Moonshiner's Son

by Carolyn Reeder

  Andy sat looking across the cornfield for what seemed like a long time before he turned to Tom and said, “You told me about your pa’s message for Preacher Taylor. What about the one for the men that were working on the building?”

  “There wasn’t none.”

  “Didn’t he ask you to tell them he expected the work to be finished? And didn’t he say who he wanted to be in charge?”

  Tom’s eyes grew wide, and his voice showed his excitement. “Lance Rigsby! He’s the one Pa would of picked. An’ instead of ‘King Higgins said,’ we tell ’em ‘King Higgins wants you to.’ That way it ain’t no lie, ’cause Pa would of wanted it that way. Pa, he don’t much like it when I lie,” Tom added.

  “Sounds like a good plan. I think your pa will approve, even if he never tells you so.”

  Tom said, “Guess I’ll walk on down an’ let Lance Rigsby know Pa wants him to be in charge of finishin’ that buildin’. He can tell the others.”

  But Andy shook his head. “It would be better for the men to hear what King Higgins wants and then to tell Lance themselves. The Johnsons’ place isn’t far out of my way. I can give Cat the message if you don’t think he’d object to hearing it from an outsider.”

  “Folks don’t see you as a outsider no more—you ain’t all that different from us, even if you do talk funny.”

  “Good,” Andy said, bending over to pick up his notebook. “I’ll be on my way then.”

  After Andy left, Tom felt very much alone. For want of anything better to do, he gathered a dozen or so small rocks. Aiming his slingshot at the top hinge of the gate, he fired one rock after another, hitting his target more often than he missed. He was gathering a second handful of rocks when he heard a holler, and much to his surprise, he saw Hube Baker coming up the trail.

  “Hey, Mr. Baker,” he called.

  “Hey, Tom,” the old man answered, leaving the gate open behind him as he walked up to the porch. He slumped down in the rocking chair and looked a little bit past Tom. “You doin’ all right, boy?” he asked. “I seen ’em go by with June this mornin’.”

  Wondering now if it could have been Hube who told the revenuers about Pa’s still, Tom said, “I’m doin’ fine.”

  “You want to, you can come along to the courthouse with me on Tuesday,” the man offered.

  “I don’t know yet if I’m goin’,” Tom lied. Even if his shifty-eyed neighbor hadn’t turned Pa in, Tom didn’t want to have anything to do with him. Scowling, he thought of the bruises he’d seen on Emma Baker’s face and arms.

  “Now, jail ain’t as bad as all that,” Hube said, misinterpreting Tom’s scowl. “Feller over in Ox Gore Holler was sent to Atlanta, an’ he said it wasn’t bad at all. They fed him three meals a day, an’ he never had to lift a finger. They gave him a bran’ new suit of clothes when his year was up, too.”

  “Sounds like you won’t mind so much if the judge gives you a year,” Tom said. Hube could use a suit of clothes—or even a clean pair of overalls, he thought.

  Hube didn’t answer, but a little smile played around the corners of his mouth as he pulled a flat bottle out of his pocket and unscrewed the lid. He acts like he knows something, Tom thought as he watched Hube throw back his head, take a long drink, and then smack his lips appreciatively.

  Hube stood up and slipped the bottle back in his pocket. “Wal, lemme know if you’re comin’ to town with me on court day.” Before he was out of sight, he brought the bottle out of his pocket again and drank deeply.

  Tom frowned, thinking that poor Emma Baker would probably be bruised and sore again tomorrow, and suddenly he hoped Hube would be sent to jail for a year.

  14

  He should have set off earlier, Tom realized. He urged Ol’ Sal along the rough, one-lane dirt road that linked the settlement at Nathan’s Mill to Buckton. What if he missed Pa’s trial? he thought as he passed the small farms and neatly planted orchards.

  As he came into town an hour later, Tom reined in Ol’ Sal and stared. The houses were so close together you could look out the windows of one and see right in the windows of the next! He started on, and the farther he went, the closer together the houses were, the more people he saw, and the more wagons—and automobiles—crowded the road. But to Tom’s surprise, Ol’Sal didn’t seem to mind the traffic.

