Moonshiner's Son

by Carolyn Reeder

  “What kind of work, Pa?” Tom asked, puzzled. Pa leaned on his stick and asked, “Just how long d’you think it’ll be before that revenuer finds his way up here? Wal, when he does, we’re gonna look so innocent he decides he’s wastin’ his time. Now git a shovel.”

  While Pa watched, Tom buried the last two jars of moonshine in the potato patch. Then he listened intently to Pa’s plan and set off for the Widow Brown’s cabin.

  To his relief, he didn’t meet Amy on the way. This was one time he definitely didn’t want her walking with him. He was dismayed when he came in sight of the cabin and saw Agamemnon tied to the fence. Everything was going wrong today! Well, he’d just have to wait till Amy left before he got what Pa had sent him for, Tom thought as he gave a holler.

  Both Mrs. Brown and Amy seemed pleased to see him, but when he joined them on the porch Amy frowned and asked, “What are those sacks for?”

  “Why, they’re for carryin’ jars of buttermilk,” Tom said, giving the Widow Brown an exaggerated wink.

  Amy’s face flushed, and she got to her feet. Ignoring Tom, she turned to Mrs. Brown and said, “I’ll come visit you again sometime when you don’t have other company.”

  As Amy rode off, Mrs. Brown gave Tom a mischievous look and said, “She sure didn’t much appreciate you bringin’ up the subject of buttermilk.” Chuckling, she added, “Wish I could of seen her pa openin’ all them jars in June’s spring box. Still, I don’t rightly know why you wanted to rile her like that.”

  “I didn’t want to rile her—I just didn’t want her ’round while I was gittin’ what I came for,” Tom said uncomfortably.

  “I was hopin’ you came for to bring me some whiskey. Why did you come? Not that I ain’t pleased to see you anytime at all, you understand.”

  “Can you let me have a jar of buttermilk? Real buttermilk?”

  The Widow Brown stood up and said, “Sure can—an’ some butter an’ fresh-baked bread, too. Anything else you’d like to have? I see you brought two sacks.”

  Tom followed her out the gate. “While you’re gittin’ the buttermilk an’ all, I’ll just fill the other sack with cow pies, long as that’s all right with you,” he said, putting a serious look on his face.

  “Cow pies?” The old woman peered at him, her wrinkled forehead furrowed into a frown. “I don’t think I got no cow pies, Tom.”

  Struggling to keep a straight face, Tom gestured to the flat, round splats of dried cow manure on the ground outside the fence. “Sure you do, Miz Brown—an’ they’re just what Pa and I need.”

  She stared at him for a moment before she started toward the springhouse. “Help yourself, boy,” she said over her shoulder. “You just help yourself.”

  Grinning now, Tom began filling the sack with the dried manure. When Mrs. Brown came back, he’d tell her what he was going to do with it, and they’d have a good laugh.

  9

  Tom and Pa were just finishing their fried potatoes and salt pork that evening when they heard the gate creak. Tom started to get up, but Pa growled, “Set down, boy.” Soon a man’s shape was silhouetted in the doorway.

  “Who’s there?” Pa challenged.

  “P. D. Hudson, federal agent.”

  “What is it you want, Petey?” Pa asked, standing up.

  Without answering, the revenuer came inside, and a stolid young man he didn’t bother to introduce took his place in the doorway. Hudson looked around, blinking to accustom his eyes to the dimness of the small cabin. A glimmer of recognition crossed his face when he saw Tom.

  The revenuer’s eyes lingered on the rifle hanging over the huge fireplace, moved first to Tom’s carved chipmunk and the dust-covered Bible on the mantel, then to the iron skillet resting on the hearth. He showed no interest in the two sturdy stools, but he seemed to be memorizing every detail of the rocking chair Pa had made of maple and hickory wood. Finally turning away, he glanced at Pa’s bed and the blanket chest and looked with interest at the homemade ladder nailed to the back wall below a square hole in the ceiling. At last, his gaze came to rest on the remains of the evening meal.

  Tom wished they had a tablecloth like Mrs. Brown’s. And that Pa had straightened and smoothed his quilt like she did, instead of leaving it in a rumpled heap.

  “I asked you what it is you want, Petey,” Pa said, leaning on his stick and moving closer to the revenuer. Tom saw the man in the doorway watching tensely.

