Peyton Henson caught his eye and grinned. The older boy had his lever-action slung casually across his shoulders. “I see you brought your relic there, Cutler.” The brass gleamed on his rifle as he slid it from his shoulders and patted the breech. “I’m surprised Lester’s lettin’ me compete with this thing—it practically shoots itself. I won last year at the stir-off.”
“Well, you know what they say,” Ephraim said. “It ain’t the arrow, it’s the Indian.”
Peyton’s brow furrowed. “What’re you tryin’ to say, Cutler? There ain’t no one shootin’ arrows here.”
Ephraim chuckled and shook his head. “Never mind.” What Peyton had in good looks, he lacked in wit.
“You’ll shoot in the order you’re drawn!” Lester called to the assembled crowd. “Every man can take a rest on this here stump and shoot for that mark!” He pointed across the yard to an “X” marked on a slab of wood. “The man that hits closest to the center gets to take home an apple stack cake made by Miss Coleman, and a willow basket to carry it in!” He bent over and lifted the cake from a basket on a table next to him. It was composed of several dark, gingerbread-colored layers sandwiched together with dried apple filling. Lester sniffed the cake and held it high. “Ain’t this a fine-lookin’ prize?”
The crowd whistled and applauded.
“Come on up here, young lady!” Lester said, motioning to Isabel.
She stepped forward and curtsied.
The crowd applauded even louder.
Lester turned around and pretended to bury his face in the cake.
Everyone laughed.
The shoot began with Ernest Williams. He went to the stump, knelt down, polished the sight on his rifle with his cuff, then took aim.
Lester shushed the crowd, and they waited in silence for him to shoot.
Ernest took his time, squinting down the length of his barrel. He squeezed the trigger and hit the top left corner of the X. The crowd jeered, and he stepped back, his face turning red.
Old Hebe Washburne was next. He grunted as he knelt by the stump, his massive belly spilling out over his thigh. He rested his elbow on his paunch and sighted his stubby rifle, then turned loose—and missed the slab of wood altogether. The old man broke wind as he struggled back to his feet, sending the crowd into hysterics.
Names were drawn, and men filed forward, peppering the slab with flying lead. Peyton and Ephraim found themselves last.
Lester reached into the hat and pulled out Peyton’s name. The older boy went to the stump and fired off a round, striking the X just above the intersection of its two lines. The crowd cheered. Peyton stood, kissed his rifle, and bowed.
Finally, Ephraim took his place on the firing line and fixed his eye on the X. He breathed slowly, letting the bead on his rifle drift into his vision, covering the center of the mark. Then he exhaled and squeezed the trigger.
The rifle barked. He stood and studied the target. A new hole had punched through the X exactly where the two lines crossed.
“We have a winner!” Lester grabbed Ephraim’s arm and lifted it high.
Everyone applauded, even Peyton. When Ephraim saw Isabel clapping, his heart swelled.
Lester released his arm. “Young man, the prize is yours. Don’t forget to take it on your way home tonight.”
The sunlight grew softer, touching the horizon over the ridgetops a faint blue. The whine of a fiddle being tuned carried across the yard.
Isabel’s face brightened. “They’re going to start the dance! Come on!” Their shadows stretched across the ground as she led Ephraim toward the fiddler. “I’m glad you won the cake,” she whispered. “I knew you would.”
A giant circle of loose straw in front of the barn marked the dance floor. Dancers stood around in four-couple squares, arm in arm with their partners.
“Come over here,” Isabel said. She headed for a group of young folk standing in a circle, then stopped when Ephraim didn’t follow. “Aren’t you going to dance?”
Ephraim gulped and shook his head. His legs felt shaky at the very thought of joining the dancers. He felt sure such boldness would end in disaster. It’d been a few years since he’d come to a stir-off, and as a child he’d always preferred roughhousing with the other boys to dancing.
“Are you sure?” Isabel asked.
Ephraim shook his head again. “I think I’ll just watch.”
Isabel sighed. “Suit yourself.”
Ephraim sat down on a pile of milled sorghum stalks near the edge of the circle.
