“Mine’s Tom Higgins.”
Amy eyed his can suspiciously. “What’s in there?” she demanded.
“What do you think?” Tom asked, grinning. Quick as a flash. Amy grabbed for the can, and he cried, “Look out! You’re gonna spill my coal oil.”
“Coal oil? I thought it was liquor. My father says Bad Camp Hollow just flows with liquor.” Amy wrinkled up her nose and said, “That smells like kerosene to me.”
“Wal, it’s coal oil: k-e-r-o-s-e-n-e,” said Tom. “Don’t they learn you nothin’ about respectin’ other folks’ property where you’re from? First you come on my pa’s land an’ ruin his mash, an’ now you try to spill my coal oil.”
“I’m sorry about your, um, coal oil,” she said, “but I’m glad I ruined your father’s—what did you call it?”
“Mash.”
“I don’t care if it was on his own land. I’ll do anything I can to work against the evils of drink.”
“You’re gonna git yourself in trouble if you keep messin’ ’round people’s stills,” Tom warned.
Amy tossed her head and said, “When my father’s through here, there won’t be a still left. You just wait and see.”
“He’s fixin’ to git hisself killed.”
“Killed? Nobody’d kill a minister of the gospel, would they?”
Tom snorted. “Long as he sticks to preachin’ the gospel, they won’t. That’s his business, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“Long as he minds his own business he’ll be safe enough.” Tom started up the trail again, and when Amy called after him, he ignored her. How dare she and her father come here and try to tell him and Pa what to do? When he heard the ring of hooves striking rocks on the rough path and the scrabble of Amy’s boots close behind him, he wheeled around and faced her.
“Stop follerin’ me!”
“I’m not following you. This is the way I’m going.”
“Go on then,” Tom said, standing aside.
Amy bit her lip. “Look, I didn’t mean to make you mad. Can’t we start all over? Hi, my name’s Amy Taylor.”
Tom grinned in spite of himself. “I’m Tom Higgins. What do you call him?” He gestured toward the horse.
“He’s Agamemnon.”
“Aga—what?”
“Agamemnon. My father named both our horses after kings in a famous book about the ancient Greeks. He has a big gray horse named Odysseus.”
Agamemnon and Odysseus? “Never heard of givin’ innocent critters names like those,” Tom said doubtfully.
“As long as we’re talking about names, where did anybody dream up one like Bad Camp Hollow?” Amy asked.
“It used to be Higgins Holler, ‘cause mostly Higginses lived ’round here back then. That’s Higgins Run down there,” he said, nodding toward the stream some distance below the path, “an’ this is Higgins Mountain. Anyways, a while back, two strangers came an’ set up their tent an’ told folks they was studyin’ the plants. Walked all through the woods.
“Nobody knew for sure they wasn’t revenuers, so some of the men kind of encouraged ‘em to leave by settin’ a few fires ahead of ‘em an’ then, after they started back, a few more on either side of where they was. Them fellers hightailed it back to their tent an’ packed up, an’ when they went through the settlement, they told the miller they’d decided this was a bad place to camp. Ever since then, it’s been Bad Camp Holler.”
“Those men could have caused a terrible forest fire!” Amy said indignantly.
Tom looked at her with amusement. “It just made a lot of smoke and burned off some brush.”
“Do people still set fires like that?”
“You won’t have to worry none, long as you an’ Agamemnon—an’ your pa—stay on the path.”
Tom heard Amy draw a quick breath. “Are you threatening me, Tom Higgins?” she asked.
“I’m warnin’ you,” he said seriously.
“Well, you don’t scare me, and nobody’s going to scare my father,” Amy said. And with one smooth motion she was back in the saddle, urging Agamemnon up the trail.
Tom stood looking after them, wondering what would happen if Amy’s folks found out what she was up to when she went out riding.
3
Tom figured he’d been sitting beside the creek facing downstream for a good two hours, and the most dangerous thing he’d seen was a squirrel. Even if there had been a stranger down at the store yesterday, that was a long way from here. And just because Amy had stumbled onto Pa’s still didn’t mean she’d come looking to find where they’d moved it to, did it?
