Copper Kettle

by Frederick Ramsay

  “Because?”

  “They needed volunteers, particularly officers, to go fight the Bolsheviks in Russia. They made my promotion permanent when I said I might be interested.”

  “But you didn’t go.”

  “No. I changed my mind and they were way too busy to bother with fixing the paperwork. Then we all come home and it didn’t make a difference.”

  Serena sighed and stood. “You’re going to do what you’re going to do, Jesse. I will worry about you now and cry at your funeral later. Why must you be so stubborn?”

  She wheeled and ran down the mountain.

  “Born that way, I guess. Well, shoot, you don’t have to run off like that…” He watched her disappear into the trees. “Good talking to you, Serena.”

  Jesse picked up a stick and began scratching the dirt at his feet with it.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The next day was Sunday. Jesse knew he would not be getting a thing done today. If he asked a question, he’d get a blank stare for an answer. Nothing except the necessary would be done today. Cows would be milked, chickens and pigs fed, fires lit, and some cooking done for those with food enough to require it. But it was the Lord’s day and that meant a day spent in church listening to Preacher Primrose and the other Deacons rail on about the wages of sin, the scarlet women who had led good, God-fearing boys astray, fornication, raucous living, all accompanied by multiple references to Hell, fire, and brimstone. The Bible, which two of them had never read, they being functionally illiterate, was quoted often in verses selected to reinforce their rolling sermons and punctuated with “ahs” when they needed to catch a breath. Men and women moved in and out of the building, to have a smoke, spread a picnic, or just to pass the time. One or two of the men would slip behind the church for a pull on a jar, jug, or bottle. After a bit, they’d wander back in or go on home. The constant ebb and flow of congregants had no effect whatever on the preachers or their oratory which went on uninterrupted. Since France, Jesse reckoned he’d already been to Hell and it weren’t anything like as bad as the preachers said.

  Like most everybody else on the mountain, Lebrun or McAdoo, he’d put on his best clothes, scraped the whiskers off his face with the Gillette safety razor that had been given to him by the Army, and set out. Dressed and his suit brushed, he’d make his way to the little church down the mountain from his place. When he was still a shirttail kid, he’d sneak away, unimpressed by the threat of Devil’s imps which he’s been told lurked around every corner and tree. Instead, he and Abel, when he got bigger, and some of the braver cousins would gather chestnuts, smoke some purloined tobacco, or simply loaf under a tree, freed for one day of chores and school.

  The funny thing about Sunday church was that both McAdoo and Lebrun folks sat together in the same pews. They intoned together “Rock of Ages,” “A Closer Walk With Thee,” or any of the dozen old standards sung in that church over the years. One or two even would manage a harmony-like line on top, which the organ player, Miz Ambrose, called a “descant.” Then, come Monday, they’d be looking darts at each other like Sunday never happened.

  Addie had had Jesse kill and pluck one of the hens the day before and had cooked it up for Sunday supper. She’d pulled some yams from the root cellar and there was a dab of real butter and fresh boiled greens. For a treat, she’d bartered some hoe cakes with Miz Knox for a small jar of honey which they spread on cornbread. Jesse didn’t press her on why she fixed a feast, for that was what it amounted to. Sunday dinners were always the best meal of the week, but he hadn’t seen this kind of eating for a very long time. He guessed it was to celebrate the fact that he wasn’t in the county pokey anymore.

  The evening air had turned chilly and he was restless. He changed out of his Sunday clothes and walked over to the Billingsley place. Hoke and his kin were the most easygoing people on the mountain. If Jesse had any hope of finding some peace and quiet, avoiding the questions and looks, that would be the place to be.

  The whole Billingsley clan was gathered on and around the front porch. Hoke played a mean guitar and his brother, Amos, might have been the fiercest banjo picker in all of Floyd County. A couple of cousins, including the Wesley McAdoos, sat nearby with jugs and a tub rigged with a long leather thong fixed to a bow. Wesley could tighten or loosen the bowed arm and change the pitch of the thong he plucked. The boys with the jugs either whomped them like drums or blew across the open end to add a note that defied putting on a scale but mostly sounded like whoonk. They were in the middle of a breakdown when Jesse strolled up. Hoke motioned with his head toward a fiddle lying on the porch beside him.

