Copper Kettle

by Frederick Ramsay

  “No, Abel. You stay here and take care of Ma…just in case, okay?”

  Abel did not look happy. Jesse guessed his mother would have her work cut out for her keeping him corralled. Jesse stood and pulled on his greatcoat.

  “Where you going, son?”

  “I have some loose ends to tie up, Ma. There are some people I need to talk to, some important types, some not so much. If this is going to work, the right folks has to be there and ready to keep an open mind and a shut mouth. I’ll be back ’bout eleven. It’s not even a mile to the top. That’ll be plenty of time.”

  ***

  Jesse’s intent was to have a talk with Big Tom. What happened later on the mountain could either lead to bloodshed or some sort of conversation. Which of these occurred would depend on what the heads of each clan said and did. Big Tom could make or break it.

  He’d walked a quarter of a mile when Louise Knox rushed from her house and placed herself in his path.

  “Morning, Weezy,” he said.

  “Where’s he at? What have you done with my boy?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Sam ain’t been home for two days. He didn’t say anything to his Pa or me. Since you talked to him he ain’t been the same.”

  “Weezy, as God is my witness, the last time I saw Sam he was chasing after that mule of yours across the pasture.”

  “You ain’t seen him since?”

  “Nope. He might be laying low on account of Little Tom being shot dead.”

  “Why would that have anything to do with my boy?”

  “I told you once already, him, the two Crother boys, Little Tom, and cousin Anse were the ones who took it into their heads to string up Jake Barker the other night. Little Tom is dead. Maybe Sam thought whoever pulled that trigger that might not be done taking care of business.”

  “You did and I didn’t believe you on account of the cuff you gave him. Sam really was mixed up that?”

  “Gospel, Weezy.”

  “Oh my, and you think whoever was in on that devilment is in danger?”

  “It’s a guess, not a for sure. Things has got a little crazy around here lately, but if I was Sam, I’d be out of sight, too.”

  Louise Knox looked like she’d seen a ghost. She rushed back into her house screaming for her husband. Jesse waited a moment in case Uncle Bob appeared. He didn’t. Jesse resumed his path toward Big Tom’s but he couldn’t let go of what Weezy said. If Sam has gone missing, what about the two Crother boys? Were they missing too? He veered off the path and headed toward Shaky Jim’s

  ***

  Jim Crother once held an important job down at the sawmill. That would be before R.G. took over. The previous owner, J. Owen Clanton, had a son and had assumed he would take over the mill when Clanton retired. The son, however, showed no interest in the lumber business. He’d gone over to Blacksburg to study business at VPI. There, he met up with some boys from Durham, North Carolina, and when he graduated followed them south. He joined a firm of stockbrokers, convinced his dad to invest in some shaky land deal out west somewhere. The long and short of it, the old man went bust, the boy went to jail, R.G. Anderson bought the mill at an auction, and Shaky elevated his habit of tapping a jug from now and again to now and now. He ended up unemployed. As a former professional man, he considered farming or any of the more menial pastimes beneath him. Nowadays he waited for opportunity to come knocking on his door. Times were hard at the Crother house.

  Jesse knocked but nobody answered. While he considered pushing on in, he felt sure Jim was in there somewhere, probably asleep, the door cracked open an inch or two and his wife peeked around the jamb.

  “How do, Miz Crothers. You remember me, Jesse Sutherlin? I was wondering if your boys were okay. Seems like Sam Knox had disappeared and since he and your two were tight, I wondered if maybe they were missing, too.”

  “Sure, I remember you. You went off to fight the damned Germans. Nope, I ain’t got the foggiest idea where them two is from one day to the next. I am just sorry they missed out joining the Army like you done. Might have straightened them both out. If you want to know where they’re at, and Sam can’t say, you best be talking to that no-good cousin of yours.”

  “Anse?”