Tom tried to forget that it was his fault that Amy—or rather, Agamemnon—had found Pa’s still. But he knew he had only himself to blame for the fact that he was sitting there, keeping watch while Pa worked. Tom sighed, wishing he could see how Pa would divert water from the stream to the sheltered spot where he’d set up the still. How exactly would he use that length of metal pipe he’d brought with him?
Shifting to a more comfortable position, Tom decided that being lookout was worse than anything else Pa made him do. Carrying rocks and mixing mud for mortar while Pa built the furnace around the still pot yesterday had been hard work, but at least it hadn’t been dull.
Tom reached into his pocket and pulled out the chipmunk he’d been whittling. Already he could tell it would be the best carving he’d ever done. When it was finished, he’d keep it on the mantel, where he could admire it. As he held the perky little wooden animal, Tom’s hands almost tingled with longing to work on it, but he slipped it back into his pocket. Pa had said to keep watch, and this time he was going to do as he’d been told.
But it was so tiresome. Sighing, Tom broke off a twig from the bush behind him and tossed its leaves into the current, one at a time, following them with his eyes until they were out of sight. He half wished he’d hear someone coming so he could run and warn Pa. They would disappear into the forest and silently make their way back to the cabin, and then Pa would say, I’m proud of you, boy. You done good.
“Woolgatherin’ again!”
Tom gave a start and scrambled to his feet. “I was keepin’ watch, Pa! Honest!”
Pa glared at Tom and said, “Coulda fooled me.”
As he followed Pa downstream, Tom thanked his lucky stars that the chipmunk carving had been safely in his pocket.
After supper Tom and Pa went out on the porch to shell corn from last year’s harvest. Tom fed the ears into the hopper of the corn sheller, and Pa turned the crank on the side of the boxy wooden machine. Bare cobs flew from a chute in front, and a steady stream of yellow kernels flowed from an opening at the bottom and dropped into a bucket. As soon as the bucket was full, Tom replaced it with another and poured the kernels into a sack.
When a man on a huge gray horse rode up to the gate, Tom was ready for an excuse to stop the noisy, dusty work. He watched the man dismount, throw his reins over the gatepost, and stride toward the porch.
“I understand you’re planning to kill me, Higgins,” the man said, leaning toward Pa, his chin out-thrust. Tom could almost feel his anger.
“Pa,” he said in a tight voice, “I think this here’s Mr. Taylor, from down at that mission.”
Pa straightened up and looked the man over, from the cap on his wavy brown hair down to his shiny riding boots. Then he spit a stream of tobacco juice just past him. “You heard that, did you?” he said finally.
The preacher gave a quick nod.
“An’ you’re standin’ here now?” Pa asked, a gleam of amusement in his eye.
The preacher nodded again.
“Wal,” Pa drawled, “then it must not of been true, ‘cause if I ever plan to kill a man, he won’t live to come an’ ask me about it.” Turning to Tom, he said, “Boy, git this man a drink.”
The preacher took a step back and said, “I’ve dedicated my life to ridding the Virginia Blue Ridge of the evils of drink, and—”
Pa let his jaw drop. “Why, ‘round here,
offerin’ a neighbor a drink of water after a long, hot ride is considered the decent thing to do.”
Tom held out a gourd of water dipped from the bucket by the door and asked, “Don’t you want this?” The preacher took the gourd from him and held it awkwardly, and Tom said, “I’ll go water Odysseus for you now. Is he named for the king in that Greek book?”
Looking surprised, the preacher nodded.
“That’s a right famous story,” Tom said, hiding a grin as he headed toward the spring.
When Tom came back to the porch, the preacher was telling Pa how he’d felt called to leave his church in Richmond and come into the Virginia mountains to convince the people to give up making and drinking liquor. “Remember what the Bible tells us: ‘Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging, and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise,’” he said with finality. Pointing to the rows of corn growing on the hillside opposite the cabin, he said, “For a crop that large to be turned into liquor instead of cornmeal is an abomination in the eyes of the Lord.”
“Except what I use for animal feed, that whole crop’s gonna end up as cornmeal,” Pa said honestly.
