All Men Fear Me

by Donis Casey

  Clover interrupted. “Oh, no, Sheriff. We can’t let anything deter us from a patriotic demonstration. That’s just what the enemy wants!”

  Ogle agreed. “I can’t call it off now, Scott. It’s too durn late. The whole west half of the county is planning to show up. It’s been in the paper and everything.”

  Mr. Clover was too zealous to be persuaded, so Scott directed his argument to the mayor. “Don’t make it so hard, then, J.H. Let me lock up the hall and put a sign on the door. The boys can get their draft notices in the mail or read the newspaper to see if their numbers come up, like everybody else.”

  “But Mr. Tucker…” Clover attempted.

  Ogle spoke over him. “Scott, deputize as many men as you need to patrol the Liberty Sing. I’m sure you can keep the peace. I’m afraid if we called it off we really would have a riot on our hands. Folks will come to town anyway to hear from the reporter if their numbers were picked, whether they can get into the hall or not. Better to have everyone in one place where you can keep an eye on things.”

  Scott bit his lip. Maybe the mayor was right, but that didn’t mean he liked it. He shot Mr. Clover a sideways glance. “Emmanuel, I have no idea yet who killed Avey. He was a rowdy in the best of times, so his death may have nothing to do with the fact that he was one of our Council of Defense members. But maybe it does. So if I was you I’d consider laying low for a spell until I can get this thing figured out.”

  Poor Clover. He already saw enemies around every corner. The mere suggestion that he could personally be a target caused the blood to drain out of his face. He swallowed and leaned back. But Scott was mistaken if he expected that Clover’s fear would get the better of him. Clover stood up, shaky but determined. “I’ll not hide from adversity, Mr. Tucker. I shall proudly be in the forefront at the Liberty Sing and never give in to traitors and foreign spies and fifth-columnists. No act of terror must ever cause us to alter our American way of life by one jot.”

  Scott gave Clover a wordless once-over before turning back to the mayor. “If you insist on going through with this assembly, J.H., I’m telling you right now that I can’t guarantee there won’t be trouble. But I’ll try to forestall as many agitators as I can beforehand and if all goes well we’ll have a peaceful night.” In truth, Scott was anxious to hear about his own son’s status as soon as the numbers were drawn. Even if it did mean he may have to bust a few heads during the course of the evening.

  Emmanuel Clover’s countenance lifted at Scott’s surrender. “I’ll do my best to keep an eye on things around town, Sheriff, and immediately report any worrisome activity to you or one of your deputies.”

  “That would be most helpful, Emmanuel.”

  “Then I shall take my leave, Mr. Tucker, Mr. Mayor. Until Friday.”

  Clover closed the office door behind him, and Scott looked back at Ogle. “What was he doing here?”

  “Oh, he’s speaking at the meeting next week. As the head Council of Defense man in the town he gets to read out all the new war rules and regulations. After what happened to Avey, though, I’m surprised he still wants to go through with it. It seems like since his wife was killed in that accident he’s gotten afraid of his own shadow.”

  “Well, that’s a hard thing to bear.” Scott’s tone was thoughtful. “It’ll shake a man to his core when he first realizes that trouble and injustice happens to the innocent and guilty alike. Still…he’s a man of true conviction and he does plow ahead no matter what.” An ironic smile flitted over his lips. “I kind of admire the little pecker.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “Resistance in horses is often a mark of strength and vigor, and proceeds from high spirits; but punishment would turn it into vice.”

  —Nolan’s System For Training

  Cavalry Horses, 1862

  The white-maned roan was a fine, smooth ride when he took a notion to be, but if he wasn’t in the mood, Charlie could no more make him cooperate than he could rope the moon. The horse would behave like the high-class mount he was for days on end, lulling the boy into a state of discaution. Then out of the blue, just when Charlie least expected it, the horse would go to bucking like he had burrs under his saddle. Charlie halfway thought that the roan was making a perverse game out of tossing his unwary rider into the dirt. Aside from throwing Charlie onto his rump with unsettling regularity, the roan had never tried to hurt more than the boy’s pride. It was a good thing. The animal suffered from a nervous affliction from having survived a tornado, and Shaw had made it very clear to Charlie from the beginning that if the horse tried to injure anyone he’d have to be put down. No reprieve. Charlie expected that the roan knew that, for he never misbehaved enough to get himself shot.

