by Lois Lenski
When they got all the seed-corn planted, Billy asked Mammy if he could go fishing. She looked at him hard for a minute, and then said yes. She watched him from the window as he started off with his fish-line. So he had to go down to the creek and follow it upstream, as far as she could see. Then, before he got to Ollie Holbrook’s place, he hid his pole and line behind a tree and struck off up through the woods. It was a rough climb because there was no trail. But, before he reached the Half-Way-Up House, he met Granny herself.
She was pulling a load of firewood on the sled.
“Where’s Old Brindle?” he asked. “Can’t you hitch her up and let her do that?”
“That ole cow-brute’s sick,” said Granny. “Sarey Sue left the shed door open and Old Brindle got in the feed-room and et a lot of cow-chop and foundered herself. Sarey Sue’s gone to the store for Epsom salts. The gal’s that careless, if she wasn’t so big, I’d take a stick to her.”
“I’ll pull the sled,” said the boy.
When they reached the cabin, Granny sat down on the porch step and fanned herself with her black sunbonnet. She took her box of snuff from her pocket, dipped her snuff-brush in the powder, and thrust it into her mouth. She smiled with pleasure.
Billy threw off the wood and stood up solemnly before her.
“Granny,” he said, “did you know the high-sheriff’s fixin’ to come and set you out in the road?”
“What do you mean, boy?” asked Granny, startled.
“You better be on the lookout for the high-sheriff,” said Billy. “He’s a-comin’ with a warrant to haul you to court for trespassin’ on my Pap’s land. Pap wants to get shet of you and Sarey Sue. I heard him tell Mammy about hit, and I run off to warn you.”
“Oh, that!” Granny leaned back and cackled with laughter. “You mean that argyment with your Pap about the old cowcumber tree. Don’t you worry none, son. I’m a good match for your Pap. He won’t bring no high-sheriff round here—not till the creeks start runnin’ uphill! Why, I recollect when your Pap was a little tyke and wore diapers. His Mam said he was the most headstrong of all her children. He’d find a big rock and go buttin’ his head agin it.…”
“But he rode off to the county seat this fore day,” said Billy.
“Mark my words, son, I ain’t skeered a mite. There ain’t no high-sheriff a-comin’ round this mountain. I needn’t worry and neither does your Pap.” Granny laughed again.
Billy felt relieved of his fears. Granny, he knew, was a wise old woman. Mammy had said the same thing, so the two of them must be right. It was with a lighter heart that he went singing down the mountain and came home again.
Mammy must have known where he went, because she forgot to ask him if he’d caught any fish. He put his pole and line on the back porch and said nothing.
It was night-time, as Pappy had said it would be, when he returned from the county seat. He brought the seed-corn with him.
The first question Mammy put to him was: “When is the high-sheriff a-comin’?”
“He ain’t a-comin’,” said Pappy. “He ’lowed that there was easier ways to handle Granny Trivett. We searched and found the deed and the lawyer down there made me a copy of it. Hit says my east line goes ‘up the side of Laurel Mountain to the top of the ridge, then westward to a poplar, then to an old fence row at an agreed corner, then down the hill to a stake in John Holbrook’s line’—John was Ollie’s grandfather. ‘Westward to a poplar’ hit says. That’s the tree.”
“But the cowcumber tree ain’t a poplar,” said Mammy. “Likely hit means a tulip tree. Lumbermen are always callin’ a tulip tree a yellow poplar.”
Pappy did not listen. “I’ll read the deed to Granny Trivett and prove to her that tree belongs to me, and my line goes past hit to an old fence corner and down the mountainside from there, and she’d better not trespass this side of hit.”
“You reckon Old Gran’s such a fool she don’t know the difference between a cowcumber and a tulip tree?” asked Mammy. “Why, the cowcumber’s flowers is big and white like a magnolia, and the tulips’ are red and yellow.…”
But again Pappy did not listen.
Billy felt happy again. He did not care whether it was a cowcumber or a tulip tree. The high-sheriff wasn’t coming, and there were only a few more rows of seed-corn to plant. Then corn-planting would be over and he could go to Uncle Pozy’s again.
