Doc Grasson made his way into the middle of the thicket and used his shovel to cut the bottoms off the blackberry vines. After much effort, he secured a foothold on the thicket and cleared a ten to twelve-foot plot suitable for digging. After a short break, for Doc Grasson to catch his breath, he and Jessie relocated their tools onto the site and moved the reluctant earth. Roots, grubs, and an occasional field mouse’s den all came under the intrusion and violation of Doc Grasson’s shovel. Doc moved enough earth to fill his pickup truck when his shovel stopped. He took his spade from his pocket and explored with care. When he pulled away the earth, a metallic object appeared.
“Jessie, get over here on the double. Lady Luck is smiling.”
“What is it, Doc Grasson?”
“I’m not sure, but my gut tells me it’s a find.”
When Doc Grasson brushed more of the earth away, there appeared a soldier’s belt buckle; it was intact. Doc Grasson continued to clean away the dirt, and raised letters began to appear. The three letters were CSA. Doc Grasson and Jessie became very quiet. They both were very excited yet awed by the experience.
“I don’t believe this, Doc Grasson. We have found a Confederate belt buckle.”
“Jessie, you are so right. Lady Luck is smiling today. Remember my saying that we would have to use our heads as well as our backs to entice Lady Luck’s favors?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This bluff has fascinated me for years. I always could imagine a soldier falling off this bluff and somehow getting passed over in the drama of chasing Yanks toward Memphis. Either we have found an isolated article, or we are on the threshold of finding more. Let’s keep digging.”
Doc and Jessie continued to work their system of Doc moving the dirt and Jessie using the spade to search for treasures. As the afternoon wore on, they found the remnants of what appeared to be a canteen. The discovery fueled the desire to continue digging. Doc Grasson and Jessie discussed school, war, girls, dogs, food, and music. Each time Doc broached family or home, Jessie refused to talk and would retreat within himself. Doc would move on to another subject and Jessie would make himself available and enter the conversation with glee.
When the shadows became long and their bodies tired, Doc Grasson and Jessie resigned themselves to the fact: they were not going to find more on this afternoon.
“Jessie, why don’t we call it a day and get over to your place? We’ve had a pretty good run of luck, and we’ll come back to dig another day.”
Jessie’s smile dropped and the little boy looked saddened by the country doctor’s suggestion. Doc knew Jessie was reluctant to end the day. Jessie moved in the direction of Rover.
The golden Lab dug after a field mouse in a clump of vines and bushes adjacent to the area that had been cleared by Doc Grasson.
“Rover, come on, boy! Don’t make me have to come get you! Doc Grasson, that dog has a mind of his own!”
“Yea, he’s the only one who has any fight left in him.”
Jessie went over to the thicket where Rover busied himself. He threw dirt and grass into the air with intermittent snorts into the earth with his long, wet nose. When Jessie entered the thicket, his eyes widned.
“Doc! Doc! Come quick!” Jessie’s voice rang with new found excitement and energy.
“What have you two stirred up, now?” Doc questioned.
When Doc approached the focus of the commotion, he saw Jessie down on his hands and knees fighting Rover for position, and both were digging and throwing a cascade of dirt into the long shadows of the afternoon.
“You boys got your second wind, I see!”
“Doc, look!” Jessie moved his body revealing an exposed human skull. It starred into Doc’s eyes.
“Lady Luck ain’t through with us yet, is she!” Doc shouted.
He moved in closer.
“Okay, you two, slow down, slow down! This is a place for a scalpel, not a cross cut saw!”
Jessie grabbed Rover and the two rolled over into the grass, away from the fallen warrior. Rover put up a violent struggle but succumbed to his master’s restraint and urgings. Doc Grasson approached the dead soldier with the reverence and care he would have provided a sick child.
“Ole fella, you have waited a long time for this day. For years, my gut told me you were down here, and I’m sorry I waited this long to listen.”