  The horse generally behaved better with Shaw or Gee Dub, which was all right. Charlie had grown up in the saddle and was a good rider, but both his elders had enjoyed years more practice with horses than Charlie had. But the awful thing was that when the roan got so riled up that none of the Tucker men could do anything with him, the very sight of Charlie’s eleven-year-old sister Sophronia would calm him right down.

  The roan was the finest, most valuable, and manliest horse Charlie had ever seen. He never expected to own such a wonderful, fiery creature, especially at the tender age of sixteen. The fact that the horse loved his little sister more than him only added to the boy’s general discontentment with his lot in life.

  Charlie was in the roan’s stall, lovingly brushing the lustrous coat, when the object of his disgruntlement appeared. She climbed up the slats of the stall and hung her arms over the top rail, grinning at him, all a mess of frizzy reddish hair, freckles, and big white teeth.

  “Hey, Charlie Boy. You give this horse a name yet?”

  He tried to ignore her, but she didn’t take the hint.

  “Gee Dub said that now you’re calling him Lightning Bolt. Does he like that any better than Devil Dancer? Why’d you go with Lightning Bolt? Is it that white blaze on his nose? It’s too fat to look like a bolt of lightning.”

  How did she do that? Sophronia had a knack for knowing just which topic to broach to annoy Charlie the most. Ever since he had come into possession of the roan, Charlie had been trying out one name after another, but nothing seemed to stick. In fact, if he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn that every name he tried on the horse thus far just irritated him. He first called the roan Tornado, since it was due to the tornado that tore through Boynton the year before that the horse lost his previous owner. But every time Charlie called him Tornado, the horse tried to buck him off. “Tornado” obviously brought up too many unfortunate memories. So he changed the name to Hercules, but that just got him scraped out of the saddle when the roan decided to run his rider under a low tree branch. Six Shooter earned him a bite on the butt. Devil Dancer shied away every time Charlie tried to mount.

  Charlie figured he hadn’t come up with a name that properly conveyed the horse’s strength, pride, and spirit. The horse would let him know when he did.

  He had intended to ignore his sister until she went away, but her question had goaded him. “If you’ve just got to know, I’m calling him Lightning Bolt ’cause he’s fast.”

  Lightning Bolt snorted and tried to step on Charlie’s foot, but the boy skipped out of the way.

  “So how’s he liking it?”

  “He likes it fine.” The roan snorted again and knocked Charlie into the rails with his shoulder.

  Sophronia chucked. “Yeah, looks like it.”

  “What do you want, you little flea? Or did you come out here just to get me riled up?”

  “Mama says it’s about time to go to church and you should come on.”

  Charlie went back to his brushing. “Tell Mama I’ll be there directly.”

  Sophronia didn’t move from her perch on the slats. “You know, you’re going about it all wrong.”

  “I reckon I know ho
w to groom a horse.”

  “Not that. I mean naming that horse. You keep coming up with hard names, and yonder horse has been through enough hard times to do him. He don’t like tough names. You ought to try something peaceful. Something sweet.”

  This was too much. Charlie glared at her. “Sweet! Now, that takes the cake! This ain’t no lady’s palfrey. This here is a steed. A war horse. He wants a manly name.”

  “Pshaw. You’re the one wants a manly name for him.”

  He turned his back on her. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Now get out of here before I whop you.”

  She wasn’t bothered. She hopped down off the fence with a chuckle. He could no longer see her, but he could hear her plain enough. “I’m telling you, Charlie Boy. He wants to be called something like Sugarplum.”