Preacher Taylor looked dubious, and Tom realized the man didn’t know that cornmeal was the main ingredient used in making whiskey. The preacher didn’t have any idea how much com it took to supply a still, either. Their corncrib would be empty long before harvest time, and then Pa would switch to making fruit brandy.
“What’s your yield per acre?” Preacher Taylor asked.
“Don’t rightly know how many gallon I get.”
The preacher’s face flushed and he seemed to control his anger with difficulty, but all he said was, “I can see I have my work cut out for me here.” After an awkward pause, he said stiffly, “It’s nearly dark, so I’ll be on my way.”
“You’ll need this,” Pa said, lighting a lantern and handing it to the preacher. “It’ll be black as the inside of your cap before you’re home tonight.”
Preacher Taylor’s expression changed to one of appreciation as he reached for the lantern. “I’ll send this back with my daughter sometime tomorrow.”
“The boy can walk down to your place for it in the mornin’,” Pa said.
That was fine with Tom. Any errand was better than spending hour after weary hour as Pa’s lookout at the still.
The preacher quickly agreed. “After all, when we get a school built, he’ll be walking down there every morning.”
Pa didn’t answer, and Tom stared at the ground. He knew the only schooling he’d ever have would be learning the craft of making whiskey.
Mounting Odysseus, the preacher said, “I’d heard illiteracy was rampant in these hills, but this boy knows the Greek myths, and my daughter says he can spell, too. Well, there’s still a lot for him to learn. The Bible says, ‘Give instruction to a wise man and he will be yet wiser,’ and I guess that goes for boys, too.”
As the bobbing circle of lantern light disappeared into the dusk, Pa said, “Come on back to the porch an’ tell me that Greek story you like so well before we turn in.”
“Amy—that’s the preacher’s girl—told me their horses was named for the Greek kings in some book. I was just pretendin’ I knew the story,” Tom admitted.
After a moment Pa challenged, “An’ how’d you just pretend you could spell?”
“I learned to spell coal oil down at the store. An’ when Amy thought I had whiskey in my can, I told her it was nothin’ but coal oil: k-e-r-o-s-e-n-e. I guess I was showin’ off.”
Pa was silent for a moment, and then he said harshly, “When they get that school built down at the mission, you’re goin’ to it, you hear?”
Tom’s heart leaped. “I hear,” he said, “but how come you changed your mind?”
“’Cause what you spelled was kerosene, an’ I don’t want no son of mine makin’ a fool of hisself like that again.”
Tom felt as though he’d been punched in the belly. “But—”
“That’s what the flatlanders call coal oil,” Pa said, spitting out flatlanders with withering contempt.
Tom stared into the darkness, his excitement about going to school forgotten.
4
The next morning, Tom tucked in his shirttail and slicked down his hair with water before he started off to get the lantern. This was his chance to satisfy his curiosity about the mission and keep an eye out for the mysterious stranger at the same time.
Leaving the trail to the settlement, Tom turned onto the steep path that led to the bottomland along Jenkins Branch. As he splashed across the shallow creek that Amy and Agamemnon had followed to Pa’s still, Tom vowed that somehow he would prove that he could be trusted. He’d make Pa proud of him yet.
At last Tom reached Jenkins Branch and crossed on the footlog. He was walking along the old wagon road that paralleled the stream when his eye fell on a bootprint in the mud near the edge. A man even bigger than Pa had walked here, and not long ago, either. It must have been the mysterious stranger the storekeeper had warned him about—the tread of that boot sole wasn’t one Tom recognized.
He continued along the narrow road, keeping his eyes peeled for more signs of the stranger. But he saw only horseshoe prints and the narrow ruts left by wagon wheels. “Probably from the Taylors movin’ in their household goods,” he mused aloud.
When Tom reached the mission, he stopped and stared. He hardly recognized the old Gentry place. The board-and-batten siding of the weather-beaten house had been repaired and given a coat of whitewash, the chestnut-shake roof had been replaced with shiny tin, and the door was painted red.