  Jesse shook his head. He hadn’t done any fiddling since before the war. Someone behind him gave him a little shove in the direction of the fiddle. He shook his head again, but stepped up on the porch, retrieved the mountain Stradivarius and plucked its strings. It was pretty much in tune. Good enough for this crowd, anyway.

  Most of mountain music would be played by ear. If there was anybody there who could read music, he sure didn’t know who that would be. Even Miz Ambrose, the church organist, had at best only a nodding acquaintance with the dots on the page of sheet music. Jesse picked up the tune and tempo and drew the bow across the strings. Adding the violin to the mix changed the whole composition. The way they played music, always did that. If someone jumped in with a Jew’s harp or harmonica, it would shift again. Capturing that on a piece of paper or trying to put it on one of those newfangled Edison disc machines was next to impossible. The basic tune might be the same, but the execution varied from day to day and moment to moment.

  They made music for an hour or so and then Hoke broke out a jug of fresh-pressed cider. There’d be no liquor on a Sunday. Well, none anybody would own up to, but there were a few who supplemented their cup of cider from a pocket flask or something poured out of a Mason jar. Wesley McAdoo sat down next to Jesse and nodded a greeting.

  “Near thing, yesterday.”

  “Not as near as it might have been. I still would like to know which one of us signed that witness statement. When did we change our minds about working with the law?”

  “It ain’t. This is something nobody went in for, and as far as who signed it, you don’t want to know, Jesse. You let that dog lie. Knowing can’t do anything but pull us apart. We sure don’t need any of that now.”

  “Then I’ll let her lie, Wesley, but one day I aim to find out and that person and me will have some words.”

  “Fair enough.” Wesley pulled out a flask and poured out a dollop of clear mountain moonshine into his cider. “You want a snort?”

  Jesse held put his cup and Wesley tipped in a taste. “Cider’s okay, I reckon, but after a week of busting your back scratching out a living from what amounts to a rock farm, a man needs a little back door medicine, is what I say.”

  “Amen to that.”

  “I hear you be working at the sawmill.”

  “I am.”

  “They pay good?”

  “Not so much good, as fair. It’s all you can ask for these days.”

  “They hiring?”

  “Maybe. You could ask.”

  “It ain’t for me. This old hound can’t learn no new tricks. I’m thinking on my boys.”

  “Send them down. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Maybe. Jesse, one more thing. For your own good, ask yourself what the devil was that Barker boy you saved from Anse’s noose doing over on this side of the mountain. He’s a Lebrun, Jesse. What the hell…sorry, Lord…what the heck was he doing over here at night?”

  “You don’t think he—?”

  “I ain’t suggesting nothing, but like I said, he’s a Lebrun.”

  “The mountain is open to whoever wants to walk on it, Wesley. If you’re on the public road, you got as much right as anybody else.”

  “Hell, I know all that. That’s not where I’m going here. Loo
k, you’re soft on the Barker girl, I know, but you shouldn’t let that get in your way of seeing what’s happening.”

  “What should I be seeing?”

  “Holy Ned, for a smart man, you can be dull as mud. Just think about it. Why was he even here? That’s all I’m saying.”

  Wesley stood and shuffled over to his people. Jesse sat and tried to make sense of what he’d said. Wesley wasn’t a hothead, but he shared all the prejudices about the Lebruns as nearly everybody else on this side of the mountain. So, what was that all about? Jake was the victim, wasn’t he?”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Monday morning and the work at the sawmill had to go on as usual but it seemed to bog down every half hour or so. Jesse was aware of some strange looks sent his way from the crew and wasn’t sure how to deal with them. There’d been no trial, no evidence of any import to support it, but in the eyes of half the men, Jesse Sutherlin was a killer. Who wants to work with a murderer? Finally R.G. walked out of the office and pulled Jesse aside.