  “Him.” The door slammed shut. Jesse guessed Miz Crothers might have joined her husband in his new permanent occupation. So, the two boys were missing as well, or they weren’t. Jesse wanted to warn them, but he couldn’t do that if he couldn’t find them. He could ask Anse, but the chances he’d get a straight answer from that quarter were pretty slim. He was headed to Big Tom’s. He’d ask him about Anse and the other boys. They might all be missing if they thought Little Tom’s murder was connected to the failed lynching. Big Tom, they said, knew everything about everybody. If he didn’t have a line on them, nobody would.

  Chapter Forty-one

  The path to Big Tom’s place looped around the Crothers’ small holdings. Jesse decided he could save some time if he cut across their back acreage. The outbuildings were in pretty bad shape. No surprise there. The corn crib contained only a few rat-chewed cobs. The barn looked like it might fall apart in a heavy wind. Its siding looked like it hadn’t seen a paintbrush since Appomattox. When buildings are abandoned by their owners, they seem to behave a lot like people. It’s like they despair, or they’ve given up hope. All the evidence of a once tidy farm had fallen into shambles. The yard was covered in weeds and overgrowth. He didn’t expect to see much in the vegetable patch, it being fall and near frost time. Sure enough, except for some onions gone to seed, the tract showed no sign that anyone had put a hoe or spade to it in years.

  As he passed by the barn, he thought he heard voices. He stopped and listened. Sure enough, there were people in there. He strolled around the corner and forced open the building’s only door. The track had rusted and the door screeched as he slid it sideways. Fortunately, he paused before stepping inside. The shotgun blast tore the air next to him.

  “Hey, whoa, hold up there. Is that you two Crothers?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “It’s me, Jesse. Why are you shooting? You come near to killing me.”

  “We heard you killed Little Tom just like you did Albert Lebrun.”

  “You heard what? I didn’t kill anybody since I come home, least not yet and that includes them two. Why’d you think I shot Little Tom?”

  “You was the one who found his body. There wasn’t anybody else around. It musta been you.”

  “Whoever told you that is a liar. Look, if I had shot him, why would I have fired my gun in the air to get folks to come see? Wouldn’t I have just sashayed on home and not said a word to anybody?”

  “Maybe you is just plain stupid.”

  “Well, there’s those who say so, but in this case, I wasn’t. Listen to me, you two. There’s something you blockheads need to be thinking hard on. If it weren’t me that shot Little Tom, then there is somebody out there who did and is maybe not done shooting folks. Why would anyone want to do that to Little Tom, do you suppose? You mull on that for a spell. Then ask yourself, what do you two and Sam Knox have in common with Little Tom? You following me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Okay, here’s another question. Where is Sam?”

  “He lit out.”

  “Why?”

  “Hell, we don’t know. He said he stole his Ma’s egg money and was headed to Roanoke where he was going to hop on a freight train west.”

  “He say why?”

  “Nope.”

  “Might he have been the one who shot Little Tom?”

  “Sam? Naw, he liked Tommy.”

  “Okay boys, a piece of advice, if you plan on hiding out in this building, keep your voices down. I heard you yakking ten yards away. Also, you might give a thought about finding yourself a better hiding place. You are easy targets in this old barn.�
��

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, if I wanted to kill you, all I’d have to do, is set this old falling down building on fire, which you all will admit wouldn’t be much of a chore. Then, you’d either burn up or I’d shoot you when you come running out the door.”

  “Damn!”

  “Yeah. When you rats do crawl out of your hole, one of you run over to the Knoxes’ and tell them what you know about Sam. They are worried sick.”

  Jesse turned and set off again toward Big Tom’s.

  He found him sitting on his porch. He had his rifle barrel leaning up against one knee and was pulling an oily patch through it.

  “Why are you here, Jesse? You’re supposed to be getting ready to dispatch John Henry Lebrun.”

  Jesse glanced at the watch on his wrist. “Barely half past eight, Grandpa. I got plenty of time. I come to talk to you about that, though.”

  “What’s to talk about? You get him or he gets you. Simple.”