  “I’ve been told you have a still around here, and—”

  “Of course I’m still around here,” Pa said impatiently. “I’ve lived in this here cabin since I was born, an’ there’s been no reason to leave.”

  But the revenuer was not one to be toyed with. “Mr. Higgins,” he said, “I’ve had a report that you’re making whiskey back in these hills, and I’ve come to investigate. I have a warrant to search these premises for evidence.”

  Pa let his mouth drop open. “Makin’ whiskey! How could anybody say such a thing? You go right ahead an’ investigate, Petey, an’ I’ll help you all I can. I want my named cleared.”

  The revenuer looked surprised—and a little suspicious. “Then I’ll start by looking around in here.”

  “Look all you want, inside an’ out,” Pa said. “I can guarantee you won’t find a drop of whiskey on this place.”

  If Tom hadn’t been so nervous, he would have laughed at Pa’s clever choice of words. But seeing the revenuer again brought back some of the fear he’d felt at the store that morning.

  After the man had looked under the bed and in the blanket chest, Pa said, “Tom, take Petey on up to the loft.”

  Nimbly, Tom climbed the ladder and scrambled through the hole into the low-ceilinged loft where he slept. Hudson turned to his companion and said, “Cory, climb up there and have a look.”

  Moments later, Cory was beside Tom. He looked around the loft, kicked once or twice at the straw-tick mattress, and squatted down to peer inside the box where Tom kept his treasures—his slingshot, a bag of marbles, the birds and animals he’d carved, and the rattles from the snake Agamemnon had trampled. Picking up one of the bird carvings, Cory studied it a moment before he dropped it back into the box. Then he lowered himself through the hole in the loft floor, feeling for the ladder with his foot.

  Tom dropped to the cabin floor in time to see Cory glance in Hudson’s direction and shake his head as he crossed the room to take his place at the door.

  “Show me around outside now,” Hudson ordered Tom. Silently, Cory stepped aside to let the others pass, and then he fell into step behind Pa, who was stumping along with his stick. From the corner of his eye, Tom saw a movement in the orchard and caught his breath. How many revenuers were there?

  At the spring box, Hudson unscrewed the lid from the jar of buttermilk Tom had gotten from the Widow Brown that afternoon and sniffed suspiciously. Pouring a few drops onto his finger, he tasted it. Then, rising to his feet, he headed for the woodpile. “Check this, Cory,” he said to his partner. He watched impassively while the man tossed the logs aside. Then he pointed at the shed that served as Ol’ Sal’s stable and asked, “What’s that building?”

  “The boy will show you soon as you stack that there wood back up,” Pa said.

  The revenuer pointed first to his silent helper and then to the scattered logs, and without changing his expression, the other man set to work.

  After Hudson had satisfied himself that there was no moonshine in the shed, Tom pointed at the corncrib and asked, “Ain’t you gonna look in there?”

  “Bring me a hoe,” the revenuer said.

  Tom brought one from the toolshed and watched, disappointed, while Cory poked the handle into the stored com over and over again. He’d hoped the man would toss out the ears and then have to gather them all up.

  Hudson headed toward the toolshed, motioning for Cory to follow him. Inside, he glanced first at the tools and Pa’s traps hanging on the walls and then at the cider press in one comer and the hog-scalding barrel with the sausag
e mill and butchering equipment inside it in another comer. He pointed to the barrel, and Cory started lifting things out, one by one.

  Tom’s heart began to pound. He hadn’t cleaned the sausage mill after he’d ground the malt in it! Would his carelessness provide the revenuers with proof that Pa was making whiskey? Nobody but a moonshiner would grind sprouted grain.

  Cory had the sausage mill in his hands when Tom heard Andy’s holler. The revenuers exchanged glances, and Hudson said, “Sounds like some kind of signal.”

  “That’s our friend Andy, comin’ up to swap tales,” Tom said.

  Ignoring him, Hudson said, “There’s nothing here. Come on, let’s go see who that is.” Tom and Pa followed the revenuers out of the shed and around the cabin in time to see Andy come into the yard.

  Hudson went to meet him. “I’m P. D. Hudson, federal agent.”

  Andy shook hands with him. “Paul Anderson. I’m a folklorist.”