  Tom prodded her forward—he’d better not waste any time finding the courthouse. He figured it would be the largest building around, so he headed toward a stately white building on the right. But where were all the people? Mrs. Brown had told him folks from miles around came into Buckton on court day.

  A man in a black suit came out of the building and paused when he saw Tom. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  That must be the judge, Tom decided. “I’ve come for court day,” he said.

  “You’re at the wrong place,” the man told him. “This is the Methodist church. You’ll find the courthouse if you go straight till you get to Main Street and then turn left.”

  At least he was headed in the right direction, Tom thought, keeping a tight hold on the reins, but how would he know when he came to Main Street? Suddenly there was a terrible screech, and an automobile stopped just inches away. A man leaned out the window and shouted, “What’s the matter with you, kid? Don’t you know what that deputy’s hand signal means?”

  Bewildered, Tom shook his head. He hadn’t even noticed the uniformed man standing in the middle of the street.

  “Don’t you be fresh with me,” the driver said, his voice shaking.

  Tom didn’t know what to say, or what to do, and he began to wish he hadn’t come.

  “Your first time in town, sonny?” someone asked.

  Tom looked down and saw a silver-haired man with a shiny star pinned to his shirt. It was another of the sheriff’s deputies. “Let me help you out of this mess,” the deputy said, taking Ol’Sal’s reins. “Now, where you headed for, young man?”

  “The courthouse.”

  “Then we need to turn here,” the deputy said, and when the other officer stopped the traffic, he led Ol’Sal across the intersection.

  So this was Main Street, Tom thought, noticing with interest the hollow sound Ol’ Sal’s hooves made on its hard, black surface. His head was spinning as he looked from the farm wagons and automobiles that clogged the street to the buildings that lined the sidewalks. Buildings with windows that stretched all the way across the front and all kinds of goods laid out just inside them. Tools here, shoes there—even pies and crusty loaves of bread. Briefly, Tom shut his eyes to savor the aroma that wafted from the bakery door.

  As the deputy led Ol’ Sal across an unpaved side street, Tom craned his neck for a better look at a large open area where plows and harrows and pieces of farm equipment he didn’t even recognize were arranged in rows. People were everywhere, and some of them seemed to be selling produce from their wagons.

  “Is that a fair?” Tom asked, remembering how Lonny and Harry had lorded it over him with stories of last fall’s county fair.

  “That’s the farmer’s market,” replied the deputy. A few minutes later he announced, “Well, here we are, son. You hurry on in, and I’ll tie your horse for you.”

  Tom gaped at the courthouse, an imposing brick building with white columns and a domed roof. Its shady lawn and the wide stairs that led up to its massive wooden doors were dotted with groups of people, and Tom glimpsed Doc Mowbray and his brother Sol talking to some men from Ox Gore Hollow.

  Inside, a man impatiently pointed to a sign when Tom asked where the trials were, and he followed the direction of the arrow under the words until he came to a pair of double doors. He hesitated, then squared his shoulders and opened them.

  People standing in the back of the courtroom blocked his way, but he squeezed past them, ignoring the grumbles and complaints as he worked his way forward. Finally, he stood behind the last row of benches. At the front of the huge room he saw a nervous-looking man who sat facing the crowd and two other men in city
clothes who were talking quietly with the judge. Awed, Tom gazed around him, thinking he’d never seen anything so grand—or seen so many people in one place before. He jumped when the judge brought down his gavel and said, “Case dismissed.”

  For a moment, the man facing the crowd looked surprised, but when a cheer went up from one side of the courtroom he grinned widely, shook hands with both of the men who’d been talking to the judge, and headed for the door. The judge banged his gavel and called out, “Order in the court!” as a group of people left their seats to follow the man down the aisle and some men who had been standing along the wall made their way toward the vacant seats.

  “Junior Higgins.”

  Tom snapped to attention, and his eyes searched the room until he saw his father making his way to the chair in the front.

  “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” a man asked, handing Pa a Bible.

  “I do.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it was easily heard.