  “Not really. You are heading up there with I don’t know how many others. You know that the Lebruns will be there, too. I can’t tell you to leave that Winchester behind, ’cause you won’t, no matter what I say.”

  “You got that part right.”

  “You talked to Garland Lebrun, right?”

  “I said I did. Did not enjoy the visit, but we did do some chin wagging.”

  “You said you believed him when he claimed that none of them had anything to do with Solomon’s getting himself killed.”

  “I did. Like I said, he’s a dying man and is thinking about the hereafter. Lying won’t improve his chances of missing a trip to hell, which, in my mind ain’t too good anyway, the son of a bitch.”

  “Here’s what I think you should do. When you get up on the top, go find him and tell him that if he agrees to keep his guns with the safety on or strapped to the hip, you will, too.”

  “Why would I do anything so contrary?”

  “Grandpa. This mountain is edgy. It won’t take much to set off all kinds of trouble. One person shoots a gun, even if it’s just showing off, and both sides will start firing. Before you know it, you all is dead and nothing is accomplished.”

  “And you think you can get something accomplished?”

  “I hope to heaven I can. If not, I am dead. And if that happens, don’t make me some kind of martyr, okay?”

  “Some kind of what?”

  “I’m saying, I ain’t no saint. Nobody needs to die for me, is what I mean.”

  “You think Garland Lebrun will listen to me?”

  “Like you said, he’s a dying man and wants to get right with the Lord. I reckon he will.”

  “How’ll I find him? You know everybody is going to be hunkered down in the trees.”

  “Well, sir, that is why I moved the meeting to the top of the Buffalo. There ain’t enough trees up there to hide a litter of kittens much less the entire male portion of us and them. He’ll be right out in the open or so far away it won’t make no difference.”

  ***

  Jesse’s next stop was the church. It would be called a “Primitive Baptist Church” by anyone given the task of making a record of the religious community later. The Reverend Parker B. Primrose was the preacher the congregation had raised up just last year. He and two others shared the pulpit most Sundays, but he was regarded as the head man because he could read and write a little, a very little. Preachers generally prided themselves on their complete absence of learning. A lack of any sign of education whatsoever ensured that the words that tumbled out of their mouths had to be God speaking. Because he read a little, Primrose was a rare and suspect exception. As preachers weren’t paid, Primrose worked a patch of land back behind the church and he and his wife lived in a little house back beyond that. Jesse checked and found he wasn’t in the church. Jesse walked to the cabin and knocked on his door. The wife opened it a crack, took one look at Jesse, and turned back into the house.

  “You’re the man who killed Albert Lebrun. You’ll be wanting to talk to my husband, I imagine. Yes, indeed, time to get your sins spoke and see if there is any forgiveness out there for you, though how likely that’d be is a mystery to me.”

  “No, Ma’am. I ain’t.”

  “You ain’t what?”

  “I ain’t the man who stuck a knife in Albert. But you’re right. I want to talk to your husband.”

  “Sin is sin. Lying about it makes it ten times worse, young man.”

  “Yessum, I know. The Reverend?”

  “Through that door.” She pointed to a door that for some reason had been painted purple. It wasn’t a color you saw much on the mountain except in the wildflowers and they had this shade of purple beat to pieces. Primrose was a tiny man but they said he had the voice of a saint. Jesse conceded he was noisy, for sure. He had no idea what a saint sounded like but was pretty sure it wasn’t like the Reverend. Primrose sat behind a table that served as a desk, but with the papers and jugs on it, had to weigh four times as much as he did. Even with the morning light on him, he barely cast a shadow.

  “Reverend Primrose, it just come to me. Are you related to a Miss Primrose who works for Lawyer Bradford?”

  “She is my sister who spent some time at schooling and who has joined the Methodists. Naturally, we ain’t on speaking terms. How do you know her?”

  “Lawyer Bradford and me are in business together, you could say. I met her in his office.”