Doc Grasson removed his spade from his back pocket and began the careful task of removing the rich sandy loam earth that encased the unfortunate fighter. Doc Grasson’s trained eye gauged the soldier to be no more than nineteen or twenty by the condition of the skull and the teeth: a mother’s son; a waiting girl’s boyfriend or husband. Someone’s ultimate gift to the universe, shot dead and left like a dog on the side of the road. The slow removal of earth revealed the intact remains of a young Confederate soldier sporting the CSA buckle. When Doc Grasson and Jessie removed the reluctant earth, they were in for another sunrise. The soldier’s right hand hung faithfully to his .58 caliber Springfield for close to a century. Doc Grasson removed the rusted yet intact piece from the soldier’s hand. Further digging revealed the remains of a canteen and the fallen soldier’s watch.
“Doc Grasson, I can’t believe this day,” Jessie said.
“We have shared in the personal history of this fine young man, Jessie. We have a duty to see that he has a proper burial.”
“How can we do that?”
“Well, I’m not sure just yet, Jessie. I’ll have to think about it. Right now, we must be concerned with getting him out of this creek bed. You and Rover run up to the picnic tree and get our blanket. We’ll use it to bring Johnny out.”
Jessie and Rover disappeared around the bend. They sprinted after the blanket. Doc sat alongside Johnny Reb. The darkness swallowed the light.
“You know Johnny, we southern folks haven’t been the same since that nasty little disagreement concerning the Cause. The wounds are still deep and painful. Close to a century of sand has cascaded through that cruel and relentless hourglass, and the wounded feelings are just under the surface of our being, waiting to pop like a coiled spring with the slightest provocation. Your fight, well, at least it was more to the point and nobler. Ours, I’m sorry to say, has been a vain search for dignity and direction in the mist of ruins. A lot has happened while you have been resting in this ditch, son. Most of the South’s finest young men were slaughtered, like yourself. You boys took quite a few Yanks with ya, I might add. Then the southern occupation by every crook and two-bit profiteer money or influence could buy. A major Depression, two World Wars and several smaller wars, including fighting in some place called Korea, as I speak. I guess you can say we just haven’t gotten back on our feet yet.”
Doc Grasson paused while staring at the clear stream of water trickling through the sandy rocks.
“We don’t git to pick when we’re born, do we, Johnny?” Doc sighed and muttered to himself, “Just time and chance. Just time and chance.”
While Doc sat with Johnny Reb in the creek bed at Brice’s Cross Roads, he thought back on his own life and felt a pang of sadness. How he missed his darling wife Olga and many of his ole friends who had long died in this war, that accident, or worse yet, of old age.
Doc was brought back to the present by sounds of Rover barking and water splashing from around the bend. Doc wondered about Jessie and how his life might unfold—again, it was just time and chance. Jessie didn’t get a vote either.
Doc Grasson and Jessie laid Johnny Reb on the blanket along with his belongings and headed toward the truck. Darkness replaced the light of day. Doc and Jessie were assisted by a full moon, which made their plight easier. Doc Grasson turned the Chevy toward Bully’s place. He noticed Jessie retreated into that darkness where fear is a relentless stalker. Doc made several attempts at conversation, but the closer to home, Jessie retreated into the world of his solitude: the slow rocking back and forth; the occasional utterances; then more silence.
Doc turned the Chevy into the �
�mansion” drive and saw a shadeless light hanging over the table and casting diffused amounts of light through the adjacent windows. Rover barked when the Chevy came to a stop near the front porch. Alice Fae appeared at the screenless front door, and a broad smile crossed her face with the recognition of the Chevy. Rover hit the ground, and with one bound, he was on the porch and greeting Alice Fae.
She returned the greeting with a brisk scratch behind Rover’s ears.
Jessie became more animated when his keen sense of observation assessed the absence of Bully.
“Mamma, you won’t believe what me and Doc Grasson found today. Come see! Come see!”
“Hello, Doc Grasson. From the looks of Jessie, you guys had a big day.”
“You might say Lady Luck smiled on us today, and we brought one of our own home.”
“Mamma, look!” Jessie pulled back the blank.
“Oh, my goodness! What on earth!” Alice Fae shrieked.
“Jessie and I played a long-standing hunch and found this brave young man lying in the creek bed over at Brice’s Cross Roads. He’s about ninety-four years late for supper. ”
“Speaking of supper, Mamma, I’m starving. You hungry, Doc Grasson?”