CHAPTER VII
A Knock at the Door
“Go tell Aunt Patsy,
Go tell Aunt Patsy,
Go tell Aunt Patsy
The old gray goose is dead.
The one that she’s been saving,
The one that she’s been saving,
The one that she’s been saving
To make a feather bed.
She died in the mill-pond,
She died in the mill-pond,
She died in the mill-pond
Standing on her head …”
But our old goose hain’t dead,” cried Sarey Sue, running out, “and we are a-goin’ to sleep in feathers some day!”
Billy had climbed the trail quietly, and now he sat on the top step of Granny Trivett’s porch, with his dulcimer across his knees. He twanged on the instrument and sang lustily. Granny came running out too.
“Billy!” they cried. “A dulci-more! Whose is it?”
“Mine,” said Billy proudly. “I made hit myself. Uncle Pozy helped. When I got two big measurin’ baskets made, Uncle Pozy said I might could have a little fun. So we made my dulci-more and he learned me a tune or two to play on hit.”
“Sing, Billy, sing!” cried Sarey Sue, clapping her hands. “Let’s have us some purty music.”
“Come in and have a chair, son,” said Granny. They went in and listened while Billy finished his song:
“The goslings all are crying,
The goslings all are crying,
The goslings all are crying
To think their mother’s dead.
The gander is a-mourning,
The gander is a-mourning,
The gander is a-mourning
Because his wife is dead.
The barnyard is a-weeping,
The barnyard is a-weeping,
The barnyard is a-weeping
Waiting to be fed.”
Billy looked up, but Granny and Sarey Sue did not clap their hands. “I wisht it had been that ole goose o’ Saphronia Lyle’s that died,” said Granny.
“So we couldn’t never sleep in feathers?” Sarey Sue looked about ready to cry.
Billy wondered what was the matter, but they did not explain. They went right on with their work. The floor was covered with roots and bark. Sarey Sue was “rossing” roots—scraping the outer skin off—while Granny was sorting dried herbs and putting them into meal sacks. Outside, the porch floor was covered with herbs spread out to dry on cloths in the sun.
But Sarey Sue could not stay sad for long.
“We’re aimin’ to go tradin’ at Jeb Dotson’s store soon,” she said after a while. “Our house is so messed up with yarbs, there ain’t no place to walk or eat or sleep. Gotta get hit cleared out.”
“What you tradin’ for?” asked Billy, his eyes twinkling. “A banjo?”
“Law no, I got my Pappy’s accordion,” said Sarey Sue.
Granny filled her corncob pipe with dried tobacco and lighted it with a coal from the hearth. “Now you got you a dulci-more, son,” she said between puffs, “I reckon you ain’t cravin’ no store-bought banjo no more.”
“What you think I’m makin’ baskets for?” asked Billy. “Little ole dulci-more ain’t good for much—just for little soft ole baby tunes and barnyard ditties. Just for songs to set and listen to. Hit ain’t loud enough for dance music.…”
“So ye’re hankerin’ to play for dances, Bill Honeycutt!” cackled Granny. “Soon ye’ll be a-talkin’ to a purty gal.”
The boy hung his head. “Gotta get my banjo first,” he said.
“Don’t aim for the moon, son,”
said Granny. “A banjo costs nigh as much as a cow-brute.”
“Hit do?” The boy’s eyes opened wide. “Then hit’ll take a heap o’ baskets. Likely I’ll wear my fingers to the bone.” He looked at the herbs. “What you folks tradin’ your yarbs for? Looks like you got enough to buy Jet Dotson out.”
Sarey Sue looked at her Granny, but the old woman bent over and did not answer.
“I might could get me a new calico dress this time,” Sarey Sue ventured in faint voice. Her thin, pretty face glowed pink. “With purties all over hit … I ain’t never had none.…”
Granny sat up, her back as straight as a board. “Who said you was gettin’ a new dress—a store-bought dress? What you wantin’ a new dress for—to wear in the briar patch and get tore to rags?”