  “You? You are in, did you say business, with Nicholas Bradford?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  “I reckon that can’t lead to no good. The Devil is in the heads of them with too much book learning and the Bible is clear on lawyers and Pharisees being in cahoots with the Devil hisself. ‘Then one of them, a lawyer, asked tempting him.’ Matthew 22:35. ‘None calleth for justice, nor pleadeth for truth: they trust in vanity, and speak lies; they conceive mischief, and bring forth iniquity,’ Isaiah 59:4.”

  “You’re leaving out, ‘Owe no man anything, but to love one another: for he that loveth another hath fulfilled the law.’ That’d be Paul taking to them Roman folk. This here is the twentieth century, Reverend. You need to get into it and just because we all talk and look like rubes, it don’t mean we’re all necessarily stupid. You know what they say, you can’t tell a book by its cover.”

  “I got no truck with books.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Reading is dangerous. You stick to the Good Book, maybe, but nowadays folks is reading them novels. They tell me there is women going plumb crazy with reading that trash.”

  “Okay. Well, I ain’t here to discuss books. Here’s what I come to see you about—”

  “There is very little I can do about your sins, my boy. Murder is one the Lord will not set aside. ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ That’s right in the Book.”

  “In France we killed a heap of German boys. Didn’t nobody raise an eyelash about that killing. Some of you preachers even encouraged it.”

  “They were minions of the Devil. It were your duty to kill them. You was doing God’s work.”

  “So, God has Himself a list of who is killable and who is not?”

  “You don’t need to get smart with me, young man. The Lord speaks to me and he says killing is a sin.”

  “It is. Don’t He also say, ‘If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.’? That’d be John the ’Postle. If I remember rightly it’s in the same Book.”

  “I’m afraid…how do you come to know that?”

  “I read at it from time to time. When you think you are likely to take a bullet any day like we did in the war, religion can get mighty comforting.”

  “Religion ain’t about comfort, young man. If you be comfortable in the presence of the Lord, you ain’t doing it right. Too many you youn
g men with all that dancing and jazzing around… oh, I know a thing or two about that-ah. And thinking about the Bible is a dangerous thing-ah. Thinking is what sends you straight to hell-ah…”

  “Preacher, I ain’t here to talk about all that. That is your patch, but I reckon all that depends on which end of the Book you spend your time with. Now, to your question you seem like you answered for yourself already, I did not kill Albert, no matter what the local biddies are clucking. That’s number one. Number two is, I want to get married as soon as possible.”

  “You have ruined a young woman and now you wish to—”

  “Land sakes, for a preacher, you’re sure quick to point a finger. Is that what they learned you in preacher school?”

  “Well, I just reckoned that you all…”

  “See, there you go again, jumping ’fore you look. I ain’t got time for this. Next Saturday, here, getting married. Write that down.”

  Jesse slammed out.

  “If it wasn’t for Ma being so churched up, I swear I’d as soon go see the justice of the peace.”

  Chapter Forty-two

  Time had started to catch up with Jesse. He slipped home and stuffed the things he’d need later in a poke and left before either his mother or brother could say anything. The last thing he wanted now was advice from either of them. What little time he had left, he wanted to spend someplace quiet. Like Garland Lebrun, Jesse needed to get right with the Almighty. Unlike Garland, he didn’t really think he’d die, but he knew that he could have it wrong. One of the doctors he’d talked to in France, one who’d treated Solomon, said that soldiers were either fatalists or in a state of denial. They either believed with certainty they were going to die or they were never going to, not right away, anyway. A few, he’d said, bounced back and forth between the two beliefs like an India rubber ball. Jesse wasn’t sure he had the first part pegged. But he understood it generally. Men in the trenches all thought they were going to die. He guessed that’s what the doctor meant. There were days when he shared that feeling. A lot of days. Then there were the times, like when he fell in the German trench, when he knew he wasn’t. That would be denial, right? Now he wasn’t so sure. Was he in that denial state? Was he fooling himself? Maybe. So, just to be sure, spend some time thinking about the hereafter.