  Charlie rolled his eyes. Sophronia reappeared over the top of the gate, her bare toes curled over a low slat. “Hello, Sugar-

  plum,” she cooed. The horse pricked up his ears. Sophronia reached one hand toward the animal’s nose. “Come over here and let me love on you.”

  Charlie gasped, half expecting the horse to bite the girl’s hand off. Instead he nodded his big head up and down a couple of times and moved up close enough for her to rub his forehead. “Why, you’re just a cuddle pie, aren’t you? Yes, you are, you sweetie. You’ve had enough manliness to last you, haven’t you? Well, don’t you worry, I’ll come by every day and hug you and bring you sweet potatoes and carrots and, and, and, an apple. How about that, mother’s little darling?”

  Charlie’s mouth flopped open as the gelding leaned in to Sophronia’s petting and gave a contented huff. For an instant he was dumbfounded, but his amazement transformed in a blink to wild indignation. The finest horse he ever had or was likely to have loved a freckle-faced, frizzy-haired eleven-year-old girl with big teeth better than it did him. Charlie had lavished all his attention and care on that beast for more than a year and Sophronia had never done a thing in the world for him but talk to him in baby-talk. Was there no justice in the world? Was there no reward for devotion? It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.

  He emitted a bellow that encompassed all his rage and heartbreak and flung the curry brush at the gate, not really intending to hit his sister, but determined to drive her off. The brush hit the gate hard enough to ricochet and smack him in the shoulder. The horse shied and Sophronia dropped out of sight again. Her laughter taunted him. The sound of her voice receded as she ran out of the stable. “I’ll be back, Sweet Honey Baby!”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag

  And smile, smile, smile.”

  —World War I marching song

  lyrics by George Asaf

  After breakfast and chores, Phoebe, John Lee, and their children, along with Mary, Chase, and Judy met at Alafair’s house so that the whole family could go to church together. The rain had stopped so the children and Mary and Phoebe piled into the back of Shaw’s quilt-lined hay wagon. Gee Dub and Charlie followed alongside on horseback, and John Lee sat on the bench with Alafair and Shaw, since his stiff leg made it difficult for him to sit on a horse gracefully.

  No one commented on Kurt’s absence. He told them that he had too much work to do if he wanted to get the co-op’s order for pork filled in good order, and he figured God would forgive him. The truth was that he had lost faith that his neighbors would still be able to see him as a man like themselves rather than a native son of the ravening Fatherland. Mary, however, was dead-set on going. She had been part of this community almost all of her life, and she was blessed if she was going to let anybody make her feel like an outsider.

  After Alafair had wrangled the children into their Sunday clothes and plaited and re-plaited so many braids that she lost count, she set out to find Rob. She found him sitting in a chair at the edge of the front porch, a cigarette in his hand and four dogs arrayed around his feet.

  She sat down on the porch swing. “Robin, I’d be pleased if you’d come to church with us.”

  His mouth quirked, and he flipped ash over the side of the porch. “Sister, the last thing y’all need is to be seen in the company of a Wobblie.”

  “Nobody around here knows you,” she said, “except for kin. And I don’t believe any of Shaw’s brothers and sisters know what you do. Even if one them did, they wouldn’t say anything.”

  He felt a passing pity for her naiveté. “Oh, somebody knows and somebody will blab. That is, if word isn’t all over town already. Believe me, it’s best not to be seen with me. Shaw’s hired men will find something for me to do.”

  “Robin, I want you come, now.” She sounded determined. “I won’t introduce you to anybody if you don’t want me to. Church will do you good, and if you don’t believe it, then you going to church will do me good. Please, Robin. Do me this favor.”

  Rob felt himself weakening. He had no good opinion of religion, but if it would make his sister happy…

  He crushed the butt under his toe and scraped it off the porch with his boot. “Oh, all right. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Rob climbed into the wagon among much merriment from the children, and they headed out. As they reached the road, Grace began to sing one of her favorite songs to Tuck, and soon everyone joined in the family anthem:

  Old Dan Tucker was a mighty man

  Washed his face in a frying pan

  Combed his hair with a wagon wheel

  And died with a toothache in his heel.