Sarey Sue wilted. Scraping the root in her hand vigorously, her knife slipped and made a cut on one finger. “I’ll put coon-root on hit. That’ll stop the bleedin’.” She looked at her Granny. “I could wear my new dress to one of them square dances down at Solitude.…”
“Think you’re growed, do ye?” The old woman took a few puffs on her pipe. “Lordy mercy! Wantin’ store-bought clothes. What’s the world a-comin’ to?” She frowned at the girl. “Fixin’ to go steppin’ out frolickin’, eh? Well, you’ll stay home and take that piece o’ brown check linsey I wove last winter and get busy with your finger-sewin’.”
Sarey Sue began to sulk. “Law me, I’m plumb tired o’ goin’ round in rags,” she complained. “Dirty ole brown linsey, the color o’ dried-up yarbs.”
“Hush your foolish talk, gal young un,” said Granny. “Time you was learnin’ to weave linsey yourself. Granpappy’s loom sets idle most of the time now, gatherin’ dust and cobwebs. Time was, when I was your age, ye’d hear the old treadles a-thumpin’ from morn till night. Me and my Mammy and my sisters never give that loom no rest. Store-bought clothes! Why, the world’s turned right around now, to what hit used to be!”
“What’s turned hit around, Granny?” asked Billy.
Granny studied for a moment before she spoke.
“SIN!” she cried.
Billy and Sarey Sue looked startled at the suddenness of her reply.
“I know the Bible from cover to cover, even if I can’t read,” said the old woman. “Sarey Sue makes a stab o’ readin’ hit to me, but she ain’t been to school long enough, all them long words they stump her. But I know for a fact, folks is more wicked than they used to be. My Pappy never drunk two spoonsful of liquor in his life, and my Mammy was a good woman. When she was took sick, she was plumb out of her mind until the last day, when she was clear as anybody. I sot up day and night for nine weeks, takin’ care of her. When other folkses come in to wait on her, she’d say: ‘Jule, where’s Jule?’ My name’s Julie, but she called me Jule. Hit was the touchingest thing I ever saw, that fore day, when she said: ‘I want to shake hands and tell you goodbye, Jule.’ Them was her lastest words.”
Granny Trivett sniffled and wiped her nose on her apron.
“New dress!” she suddenly exploded. “Gotta buy us a new cow, now Old Brindle’s dead.”
Sarey Sue looked ready to cry again.
“Old Brindle died?” asked Billy. Now he understood why they were so sad when he first came in.
“Hark!” Granny sat up briskly in her chair, while her herb-sack dropped to the floor beside her. “I hear the hoofbeats of somebody’s nag. Somebody’s dyin’ or havin’ a baby. Look-see who’s a comin’.”
Sarey Sue ran to the door and looked out and down.
“Hit’s a strange man, Granny, on a big white nag. I ain’t never seed him afore—or his nag. He’s big and fat and——”
“Come inside. Shut the door. Tight!” ordered Granny. Calmly she took the pipe out of her mouth and with a few sharp knocks, emptied the ashes on the stone hearth.
Sarey Sue stood with her mouth open and her long thin arms hanging loosely at her sides. Billy picked up his dulcimer and started for the back door.
“Stay here, son,” said Granny. “Don’t speak a word, but do as I bid ye.”
The man had tied his horse to a tree at the edge of the clearing, and they could hear his footsteps crossing the fore yard, then coming slowly up the steps and across the porch.
They stood still, listening. It seemed to take a long time for him to reach the door.
“He never hollered,” whispered Sarey Sue.
“Hush up!” said Granny.
Then came a loud knock at the door.
The sound was ominous. The neighbors always called out and rarely knocked at a door in the mountain country. The door usually stood open, summer and winter, as a sign of welcome.
“Hit’s the high-sheriff, Granny,” whispered Billy. “Pap must a told him to come, nohow. Better not go to the door or he’ll hand you a paper, and if you tetch it, he’ll haul you and Sarey Sue off to jail. Let’s all scoot out the back door.”
“Gran!” whispered Sarey Sue, shaking like a leaf, “if we run up the mountain and go in a rock-house, he can’t never find us.”
“Here, hide, you-uns,” said Granny. She took an armful of quilts off the chest by the loom and threw them over Sarey Sue, and a pile of dried herbs over Billy.
The man knocked again, and the knock was so noisy, it echoed through the house.
“I ain’t runnin’ from nobody,” said Granny Trivett in a loud voice, loud enough to be heard through the closed door.