  “Jessie, we got a problem. I know you didn’t stab that boy and most of the thinking folks hereabout know that, too, but the fact is, we aren’t getting any real work done today. I want you to take a couple of days off and let things cool down.” Jesse started to protest. “It’s for the best. I won’t dock your pay. You just get on home and figure getting through the next couple of days and then we’ll see.”

  “Mister Anderson, I ain’t got no alternative, if you follow. I work or I’ll go crazy.”

  “Jesse, you have a death sentence hanging over your head. Either you settle this mess and things quiet down, or you get yourself killed, or you make a dash for the county line. I don’t see any other…what did you say?…alternatives. You are out of options right now. Me? I have a mill to run and I need the men’s minds on their work. Otherwise one of them is going to lose a hand to the saw. They need to be concentrating on it, not on you. Now git. I’ll see you come Monday.”

  Jesse shook his head, started to say something and, realizing R.G. wouldn’t budge, walked to the office to punch out. Serena watched him with lowered eyes. Jesse couldn’t make out if she was angry at, or sorry for, him. He guessed it didn’t matter. Somehow he had managed to get on everyone’s bad side. Because he killed Albert, because he didn’t, because it couldn’t be determined what was what. He waved in the direction of Serena’s desk and headed up the mountain.

  ***

  Jesse pushed through the branches that screened the copse from the path and saw Big Tom standing by the coil box of his, by now, restored still. Big Tom spun around at the sound of footsteps and reached for his rifle.

  “Whoa, it’s me, Grandpa. It’s Jesse.”

  “What’re you doing here? Why ain’t you down in the valley sawing wood? You get yourself fired?”

  “Nope. The boss wants me to lay low for a while. Somehow folks latched on to the notion that I was a killer. How do you suppose they came by that idea?”

  “Well, in spite of all your bellowing that you ain’t, and I don’t fault you on that, naturally, you are reckoned to be the man that done in Albert Lebrun and that’s a fact.”

  “And me saying I didn’t kill anybody don’t make a difference?”

  “Well, shoot, Jesse, what kind of a fool would own up to that? A man could get hisself arrested and hung if he did.”

  “So, you all think that’s what I’m doing? Saying I’m innocent just to fool the hangman?”

  “Ain’t you?”

  Jesse sighed and sat on a stump. “It don’t make a lick of difference what I say. You all will believe what you will. Maybe Serena’s right. I should just pack up and go.”

  “You ain’t planning on leaving. You don’t want to do that, Jesse. Everyone will think you’re a coward who John Henry called out and you skedaddled.”

  “So, it’s a preference up here in this corner of the world that it’s better to be a dead hero than a live coward.”

  “Well, when you put it that way, yes, by God. And you ain’t no coward, everybody knows that.”

  “Not everybody, Grandpa.”

  “Well, them people ain’t got the sense of a tadpole. You don’t pay them no mind. Why you’d come up here, anyway?”

  “I come up here to look at the scene of the crime. That’s what they call it in them dime novels—the scene of the crime. I’m hoping I missed something the first time.”

  “What in blazes for?”

  “Because, no matter what folks on both sides of the mountain may think, we ain’t caught Solomon’s killer and I aim to do that if I can. Then I’ll get off the mountain and everybody’s mind.”

  “Jesse, I’ve lived on this mountain all my life. I seen folks come and go, good times and bad. Take my advice, let that dog lie.”

  “Why is everybody saying that? Leave it lie. I appreciate the thought, but I ain’t buying it. Tell me again exactly where Solomon was when you found him.”

  Big Tom gave Jesse a look that would curdle cream. No one had done a thing like that since he was discharged from the Army. When his gaze had softened sufficiently, Big Tom walked him through what he’d told him five days before—where Solomon had been lying, which way had he been facing when he was shot, the positions of the wrecked still, the lot.