Isabel joined the group of dancers. She said something to the people in the group, and they all glanced at him as she spoke. Ephraim felt his face flush. He wished he could burrow into the heap of stalks and watch the dance where they couldn’t see him.
In the middle of the ring, the fiddler stepped up onto a wooden crate and drew his bow across the strings. “Square it up!” he said. He smiled at the gathered couples, gave a nod, and pulled down hard on his bow. “Keep your skillet good and greasy all the time, time, time!” he sang.
Ephraim sat back and took it all in. People laughed, twirled, and hollered. The couples moved in synchrony, arm in arm, then passed each other on to other partners as they chained around to meet again.
Silas and Peyton sat down a few feet from Ephraim. He glanced at them, his throat clenching as he remembered Ma’s demands. Peyton pointed at Isabel and said something that made Silas laugh.
Others wandered over from the sorghum kettle to enjoy the music. It soon grew dark, and lanterns were lit, illuminating the dancers.
Manson Owens walked over, talking to Lester Ewing.
“—set that trap this mornin’ and checked right before I come over here,” Manson was saying. He reached into his pocket and showed Lester something in the palm of his hand. “All I got was the ends of the critter’s toenails!”
Lester scratched his beard. “If it’s the same bear I’m thinking of, he’s experienced traps before. His rear paw is twisted because he got it ruined in a trap up at Ellis Frank’s place several years ago.”
Lester turned toward the barn and narrowed his eyes. Ephraim turned to see what he was looking at.
Clabe and Jake Fletcher, two scruffy young men a few years older than Ephraim, were leading a small group away from the dance floor. They each carried a tow sack. Clabe held the hand of a giggling Rindy Sue Ewing.
Lester sighed. “Excuse me,” he said. “It appears my daughter is headed behind the barn with the Fletcher boys.” He walked off with a finger leveled in the girl’s direction.
5
Ace in the Hole
Sampson dreamed of Wes, his old man. He heard the signature thump of the old-timer’s footsteps inside the cabin. One leg was solid and moved with confidence, while the other limped along, its bones remembering a past injury. Sampson knew this because he, too, felt the echoes of old wounds. Sometimes when he awoke in the chill hours of dawn, he could feel the ghosts of a bear’s teeth buried in his ear, or the memory of its claws still aching beneath the scars in his hide.
Wes appeared in the doorway holding two wooden bowls. He stumped across the porch and set one bowl in front of Sampson. Sampson sniffed its contents—cornbread and congealed gravy. He lapped the gravy, causing the wooden bowl to rattle on the porch.
With a groan, Wes lowered himself into a rocking chair. He stretched his weak leg out in front of him and positioned his own bowl on his lap. “Just look at us,” he said, leaning over to tousle Sampson’s ears. “We’ve both gone gray in the muzzle and stiff with the rheumatiz, ain’t we?”
Sampson snatched the hard lump of cornbread from the bowl and settled back on the porch, holding it between his paws while he gnawed on it. The coarse texture was familiar to his tongue; it had been a staple since puppyhood.
The porch boards creaked as Wes rocked in his chair. The creaking grew louder and louder. Dust showered down.
Sampson sneezed and opened his eyes, roused from the dream. Darkness and the dank scent of eart
h surrounded him. Above him, boards shifted and squeaked as someone stepped onto them.
Disoriented, Sampson tried to rise. But he couldn’t; the space around him was too cramped. Muffled voices reached him and Sampson lifted his ears, homing in on the sound.
“Aren’t you glad I didn’t accept your offer of three and half years, William? You’re two weeks shy of the deadline.” The man’s deep voice came from somewhere off to the side.
“Patience, Scratch,” William said. He was standing directly over Sampson’s head.
William’s voice triggered a flood of disjointed memories in Sampson’s brain: the pale orb of a full moon; a man chanting to the dark sky; the flash of a silver blade in the moonlight; pain and paralysis. A slow rage crept through Sampson and his muscles tensed, creaking like the boards above him.
“The boy is unlike any other I’ve ever persuaded,” William said. “By the time all the others have signed your contract, I’ve been ready to see them go their own ways. I was tired of their presence. But not this one.”