  “A folklorist?” Hudson repeated suspiciously.

  Nodding, Andy showed him his notebook. “I make notes about mountain customs and record traditional tales and ballads. June Higgins is the finest storyteller I know of.” Andy turned to Pa and said, “By the way, June, I met Preacher Taylor on my way up here and he sent you his regards.”

  “Ah, yes, the preacher who’s going to rid these hills of the evils of drink,” Hudson said bitterly. “It’ll be a long time before he gets me back to this God-forsaken mountain again with his wild imaginings.” Nodding to Pa and Andy, he stalked out the gate, with Cory right behind him.

  The others watched them go. “It must have been their footprints I saw going into the woods where that little creek crosses the path,” Andy mused.

  “Must of been,” Pa said noncomittally.

  That was why Pa had insisted that they remove every trace of evidence that a still had been set up at the old site, Tom realized. If those revenuers had found so much as a piece of charred wood, they wouldn’t have thought the preacher imagined Pa was a moonshiner. Tom vowed that when he was a man, he’d make sure his son always knew the reason for what he did, so the boy would understand why it was important.

  As they started toward the porch, Andy said, “Now I see why Mrs. Brown’s cow looked so tired at milking time this evening.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Tom.

  “Well, it’s obvious she’d wandered all the way up here.” Andy gestured to the dried manure Tom had scattered outside the fence and along the edge of the rocky pasture where Ol’ Sal was grazing.

  Scornfully, Pa said, “I knowed once them city fellers saw that, they’d never notice there weren’t no barn or cow shed—an’ nary a churn on the place.”

  Tom remembered how confident he’d felt once he had made sure the revenuer would see signs of the cows that produced the “buttermilk” he’d taken to the store. He’d never thought about a churn, either. Quickly changing the subject, Tom turned to Andy and asked, “Are you gonna tell us some more about them Greek kings tonight?”

  When Andy nodded and reached for his pipe, Tom pulled out his whittling knife and the bird he was carving. Someday, he thought, he’d make a tale out of how he’d tricked that revenuer down at the store this morning and helped Pa trick him again tonight.

  10

  Tom was about to go into the store for the twists of chewing tobacco Pa had sent him for when Cat Johnson called, “Hey, Tom! Look what I got here.”

  Curious, Tom waited while Cat came up onto the store porch. Reaching into his sack. Cat lifted out a tan and white puppy. The minute he set her down, she scampered toward Tom and began to sniff his feet. Tom wiggled his toes and the little dog backed up so fast she almost fell over. Grinning, Tom sat down on the step, and the puppy clambered into his lap. Resting her paws on Tom’s chest, she tried to lick his face. Tom scooped the puppy up and held her close, feeling the rapid beat of her heart.

  While Cat Johnson chatted with the other men on the store porch, Tom played with the puppy. He put her down when Cat was ready to leave, but she just climbed back into his lap and began to nibble on his fingers.

  Cat bent over to pick her up, and as he put her into his sack he shook his head and said, “Seems a shame to have to drown such a fine animal, don’t it?” He slung the sack over his shoulder and started toward the mill pond.

  “Wait!” Tom cried, hurrying after him. “How come you’re gonna drown her?”

  “She’s the runt of the litter an’ don’t nobody want her,” Cat said over his shoulder.

  Catching up to him, Tom asked, “What about Miz Brown?”

  “She said she don’t need no puppy chasin’ after them hens of hers,” Cat said. “An’, Tom, I’d be much obliged if you didn’t let on to my boys that I had to kill this pup. I’d rather let ’em think somebody from over in Ox Gore Holler took her.”

  Even though Tom knew that people drowned unwanted kittens and puppies, he’d never thought much about it. But how could anyone drown this puppy?

  “Here,” Cat said, thrusting the sack at Tom, “hold it open while I put that big ol’ rock in with her so she’ll sink right away an’ won’t struggle as long.” He bent to pick up the rock.

  “No!” Tom cried, clutching the sack to his chest. “I’ll take her, Mr. Johnson.”

  “What you gonna name your new dog?” an old man called from the store porch.