  The judge peered over his spectacles at Pa and said, “You’ve been charged with operating a still in violation of the laws of this land. How do you plead?”

  “I ain’t gonna plead with you. Judge,” Pa said. “I know I broke the law, an’ I’m gonna take my punishment like a man.”

  Tom frowned as someone in the audience tittered, and he glanced up irritably as a young man with a notebook squeezed his way in to stand beside him.

  “Are you admitting you’re guilty as charged?”

  “I’m admittin’ I was runnin’ a still,” Pa said, “but I ain’t admittin’ I’m guilty. All I’ve done is earn a livin’ for myself an’ my boy by makin’ an’ sellin’ somethin’ folks want to buy.”

  A murmur rippled through the room, and people nodded their heads. The judge banged his gavel again. “Mr. Higgins,” he said sternly, “don’t you understand that you must obey this nation’s laws whether you agree with them or not?”

  “I understand that if I’m caught breakin’ the law, I’ll be brought to court an’ punished for it.”

  Tom’s heart swelled with pride. He was glad the judge couldn’t make Pa say he’d done wrong. Tom hoped he’d grow up to be just like his pa.

  The young man standing beside Tom scribbled in his notebook, and the judge took off his glasses and began to polish them with a large white handkerchief. After he’d put them back on, he asked, “Are you saying that if I send you to jail, you’ll just go back to making corn liquor again as soon as you get out?”

  “You’re the one sayin’ that,” Pa answered.

  At the burst of laughter, the judge banged his gavel and glared at the audience. Then he turned back to Pa and said, “But you aren’t denying it, are you?”

  “I swore to tell the truth, Judge.”

  When the crowd quieted down, the judge asked, “Mr. Higgins, are you a man of your word?”

  “I am,” Pa said proudly.

  “In that case, I’ll suspend your sentence if you promise me you’ll never make corn liquor again.”

  Tom held his breath. What would Pa say to that? Making whiskey was more than Pa’s livelihood—it was his life.

  “You have my word,” Pa said, raising his right hand. “I’ll never make com likker again as long as I live.”

  The courtroom erupted into applause, and Tom heard himself cheering as Pa walked down the aisle a free man. The sound of the judge’s gavel was lost in the commotion, and the young man with the notebook turned to Tom and asked, “Do you know who that man is?”

  “He’s my pa,” Tom said over his shoulder as he struggled through the crowd. Beneath his elation that Pa was free, questions tumbled through his mind. How would Pa pay his land tax now? Would he regret that he’d bargained a year of freedom for giving up stilling for the rest of his life? Had Pa done that for him?

  Pa was halfway down the sidewalk by the time Tom caught up, and the young man with the notebook was right behind him.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the man said, tapping Pa’s shoulder. “I’d like to talk to you for a minute.” Pa looked him up and down, from the top of his slicked-back hair to his brown and white shoes, until a blush began to creep up the young man’s face. “I’m from the county newspaper,” he explained. “I’d like to do a story on you.”

  “Do what you please,” Pa said, turning away. “Come on, boy. We’ve got a long way to go.”

  The reporter hurried to get in front of them. Walking backward, he said, “What I mean is, I’d like to ask you some questions about your trial. Are you really going to stop making com liquor?”

  Pa grabbed the reporter’s bow tie, jerked him close, and asked, “You hard of hearin’, mister? You ain’t? Then your question’s downright insultin’! You heard me tell that judge I’m a man of my word, an’ you heard me tell him I’d never make com likker again.” He glared at the young man a moment more before he shoved him away.

  Pa strode off, leaving Tom to follow on Ol’ Sal. As he untied the horse Tom looked back and saw the shaken young reporter running his finger around the inside of his collar and staring after Pa.

  Ol’ Sal walked along placidly, and Tom watched the people passing on the sidewalk and going in and out of the stores. They reminded him of ants streaming to and from their nest. Away from Main Street, he looked at the houses and wondered what it would be like to live where strangers went past all day long.

  It wasn’t until they were out of town, starting up the narrow dirt road toward the settlement, that Pa spoke. “Guess I’d better plan on gettin’ things started again down at that schoolhouse-chapel. Bet them fellers was on their way home before noon yesterday.”