“You feel a true bond with Ephraim, do you?” Scratch asked.
“I guess you could put it that way. I’d like to see what we could accomplish together, once he’s signed the contract.”
Sampson flexed his neck and tried to rise again. His back banged into the roof of the prison. He struggled against it, trying to move the boards, but the weight of the soil above them was too heavy.
“I’ll take that into consideration, but the boy needs to be in my hands first. I’m worried, William. You haven’t cut it this close in at least sixty years.”
“He’ll make the deal, Scratch, mark my words. Everything is in place. All that remains is to wait for the inevitable.”
Sampson pawed at the floor of his prison. The rage grew hot in his belly, and juices began to pool in the dryness of his mouth. He growled and bucked against the roof.
Scratch sighed. “Yes, well, I just hope you have all contingencies covered. If you fail me, Death is going to be unbearable.”
“Ephraim Cutler won’t make it out of this valley without signing your deal,” William said. “Every good gambler stacks the deck. My ace in the hole is beneath my feet as we speak.” He stomped on the ground, showering Sampson in loose soil.
The fury in Sampson’s gut reached a fever pitch. He thrashed from side to side, but it was no use. He paused, panting, and the anger bubbled up from his belly and swelled his throat like the pouch of a bullfrog. He opened his mouth and released a gravelly howl. His throat, dry from disuse, couldn’t sustain the howl for very long. It faded, leaving the men above silent for a moment.
“Is that what I think it is?” Scratch asked.
“It is.”
“Sounds like a real son of a bitch.”
“He used to be. I can only imagine what he’s like now. He belonged to a man who wasn’t too popular around these parts.”
“How did you learn the transformation process?”
“I’ve been studying my almanack.”
“I really must take a look at that book sometime.”
William laughed. “The Devil needs to consult a book on making hellhounds?”
“It sounds humorous, I know. The term hellhound is actually a misnomer: they aren’t my invention. There was a Prussian witch several hundred years ago, a gamekeeper’s wife—”
Samson snarled and scrabbled against the floorboards. Splinters flew up between his claws. He lowered his head, seeking purchase on the boards with his teeth.
The roof squeaked as William stepped off. “We best not disturb the beast too much before his time has come.”
“Indeed,” Scratch said.
“On another note, I’m always impressed by the fineness of your apparel, Scratch. Where did you get those diamond cuff links?”
The men’s voices faded as they walked away.
Sampson struggled to free himself. The air inside his prison grew hot with his exertion. But at last he tired, and he lay down in the darkness, his tongue lolling. He thought of the gravy and cornbread in his dream, and his stomach rumbled. He thought of Wes, his old man, and whined.
6
Wayfaring Stranger
Ephraim watched as Silas rose, walked to the middle of the circle, and hollered, “Play me a reel!”
The dancers all moved aside, giving Silas space, and formed a circle around him. Ephraim joined them. The fiddler drew the bow across the strings slowly, producing a long note. Then he began working his bow furiously. Silas kept time with his heel and toe, then launched into the reel.
Somebody let out a whoop, and the whole crowd started clapping and stomping in rhythm. The fiddler made his instrument sing. He played the melody in a loop. And each time he came around, he upped the tempo.
Silas’s feet became a blur beneath him. Ephraim was mesmerized. He felt someone touch his arm and turned to find Isabel standing next to him.
She smiled. “Do you want to be my partner for the next set?”
Ephraim’s heart gave a hiccupping lurch.
Isabel frowned. “Don’t look like I just asked you to hold a rattlesnake.”
“I can’t dance,” Ephraim confessed. “I never learned.”
Isabel sighed. “Ephraim, dancing isn’t taught, it’s caught. And you can’t catch it if you’re sitting through the music.”
“Oh,” Ephraim said, not sure how to respond.
“If you dance with me, I’ll help you.” Isabel gave him a pleading look.
Ephraim felt giddy. “All right,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But don’t expect much.”
Isabel grabbed his arm and squeezed. “Good! It’ll be fun. I promise.”