  Gee Dub trotted beside the wagon on his chestnut mare, Penny, singing along. But Charlie was having trouble controlling his white-maned roan, who skittered hither and yon, tossing his head and generally making a nuisance of himself.

  When the horse fell behind the wagon, Sophronia hung over the tailgate and called out over the singing. “Hey, Sweet Honey Darlin’, come on up here to Mama, come on up for a nice nose rub and a kiss!”

  The roan settled at her voice and nosed her hand with a “whuff.” He gave Charlie no more trouble for the rest of the trip, but Charlie felt like strangling Sophronia with one of her own pigtails.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  “Compassion will cure more sins than condemnation.”

  —Henry Ward Beecher

  Shaw’s mother and stepfather lived in a pale gray two-story house on the outskirts of town. The house was bigger than Alafair’s house by far, and only two people officially lived in it. Which didn’t mean it wasn’t always full to bursting with children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, either visiting or spending the night or a week or a month. Peter McBride raised apples, pecans, and Tennessee Walkers, and a month under his tutelage was worth a semester of agricultural college.

  Shaw pulled the wagon to a halt in the drive and everyone piled out to help Grandpapa Peter and Grandma Sally get ready to go into town.

  The boys hitched the horses to Peter’s four-wheeled carriage while Shaw and Rob hauled out a crate of apples destined for Khouri’s Market and loaded it onto the tailgate. Inside the airy parlor, Grandma Sally directed the females to fetch and load boxes of old clothes and quilts for the clothes drive, and jars of fat for the war effort. Before heading out the door, Alafair waited as Sally stopped in the foyer to crown herself with a feathered and beribboned hat.

  “So your scandalous socialist brother Robin has come to visit.” Sally’s comment was offhand, but there was a bubbling quality to her voice that indicated she was delighted by the fact. “My, it has been years since I’ve seen him.”

  Alafair was shocked. She had just assured Robin not half an hour earlier that few people had any idea of his politics. “I didn’t know you ever heard about him and the union, Ma.”

  “Well, of course. Your mama writes to me right along. He joined up with the I.W.W. right after the Army, didn’t he? That was a long time ago.”

  Alafair ha
dn’t considered the fact that her mother and Shaw’s mother were friends. “Well, given the times, we’ve decided to keep quiet about it while he’s here. He didn’t want to come to church this morning but I talked him into it. I hope I didn’t make a mistake.”

  Sally dismissed her concern with a wave of the hand. “Oh, don’t worry, honey, I ain’t going to talk. How is he? He looks good.”

  “I think he’s pretty wore out. I hope while he’s here he’ll get rested and maybe decide to pursue a different livelihood.”

  Sally laughed at that. “I wouldn’t count on it if I was you. I remember what a hard-headed tyke he was. Did he ever make up with your daddy?”

  “No.” There was no more to say about that.

  “Sorry to hear it, for your mama’s sake.” Sally adjusted her bonnet and ran a hatpin through the crown. “Well, let’s get to going.”

  One large covered basket sat apart near the front door. Alafair bent to pick it up, but Sally stopped her.

  “I’m not taking that one today, sugar. It’s just a passel of vegetables from my truck garden. I’ll deliver it tomorrow.”

  “Who’s it for?” Alafair asked the question idly. “Josie?” Sally often exchanged goods of all sorts with her eldest daughter.

  Sally regarded her reflection in the small mirror beside the front door. “No, I’m taking a few things to Rose Lovelock and the other poor creatures who must toil in such cruel circumstances.”

  For a moment Alafair had no idea what she was talking about. Sally McBride had been raised by her Cherokee mother and white father in the deep woods of Arkansas, and had a wildly different understanding of reality from most of the ordinary people Alafair knew. It was not unusual for Alafair to have to take a moment to get her bearings with Sally. Her first thought was who is Rose Lovelock? But as she uttered the word “who’s”, the light dawned.