  Tom heard a hint of satisfaction in Pa’s voice and wondered if he and Andy had made a terrible mistake. Thinking fast, he said, “They wouldn’t of dared.”

  “Just what do you mean by that?” Pa demanded.

  “Soon as they heard King Higgins wanted ’em to finish the job an’ wanted Lance Rigsby in charge, they knew they’d better do what was expected of ’em.”

  For once Pa was speechless, and Tom took advantage of that to add, “Andy asked Cat Johnson to pass on that message after I gave your other message to the preacher.”

  Tom waited tensely until Pa said, “Good thing you reminded me about that, boy. I’d clean forgot.”

  Pa wasn’t mad at him! Tom was wishing it had been his own idea instead of Andy’s when he heard a shout. He looked back and saw Hube Baker riding toward them, a comical sight on his old mule. Hube must have promised not to make corn liquor anymore, too, Tom thought. He wondered why the judge couldn’t tell Hube wasn’t the kind of man who kept his word.

  “Guess I’ll be gittin’ a lot of new customers now that you won’t be stillin’ no more,” Hube said, stopping beside them and grinning as he looked just past Pa.

  “Sounds like you’re fixin’ to break your word to the judge,” Pa said disapprovingly, ignoring the fact that the old man had to sell his whiskey in Buckton because no one in the hills would drink it.

  Hube grinned even wider. “I didn’t have to make him no promise. You’re lookin’ at a innocent man.”

  “Innocent!” Pa and Tom exclaimed together. And then Pa said, “I thought the sheriff caught you carryin’ your whiskey home.”

  “‘Deed he did,” Hube chortled. “ ‘Deed he did.”

  Tom looked at Hube with distaste. “Then how come the judge thought you was innocent?” he asked bluntly.

  “Oh, he didn’t think I was innocent,” Hube said. “He knew I was guilty, all right, but he couldn’t do nothin’ about it, ’cause there weren’t no evidence against me.”

  Pa’s face showed his disbelief. “You don’t mean to tell me the sheriff didn’t take no jar of whiskey to hold for evidence.”

  Hube gave a cackling laugh. “ ’Course he did! But he didn’t hold it long, ’cause that fat little deputy is a customer of mine, an’ he made sure that there evidence plumb disappeared. He likes havin’ enough whiskey for
him an’ all his friends delivered right to his door, don’t you see.” Still chuckling, Hube dug his heels into his mule and left Tom and Pa staring after him.

  15

  That evening Tom sat on the porch, tired but content, watching a jaybird take shape under his knife.

  “Wal, boy,” Pa said, breaking the silence, “we better start thinkin’ about settin’ up a new still.”

  Tom stared at his father. “But you just promised that judge you’d stop makin’ moonshine!”

  “You don’t listen good,” Pa said. “I promised I’d stop making corn likker, but I never said I wouldn’t make no fruit brandy.”

  Tom laughed, realizing he should have known Pa would never give up stilling so easily. The preacher couldn’t stop June Higgins from making moonshine, and the revenuers couldn’t, either.

  Using the point of his knife to carve out a small ring of wood, Tom left a raised circle for his jaybird’s eye and then carefully rounded the edges. Cranking the cider mill to grind the apples for brandy was hard work, he thought, and it took a long time for the apple pomace to ferment. But making peach brandy was easier and quicker.

  The sound of hoofbeats interrupted Tom’s thoughts, and he looked up to see Preacher Taylor approaching. Looping the reins over the gatepost, he walked to the porch, a pleased smile on his face. “I’m proud of you. Brother Higgins,” he said. “Mighty proud.”

  Pa looked at him quizzically. “Don’t rightly know what you’re talkin’ about, Preacher Taylor,” he said.

  “I was afraid you were lost, but I just heard the good news when I rode through the settlement.”

  Pa frowned and asked, “How could I be lost when I’ve lived here all my life?”

  Tom hid a grin, wondering how Pa could string the preacher along time after time without the man ever catching on.

  “I meant lost at the Judgment Day,” Preacher Taylor explained, brushing off the porch step before he sat down.