Peyton Henson stood behind them, holding a large board he had fetched from the barn. As soon as Silas finished his reel, Peyton pushed between Ephraim and Isabel, stepping into the ring. He laid the board on the ground, stood on it, and nodded to the fiddler, who responded with an up-tempo jig.
Peyton stood for a moment, his head bobbing to catch the beat, then began to dance. The hard soles of his boots came down on the board, pounding out a rhythm that accompanied the fiddler. The crowd cheered.
Ephraim glanced at Isabel. She was whooping and clapping in time with the music. He studied Peyton’s feet. How hard was it to learn to dance like that?
The jig came to an end amid wild applause. Peyton swept off his hat and bowed. The fiddler called for the dancers to “square ’em up” for another set. Isabel seized Ephraim’s hand and led him to the group she had danced with before. They took their places in the circle.
The fiddler’s voice cut across the crowd. “Ladies and gents, it’s time for the Cornshucker’s Frolic.”
“This one’s my favorite!” Isabel said. She bounced from foot to foot.
Ephraim grinned and felt sick. He was going to look like a fool, he just knew it.
The fiddler began to play. Isabel put her arm in Ephraim’s and pulled him into a spin. As they rotated, another girl grabbed Ephraim’s left hand, passing him around the square until he came back to Isabel.
At first his feet wouldn’t move right. His arms felt jerky and wooden. In spite of this, he couldn’t keep his lips from curling into a smile. He stumbled through calls of “Up the river, ’round the bend, grab your partner, we’re gone again!” and “Hold her hands, spin her ’round, till the sole of her foot wears a hole in the ground!”
By the third song, Ephraim felt limbered up and was keeping time with the other dancers. Isabel’s pale blue dress and dark braids whirled, and she beamed.
After a few songs, the square dancers took a break and the fiddler played another jig. Isabel tapped Ephraim on the arm and pointed across the dance floor to Hebe Washburne. The portly man had left his seat, an expression of inebriated daring in his eyes. He took a pull from his pocket tickler of corn whiskey, and thus fortified, he leaped out onto the floor to whoops of encouragement.
He began with a shuffle step, but upon receiving several whistles from the audi
ence, he quickly expanded his performance. His face glowed from the combination of exertion, cheers, and alcohol. The crowd began to clap in time, and Hebe started stepping so high he put slack in his suspenders. His great rump and belly wobbled back and forth in counterbalanced rhythm.
Hebe jumped into the air, and he would have clicked his heels together had his thighs not touched first. Upon landing, he staggered to one side. Then, giving the crowd an affirmative nod, he did the splits clear down to the ground. His display of flexibility climaxed with a resounding rip as his britches divided along the mid-seam.
Ephraim burst into laughter, and Isabel put a hand over her mouth.
Hebe struggled to his feet, retreated into the darkness, and sought the comfort of his flask.
“Get on up there, Rindy Sue!”
Ephraim turned and saw Lester pushing his daughter toward the fiddler.
“Sing us that song of yours,” Lester called, returning to his seat.
Rindy’s ears turned red, and she fidgeted with her dress. But the fiddler bent down and whispered something to her, and she nodded.
Everyone on the dance floor sat down where they stood. Isabel leaned toward Ephraim and whispered, “She’s really good.”
The fiddler put his bow to the strings and drew out a sonorous note. He closed his eyes, filling the air with mellow strains. Rindy Sue clasped her hands in front of her, took a deep breath, and began to sing. Her voice was high and clear, and a hush fell over the crowd.
“As time draws near, my dearest dear, when you and I must part, what little you know of the grace and awe of my poor aching heart. Each night I suffer for your sake, you’re the one I love so dear. I wish that I was goin’ with you, or you were stayin’ here.”
She seemed to gain confidence as she sang. The redness left her ears, and she raised her chin, losing herself in the melody.
“I wish my breast was made of glass wherein you might behold.” She directed her gaze at Jake Fletcher, who stood, arms folded, next to his brother. “Oh, there your name lies wrote, my dear, in letters made of gold.”
Some Dark Holler Page 5