“You and your mamma get in the house before this chill gets both of you. I need to lay Johnny Reb to rest and head on home. Alice Fae, I’ll be talking to you.” Doc gave her a reassuring wink and climbed into the Chevy.
“Be glad for you to stay for supper, Doc Grasson,” Alice Fae offered, praying Doc would not take her offer.
“Thanks, again, Alice Fae, some other time.”
Doc turned the Chevy around and saw Jessie and Alice Fae waving through his rear-view mirror. Doc let out a long sigh and turned the toward Birmingham Ridge and home. Tonight, Doc Grasson’s heart felt empty as the eyes of Johnny Reb.
Banker Meets Bootlegger
“Git your citified ass out here on the double, Sheriff!” Miss Lillian raved. “I got dead men showing up in my hog pens and live one’s standing around talking ‘bout the dead ones. Hogs aren’t getting fed and who in hell knows how many sick hogs I’ll have over this foolishness!”
Curtis and Bully could hear Miss Lillian raging from the back porch; where they held the mules and played with Killer.
“First thing in the morning!” Miss Lillian screamed.
The mules jerked and Killer ran off the porch and hid behind a pecan tree. Curtis and Bully heard the phone crash down. Miss Lillian kicked an empty water bucket. It banged hard against the screen door.
“Boys!” Miss Lillian barked. Curtis and Bully jumped.
“Yes’um!” the two responded in complete unison.
Miss Lillian ran out of the back door with her coat and pistol.
“Meet me at the barn!” she ordered. “That total waste of humanity for a sheriff fears his shadow. Said something ‘bout one of Carl Butcher’s boys missing and wanted to go slow!”
“I told you, Curtis! Sheriff Bigelow won’t do a damn thing ‘bout Willard. He’s scared!” Bully seethed.
Miss Lillian jumped into her Oldsmobile and drove off before Bully and Curtis could get the mules turned around. When they arrived at the barn, Miss Lillian stood at the site of Willard’s reluctant re-entry into the food chain. Bully and Curtis pulled the mules up to the fence and jumped into the pen.
“Nutt’en but a greasy spot, Miss Lillian!” Curtis commented.
“Bully let me make sure I got this straight. You say this was that Willard fella? The one who rode the roads in that old black Ford pickup?”
“Yes’um!”
“He was nothing but low life white trash, but nobody deserves an ending like this. Not in one of my hog pens! You think Carl Butcher, that bootlegging crook, had something to do with this, don’t you, Bully?”
Bully told Miss Lillian the story of his “business meeting” with Carl and his desire to own Mr. John’s land. Miss Lillian’s lips turned blue. The color drained from her face.
“We’ll just see about that.” Miss Lillian spoke very slow and with a deep hatred.
While the three stood staring at the bloody spot, a commotion arose from their flank. Miss Lillian wheeled to see a 500 lb. boar hog charging, tusk flashing, and mouth foaming. Without thought or hesitation, she shot the hog dead in its tracks. The hog’s momentum carried it forward knocking Curtis off his feet and into the mud.
Miss Lillian placed her pistol back into her coat pocket and headed for the Oldsmobile.
“Bully help Curtis up and y’all dress that hog. The taste of blood makes a hog do crazy things.”
As Bully helped Curtis to his feet, Miss Lillian climbed the fence, placed her boots in the trunk of the Oldsmobile and drove off.
“She just killed my favorite hog, Bully!” Curtis shook his head in bewilderment.
Screw hogs, Bully thought. He wanted to see Carl Butcher dead.
Carl Butcher leaned against the dew drenched rusty iron banister of Mud Creek Bridge. He filled his lungs with the cool night air of autumn. He pulled a can of Prince Albert tobacco from his shirt pocket and began a series of ritualistic moves most country folks called “rolling your own.” His left index finger made a perfect trough in the rolling paper. His right hand shook the precise amount of tobacco from the thin red can. He closed the lid with the same hand and placed it back into his shirt pocket. He placed his right index finger into the opposite end of the paper trough filled with the rich aromatic tobacco, and with an expert twist born of thousands of repetitions, a perfect cigarette materialized in the darkness. He ran his wet tongue down the paper seam to secure the structural integrity of his masterpiece and placed it between his puffy red lips. With a confident flick of his rough thumbnail, a match exploded in the Mississippi night illuminating a face as hard as the steel banister he leaned against.