  “Thank you, Grandpa. So it appears that whoever shot Solomon must have come up behind him and maybe even followed him here. He’d have come from the path the same as Solomon and…” Jesse walked to the place where he and Abel had found footprints. “Whoever was standing over here most likely had nothing to do with the shooting.”

  “Someone was standing over there?”

  “Yep. Me and Abel found us a double set of footprints that day. They’re dried up some, but you can still make them out. If they were the ones doing the shooting, they would have had to come out of the woods and Solomon would have seen them. It’s not likely he’d turn his back on anyone who pushed in here, would he?”

  “How the hell would I know that?”

  “Just stands to reason. So, okay, what did these two people do?”

  Jesse stepped into the woods being careful not to disturb the dried footprints. He brushed aside some leaves.

  “Ah, here’s something new. I didn’t see this because the leaves covered them, but I have more footprints.” He stood in a position parallel to the first set, took a step back, and turned. “Whoever these fellers were, they came to the edge here, stopped, and then stepped back.” Jesse scrutinized the ground. “I’m guessing they saw something and were frightened by it. They turned and hightailed it back down the mountain. These are not the shooter’s footsteps. They belong to a witness. Make that two witnesses. I need to find out whose feet match these prints.”

  “I swear to goodness, Jesse, why in the world are you still at this?”

  “I told you, Grandpa. I want to find out who killed Solomon and if I do, I will also know who killed Albert Lebrun.”

  “Them two killings ain’t related, Jess.”

  “Not related? Grandpa, you ain’t been paying attention. They are hand and glove. Someone shot Solomon in the back. That set a war in place between them and us. Then, Albert is stabbed to death and that don’t settle it. Mean and nasty as they can be, the Lebruns know the rules, you could say. If Albert was the one who shot Solomon and was killed in revenge, they’d accept that. Eye for an eye and all that, but if Albert didn’t shoot Solomon, then we are in a worse place than before, you see?”

  “It’s too deep for me. Whyn’t you listen to me? Let the thing go. Solomon is dead, a Lebrun is dead. We’re done.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. It ain’t finished. Don’t you understand? John Henry is fixing to stick a knife in my gizzard. If he does, a McAdoo will go off and do in another Lebrun, who will take out two or three McAdoos and it will never end. Unless somebody, I guess that’d be me, figures this out in the next day o
r so, this mountain will explode and the only people who’ll be happy about that are the U.S. of A. Revenue Agents. They will have one less mountain to patrol for bootleg liquor because the only folks left up here will be dead, dying, or widows.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Jesse left his grandfather to tend his still and to stew about his grandson’s pigheadedness. He cranked up the Model T and drove it to town. He wanted to have a sit-down with Bradford the lawyer. With any luck, he’d catch him in his office and not busy. His luck held and not only was Bradford not in court, but had been about to send for Jesse. He was ushered into an office that, to him, was remarkable primarily for its opulence. For all of his life, Jesse had endured the Spartan existence poverty brings. It wasn’t a thing he gave much thought to. It had always been that way. The concept of poor as opposed to something else never entered his thinking. His stint as a soldier and seeing how strange and different the rest of the world was had shocked him almost as much as being shot at by strangers in German uniforms. The notion that some people, many in fact, had all the food and material goods they ever wanted and could get them, and more, whenever they chose, dumbfounded him.

  “Jesse, sit and listen. I have two things I think you will want to hear. First, you asked me to look up the Fairchild Leigh deed and documents that placed it in an entailed status. I have done just that. Also, I have the coroner’s report for Albert Lebrun’s killing. I expect you’ll want to read it as well. Both of those documents make for very interesting reading.”

  “Sir? The Lebrun folk called in the police?” The idea they would do such a thing bordered on the unthinkable. Mountain people settled their own affairs. His run-in with Sheriff Franklin had been shocking as much for the fact of it, than the circumstances which brought it on. Nobody on the mountain willingly cooperated with the police unless they wanted something only the flatlanders’ law could give them. Somebody must really want Jesse’s neck in a noose.