She tied the knot in her head-handkerchief tightly. Slowly she removed her soiled dark apron, took a clean white one from a hook and tied it round her waist. Then she went to the door. She opened it a crack and poked her nose out.
“Who be ye?” she demanded. She may have been brave and courageous, but her voice sounded trembly. “Where ye from?”
The man took off his hat and said, “My name is Ellis and I’ve just come from the county seat.”
“Ye ain’t from the mountains,” Granny went on, “or I’d a seen ye before. So ye’re one of them city fellers …”
The man, middle-aged and heavy set, had a genial face. He smiled a little. “City or country is all the same to me,” he said.
“Shucks!” said Granny. “Even if ye come from the out-land and got book-larnin’ and store-bought clothes, we’re just as good as ye air, if not a whole sight better.”
“I haven’t the least doubt of it, ma’am,” said the stranger. “I have long admired the mountain people, especially for their spirit of independence. And today—I only wanted to ask a question or two.”
But Granny was not to be disarmed so easily. “Be ye the Law?”
Again the man smiled a little.
“I only wanted to ask where Rudolphus Honeycutt lives,” he said gently. “They told me at the store to come up Roundabout valley.”
“Ye’ve come to …” A warning rustle of herbs stopped her.
“Never heard tell o’ him,” said Granny glibly.
“But he’s lived in Hoot Owl Hollow all his life, on the farm his father had before him,” insisted the stranger.
“This ain’t Hoot Owl Holler,” said Granny.
“Where is it then?”
“Down there.” She nodded her head vaguely toward the valley below.
“I have been told there’s a still somewhere on this mountain,” the man went on. “You don’t happen to know——”
“Then ye BE the Law!” said Granny. “I knowed hit the minute I sot eyes on ye!”
“Have you ever seen——” began the man.
“If there’s a still somewhere on this mountain,” said Granny Trivett angrily, “I don’t know where ’tis, and I don’t know who runs it, and I don’t want to know where ’tis nor who runs it. And if I did know where ’tis and who runs it, I wouldn’t tell you!”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Seeing that it was useless to question her further, the stranger put his hat back on his head and made his way off the porch.
Ker-chew! Ker-chew! Billy pushed the herbs aside and came up snee
zing.
“Did ye sniff some sneeze-weed, son?” asked Granny.
Ker-chew! Ker-chew! Ker-chew!
Sarey Sue stuck her frightened face out from under the quilts and said, “I hear shootin’—let’s run!”
“He’s gone,” said Granny, still sputtering. “I got shet of him mighty quick.”
Ker-chew! Ker-chew! Billy sneezed again.
“Shucks! Just you sneezin’,” exclaimed Sarey Sue. “I thought hit was the man shootin’. Here, try poke-weed instead of sneeze-weed …”
Billy grabbed it and started after her. “I’ll poke poke-weed down your throat, I’ll——”
Granny came away from the door and sat down in a chair, suddenly weak. Sarey Sue stepped up beside her. “What did he come for, Gran?”
“Law, I don’t know,” replied Granny.
“Reckon he’ll find out where Pap lives?” asked Billy. “What do you s’pose he wants to see Pap for?”
“Law, I don’t know,” said Granny, “and I don’t want to know.”
“Reckon hit’s about that cowcumber tree and the deed?” persisted Billy.
“Law, I don’t know and I don’t want to know,” said Granny.
“Reckon that was a still we saw that day, back in under that big cliff? Reckon that’s the one he’s huntin’ for?”
“Law, I don’t know,” said Granny. “Stop askin’ questions. I’m plumb wore out. I ain’t got no more spirit than a little ole gate-post.”
“Reckon he was the high-sheriff from the county seat?” Billy went on.
Granny did not answer. She looked tired. She reached for her snuff, dipped a good brushful and leaned back to rest.
“Shucks, no,” said Sarey Sue. “He never set us out in the road, he never talked ’bout no cowcumber tree, he never put us in no jail for trespassin’. He didn’t do nary them things your Pappy said he was fixin’ to do, so he couldn’t a been the Law.”
Billy looked at Sarey Sue with new respect, surprised at her clear reasoning. She wasn’t dumb or silly this time.
“That air a true word, Sarey Sue,” he said.