  “Princess,” Tom called back as the puppy clawed her way out of the mouth of the sack and pressed her cold nose against his neck. He cradled her against him and whispered, “You’re beautiful, you know that?” To his delight. Princess snuggled into the crook of his arm, gave a squeaky yawn, and closed her eyes. A warm feeling stole over Tom, and his heart swelled as he looked down at her. Already, Princess trusted him.

  He started up the trail, feeling the puppy’s warm breath on his skin. He didn’t care that his arm was already beginning to tire from her weight. It wasn’t until he was halfway home that Princess stirred and woke. Tom shifted her to his other arm and said, “One day soon, you’ll be big enough to walk along with me. An’ then you’ll foller me everywhere I go, won’t you?” He held her against his cheek and she wiggled ecstatically.

  Finally, back at the cabin, Tom put Princess on the ground, and she followed him to the spring, where they both drank. Then she sat back on her haunches, looked up at Tom expectantly, and gave one yap.

  “You’re hungry, ain’t you?” he said. In the cabin, he scraped some burnt corn bread from the skillet, but the little dog just sniffed it and looked up at him again. Not knowing what else to do, he went to the spring box and opened the crock where the last of Mrs. Brown’s fried chicken was stored. Princess began to wag her tail and dance about, but when Tom set the meat in front of her, she just licked it and then looked up at him.

  He was intent on cutting off bits of chicken and hand feeding them to the puppy when Pa’s voice startled him. “Whose mutt is that? An’ where’s them tobacco twists you was supposed to git me?”

  Tom grabbed the puppy and scrambled to his feet. “She’s mine,” he said, his stomach lurching as he realized he’d forgotten the tobacco. “Cat Johnson gave her to me.”

  Pa looked from Tom to the dog to the scraps of meat. “Wal, you can just give her right back to him. I don’t need no extra mouth to feed.”

  “But, Pa! I can’t take her back—Cat was gonna drown her!”

  Pa scowled at Tom and said, “I suppose he told you she’s the runt of the litter an’ asked you to hold the sack while he found him a big rock to weigh it down with, didn’t he? An’ you fell for that ol’ trick of his.”

  Tom felt his face growing hot. “Can’t I keep her anyway? Please?” he asked, swallowing his pride. “I—I need her.”

  “Need her! What for, to give you another excuse to forgit to do what you’re told?” Pa glowered at Tom. “Now go on back to the store for my tobacco, an’ git rid of that mutt before you come home, you hear?”

  His eyes downcast, Tom nodded. “I hear,” he said tonele
ssly. Holding Princess close to him, he started toward the settlement. Pa could be downright mean. He didn’t care about Princess, and he probably didn’t really care about him—not enough to let him keep his puppy, anyway.

  Hugging Princess closer to him, Tom decided he didn’t really mind that Cat Johnson had tricked him. Maybe Cat could use the same trick to find someone else to take Princess, he thought. But probably he’d just drown her and not think twice about it.

  Tom hesitated when he came to the path that led to the footlog. He hadn’t seen Amy since the day he’d gone to Mrs. Brown’s cabin for the “cow pies.” He hoped she wasn’t still angry with him. Looking down into the puppy’s trusting eyes, Tom headed for the mission. Part of him was in a hurry to find out if Amy would take Princess, but part of him wanted to stretch out the little time he had left with her.

  From the edge of the clearing around the mission house, Tom saw Amy sitting on the porch, reading. He called to her, and when she put down her book and ran to meet him, he set Princess on the ground. He watched miserably as the puppy gamboled toward Amy.

  Amy gave a little cry and picked up Princess. “What a sweet puppy. Is she yours?”

  Taking a deep breath, Tom said, “She was, but you can have her.” At least Amy wasn’t mad at him anymore.

  “I couldn’t possibly take your dog, Tom,” she said, looking shocked.

  “You gotta take her!” he cried. “Pa won’t let me keep her, an’ if I give her back to Cat Johnson, he’s gonna drown her.”

  At that moment, Mrs. Taylor joined them. She greeted Tom warmly when Amy introduced them, and then she admired Princess.

  “May I keep her. Mother?” Amy asked, hugging the little dog. “Please?”

  Mrs. Taylor shook her head. “Absolutely not, Amy. You know how your father feels about pets,” she said firmly.

  “But, Mother! Tom’s father won’t let him have her, and if I can’t keep her, she’ll be drowned!”