While Tom was admiring the mission house. Amy came out, wearing a blue dress and carrying the lantern. As she walked across the clearing, she looked back and waved, and Tom saw a woman standing in the doorway. She wasn’t a pretty woman, but Tom liked the way she looked—like—well, like a mother.
As Amy walked toward him, Tom noticed that for once she didn’t seem angry. Little tendrils of hair had escaped from her thick braid and curled around her face, giving it a softer look. Stepping into the clearing, Tom blurted out, “Didn’t your pa tell you I was comin’ for that there lantern?”
“Yes, but I needed an excuse to get away for a while. I’ll just walk along with you, since you’re here,” she said, handing Tom the lantern. “I hate being around when Father’s upset.”
“What’s he upset about?” Tom asked, not sure he wanted to walk with Amy.
“Somebody set fire to the lumber he’d bought for the mission’s schoolhouse-chapel. Father smelled smoke late last night and went out there, but it was too late to save it. Come on, I’ll show you.”
Following Amy a short distance off the road to a pile of charred boards, Tom wondered if Eddie Jarvis had set the fire. When there was trouble, Eddie was usually behind it.
Amy wrinkled her nose at the acrid smell and asked, “Why would anybody do a thing like that?”
“‘Cause folks don’t like the idea of havin’ a mission in these hills,” Tom said shortly as he tumed back toward the road.
“Why not?” Amy asked in surprise, hurrying to catch up. “After all, the mission’s being built to help them.”
Tom struggled to control his anger. “Nobody ‘round here asked for your help, did they?” he said bluntly. “You people come in here where nobody wants you, talkin’ about how evil we are an’ how you’re gonna shut down our stills, an’—”
“It’s the liquor that’s evil, not the people,” Amy objected. “There’s a difference.”
Tom said, “We don’t try to tell your pa how to earn a livin’, and he don’t have no right to tell us how to, neither.”
“Earn a living?” Amy echoed.
“Why else would a man make moonshine?” Tom asked in exasperation. “You think Pa likes carryin’ them heavy sacks of cornmeal through the woods on his back? You think he likes settin’ up all night feedin’ the fire and makin’ sure it don’t get too hot? An’ always worryin’ about revenuers? ‘Course
he don’t! But how else can he get money to pay his land tax? An’ to buy me shoes for winter?” Tom stood glaring at Amy.” “‘Course, you wouldn’t understand that. You’ve even got shoes for summer, an’ boots, too, an’ fancy ridin’ clothes, an’ probably—”
“My riding clothes and everything else I have comes out of the missionary barrel,” Amy said flatly.
“What’s a missionary barrel?”
“It’s a barrel full of things better-off people are tired of, so they send them to the missions for the needy.”
Tom stared at Amy. “You take charity?”
Amy shrugged. “I guess you could call it that, but we look at it as part of Father’s pay.”
That made sense to Tom. Cash was in short supply in the mountains, and neighbors often bartered for what they needed, or else they worked off the price.
“When Mother gets the mission’s clothing bureau set up, you could get your shoes there. And a new shirt, too,” Amy said pointedly.
“Pa and I don’t take charity,” Tom said stiffly, wishing he’d worn his other shirt. Even though it was tight across the shoulders, it didn’t look so worn. He was tempted to tell Amy that Pa owned more land than anybody for miles around, land his ancestors had claimed when they came here long ago. Then she wouldn’t think they were no-accounts.
“The clothing bureau won’t be charity,” Amy said. “You’ll have to pay, but not nearly as much as you would for new things at Mr. Barnes’s store.”
Pa would be glad to hear about that clothing bureau, Tom thought as they approached the spot where the path up the mountain left the old wagon road. “This is where I turn off,” he said, but to his surprise, instead of saying good-bye. Amy crossed the branch on the footlog and started uphill ahead of him.
“You’d best pace yourself,” he said. “You’ll wear yourself out before you’re halfway up.” But instead of slowing, Amy climbed even faster. At least she wouldn’t have the breath to argue with him, Tom thought.
Much later, when the path met the main trail from the settlement, Tom said, “Our cabin’s just up there a ways.”
Moonshiner's Son Page 2
