listen.
“Even.”
“Give me ten.”
“I said, even.”
“Ten.”
“Even.”
“Ten. Not a chip less.”
“Five.”
“You heard me. Ten.”
“Five.”
“Ten.”
“Five, dammit, five.”
The rider of the stud broke off suddenly, mouthing, “I haven’t lost a thing in this hollow,” and deserted it at a smart pace, with the owner of the mare blatting after, “If you go, I’ll cry.”
Seizing the opportunity, Godey made a pitch. “Want to buy a gentleman mule?”
The man on the mare gave the animal a swift appraisal, pointed into the hollow and notified, “The grease buyer is up in there waiting for you sports,” and jerking rein was away in pursuit of the stud.
Hardly had the boys started than a rider bore down upon them and spun ’round with the warning, “Watch yourself, you tads, these heels can’t see,” and slapped his mount and loped up the bed of the stream shouting, “Hoo-oo-ee, look what I’ve got.” He rode a chestnut mare in tolerable flesh and coat, tail plaited, a pompom on her bridle, and on gaining at least momentary attention from an otherwise distracted crowd, made his cry:
“Round and sound and slick as a mole,
Two good eyes and heavy in foal.”
A horseman offered chase, yelling “Can she work?” and received the answer, “You dadjim right she can work, and she will work.” The run ended abruptly; a haggle ensued.
Godey and Mal stopped to get their bearings. The traders seemed numerous due to the lot of them being in view at once, not scattered, as formerly, throughout town. To Mal’s satisfaction, the only person from home they sighted was Fester Shattuck—Fester astride a peeled log, a saddle beside him, swapped out. The medicine hawker and his sidekick were not to be discovered, or the watch seller with chains dangling from his pockets, although the grease buyer representing a rendering factory downstate was present and had a couple of shikepokes tethered to a tree. Something was amiss, for trading did not appear the first order of business. Riders were drawn up in circles, twisting in saddles, jawing and spitting, and what they had to say was uttered for the entire gathering.
“If you’re hunting yellow dogs, the courthouse is packed with them, the fellers we elected.”
“Amen, brother. You’ve spoken a parable.”
“To the bull-hole with ’em, the whole shebang.”
“Except for Judge Jones. Spare him. He stayed to the bottom with us.”
“Him, too, by grabbies. Out with the danged push. If Solon Jones hasn’t the power to control the others, he’s clogging the works.”
“That’s the right talk. The old doddler has warmed the bench too long, nigh about burnt a hole in it.”
“You have the judge wrong. He went the distance for us.”
“What took place, I’ll tell you; the politicians let the storekeepers put it over on us. They’ve shoved us beyond sight and sound.”
Yet Chicken Roost was serving well in two particulars: There was no necessity to duck or hide to take up a drink of spirits, and shaded by towering beeches, the hollow was as cool as a cellar. From a variety of containers—bottles, jugs, fruit jars—whiskey was openly imbibed and shared.
“I’m wroth enough to set off dynamite,” a trader swore.
A raucous laugh followed, and an admonishment, “Go ahead and poot. The biggest noise
you’ll ever make.”
“Damn your eyes,” was the reply.
The rings broke up, several horsemen departing the hollow, the rest to see what they could manage under the circumstances. A scattering of complainers remained to grumble, ire unspent.
“Next year I’ll stick my dinner in my pocket and I won’t leave a copper cent in town.”
“There won’t be another year, sky bo. Jockey Day is deader’n a nit.”
“You’ve said it. As finished as four o’clock.” “What struck me on the hairy side was the hiring of the skunk of the universe to do their dirty work.” “I’ll go along with you on that, even if you are a tight-fisted Republican.”
“And I’ll agree with a spending Democrat this final once. Next election I’ll wade manure to my knees if I have to go vote against ’em, be they Democrat, Republican, or straddle-pole.”
“Amen, rat’s nest. Keep a-talking the truth and you’ll go to Heaven directly, like Elijah done.” “I am too, pumpkin head.”
Mal, still wary lest someone who might recognize them had been overlooked, breathed to Godey, “Are you seeing anybody we know?”
“Nobody,” said Godey, “so stop sweating.” He had spotted the county agent watching the proceedings from a stump on the rise above Fester, collar buttoned, a tie at his throat, shirt pockets stuffed with pamphlets and pencils. Fester didn’t count.
Fester Shattuck sat astride a beech trunk that had been felled and barked for the log-pulling contest. The skinned tree was an act of foresight on the part of the county agent, who had the grabs, the harness, and the swingle-tree in readiness as well. Fester had swapped out within forty-five minutes of his arrival, the nag he came on, a spavined horse, and a jenny passing through his hands in quick succession. Yet he was not completely flat. In ridding himself of the jenny, which he subsequently learned favored a leg in walking, a handicap difficult to observe on uneven footing, he had come by a hand-tooled copper-trimmed saddle that should sparkle the hardest eye. Confidence supported by nips of the sugar-top stored in his saddlebags, he probed about for chances to get back into the swapping game; he had not traveled out of his way, by Shade Muldraugh’s on Dead Oak, for nothing. He had spied Godey and Mal before they did him. And Riar’s mule was no stranger.