Carl hated C.C. Bates. Carl’s mouth had problems forming the necessary muscular requirement to emit a C when thinking of Bates; to repeat the vile task twice was heroic. Carl remembered C.C. Bates in grade school. Bates was a snotty nosed kid who thought he was better than everyone else. He humiliated Carl in front of the class, ridiculing him over his clothes, which were worn yet clean. The class exploded in laughter and Carl ran all the way home in tears. Carl never forgot that moment and refreshed the wound by replaying the memory in vivid detail. Carl’s eyes locked on the lights interrupting the darkness from the east.
The approaching lights blinked twice in rapid succession. Carl knew it was Mizel. Carl created a mile-wide perimeter around the Mud Creek Bridge with his boys armed with shotguns and automatic rifles. He instructed Mizel to intercept the banker. Carl knew how to avoid an ambush. Mizel’s truck rolled to a stop. Carl released the cocked hammer on his Colt .38. Mizel drug the terrified banker from the truck and escorted him to the center of the bridge where Carl stood.
“Evening Bates!” Carl’s acid voice would have dissolved a hub cap.
Bates attempted to utter a response, but his dry mouth and swollen tongue were paralyzed.
“Mizel, good job. You take the boys and head on back to the store. I believe Mr. Bates and I can handle the rest of this evening.”
“Yes, sir.” Mizel smiled.
Carl pulled his ivory toothpick from his shirt pocket and punished Bates with an eerie and uncomfortable silence. Carl picked around his gold tooth. The only competing sounds were the occasional ripple from the water below, Mizel going through the gears in the distance, or the faint sound of the dew dripping from the banisters and hitting the thick oak bridge decking.
“I have half a mind to put a bullet in your head, Bates.” Carl spoke. His voice calm like requesting the salt from across the table. He looked off into the night.
Bates started to speak. Carl back handed the poor banker across the mouth.
“Don’t interrupt me while I’m talking, you son of a bitch!”
Spit and snot flew from Bates. His head recoiled from Carl’s powerful blow. A small rivulet of blood trickled past his quivering lip.
Carl collected his thoughts.
“You have entered my world, Bates. I make the rules in this world. I call the shots, and what I say happens! Do you understand that, Bates?”
Mr. C.C was afraid to speak, and he was afraid not to speak.
“You better answer me before I pinch your miserable little head off, Bates! ”
“I-I hear you, Carl!”
Carl grabbed the unfortunate banker and lifted him off the oak flooring of the bridge, his head banging hard against the iron railing. Carl’s nose touched Mr. C.C.’s nose. Carl’s ivory toothpick penetrated the banker’s cheek, creating another crimson rivulet across the terrified banker’s face.
“That’s Mr. Butcher! Mr. Carl Butcher, Bates!”
“Yes, Mr. Butcher! Yes, Carl, I-I mean Mr. Carl! No, Butcher, Mr. Butcher!”
Carl Butcher brought Mr. C.C. back down to where his scuffed shoes touched the bridge flooring once again. Carl straightened the banker’s suit and tie in a condescending fashion. Mr. C.C. attempted to control the blood running from his face with a handkerchief.
“Now that you and I have a general understanding concerning the nature of our relationship, Bates, what do you want to talk about?”
“Mr. Butcher,” C.C. stammered. He attempted to regain what little composure and dignity he had left. “I hear through the grapevine that you are interested in Lillian Watson’s land.”
“What if I was?”
“I’m willing to help you acquire the property,” the banker replied with great caution.
“Who knows you’re here, tonight, Bates?” Carl questioned.
“No one, Car, -uh… Mr. Butcher.” Mr. C.C. froze.
The reoccurring thought of putting a bullet into the banker’s head kept interrupting Carl’s concentration.
“What makes you think I’d need your help if I wanted her property?” Carl shot back.
“Not too many people I know could buy 3000 acres without a little help, even if the property was for sale, which it’s not.”
Mud Creek Page 15