Boggs stood. “We should be careful speaking of such things. Evil hears its name called. I’ll say this, and no more: it could be that your crime has drawn forces far more sinister than a lynching party to Sixmile Creek.”
After a supper eaten in silence, Boggs lit a lamp and lay on his bed reading the Bible, while Ephraim lay on a blanket near the hearth, staring into the flames.
Ephraim felt grateful to the reverend for freeing him from the jail. And Boggs was right about the foolishness of leaving the safety of this house: if anyone caught him, he would die. But somehow, this didn’t matter that much. Ephraim still hadn’t gotten past the idea that death might be exactly what he deserved. And now, with Ma’s life hanging in the balance, he felt he had no other choice. Ma was crazy, she was bitter, she had pushed him to do a horrible thing… but she was still his mother. Pa had left him to take care of her, and that duty mattered more to Ephraim than anything else.
Boggs closed his Bible and knelt by his bed, hands clasped in prayer. After a few minutes, the reverend stood and looked at Ephraim.
“Are you going to sleep soon?”
“After a bit. I can let myself into the cellar when I’m ready.”
The reverend nodded, blew out the lamp near his bedside, and lay down. Before long his breathing slowed and the tuneless whistle of his snores sawed through the air.
Ephraim waited, counting the preacher’s breaths. He eyed the door. If he didn’t try to save Ma, he’d have the weight of two deaths burdening him for the rest of his days. Whether he got caught or not didn’t matter. And as for the strange man, he didn’t share the reverend’s worry. The stranger had smelled worse than a rotting catfish, but he hadn’t seemed devilish.
Slowly, Ephraim made his way across the room on all fours, gently sliding his hands and knees over the floorboards, trying to spread his weight to prevent the wood from creaking.
The reverend continued to breathe evenly.
But then Ephraim’s knee hit a loose board, and it squeaked louder than an ungreased hinge. The reverend snorted and turned in his bed. Ephraim froze, hardly daring to breathe. The reverend tossed again, then resumed his slumber.
Gingerly, Ephraim removed his knee from the offending board and made his way to the door. He slipped on his boots, grabbed his hat, and opened the door just wide enough to squeeze through. Then he quietly pulled it shut behind him.
Ephraim took a route through the woods that paralleled Sixmile Creek. Folks said that Nancy lived somewhere on the other side of Flint Ridge, near where the road and creek diverged.
As he came to a tree-fringed bluff that flanked a bend in the road, he heard voices. He quickly dropped into a crouch and crept toward the edge of the bluff.
About a dozen men were gathered around a fire, cleaning rifles and loading pistols. Ephraim could hear the snort of horses tied to trees. Several coon dogs lay by the fire, warming themselves.
“How long you boys figure it’ll take afore some of them Yanks from Durant County start tryin’ to horn in on our reward?” said a man wearing overalls.
Ernest Williams spat in the fire. “Not long. I figure they heard ’bout it afore we did. The Hensons is from there, you know. But I tell you what, we’re goin’ to catch that boy and get that bounty, in spite of any meddlin’ Durant County Yanks or all the devils in hell.”
The men around the fire murmured their approval.
A whistle echoed from around the bend. “Somebody’s a-comin’!” a lookout called.
Ernest got to his feet.
The Fletcher brothers and Frank Moats came into view, tow sacks slung over their shoulders and rifles under their arms.
Clabe smiled and waved. “Relax, boys. It’s just us!” He walked to the fire and lowered his tow sack to the ground. “I heard you fellers down here, and I says to Jake and Frank, now them boys must be powerful thirsty.”
Ernest Williams laughed. “You never miss a chance to sell a few jugs, do you, Clabe?”
“Well, they ain’t goin’ to sell themselves.”
The men settled back by the fire, and Ephraim heard the clink of silver dollars changing hands. The Fletcher boys and Frank unloaded their sacks, tossing clay jugs to men around the ring.
Ernest unstoppered a jug, hooked his thumb in the thumbhole, and hefted it into the crook of his arm, the cork still dangling from its string. “You boys sure make the best whiskey I ever had,” he said, tilting the jug up and taking a swallow. He rested the jug on his knee. “What’s your secret?”
Clabe grinned. “I can’t go tellin’ folks. It’d spoil our business.”
Ernest laughed, took another drink, and passed the jug to the man in overalls.
As Ephraim shifted on his perch at the edge of the bluff, a pebble dislodged beneath his boot and tumbled down the slope. It disturbed the dry leaves as it rolled, creating a faint rustle. He gritted his teeth, hoping no one would hear the sound.
Only Clabe Fletcher looked in the direction of the pebble. His gaze traveled up the slope, coming to rest on Ephraim’s hiding place. Ephraim held stock still, not daring to breathe. He doubted Clabe could see him in the darkness, but he wasn’t taking chances.
Clabe took a few steps toward the edge of the road, then abruptly looked down and cursed. “Whose dog left this mess over here?” he said, wiping his boot on the ground.
Several men by the fire laughed.
Clabe returned to the circle, joining the small talk.
Ephraim breathed a sigh of relief and retreated from the edge of the bluff a little.
The jugs made their way around the fire. Neither of the Fletcher boys drank, but Frank Moats took long pulls of some whiskey he’d kept for himself. Ernest tipped a jug high in the air, draining the last few drops, then let it fall, smacking his lips. “You boys got any more of this?”
Clabe stood. “I’m afraid that’s all. We got another batch about ready though. Speaking of which, we’d better get to it.” He slapped Jake and Frank on their backs. “In fact, let’s take the short way back to the still.” They gathered the empty jugs into their sacks, bid the bounty hunters goodnight, and slipped into the forest.
Ernest stood up and clapped his hands together. “Boys, what do you say we take these dogs out and see if we can’t scare us up a murderer?”
The man in overalls belched and stretched his arms. “I’ll come with you,” he said through a yawn.
Ernest laughed. “You sure about that, Toby? He’ll be hard to see if your eyes keep fallin’ shut.”
The men rose to their feet amid snorts of laughter.
Ernest roused the dogs. The hounds didn’t need much encouragement, leaping to their feet with barks of excitement, tails wagging. Ephraim shook his head. These dogs weren’t used to tracking people; they’d probably pick up the scent of a coon and lead the men on a wild-goose chase. Still, it was time for Ephraim to be moving on.
He stood and looked toward Flint Ridge.
Strong arms encircled him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides. His captor pivoted, pulling Ephraim with him and knocking Ephraim’s hat to the ground.
Then Clabe Fletcher stepped into view, holding his empty tow sack, which he slipped over Ephraim’s head.
Ephraim left out a muffled yell and twisted his body. He freed his right arm and swung blindly, connecting with what felt like Clabe’s face. Clabe swore.
“Shhh!” someone hissed in Ephraim’s ear. Judging by the stench of corn whiskey, it was Frank.
“What’s goin’ on up there?” Ernest called from the road.
Clabe cursed again. “It’s just us, Ernest. I lost my footin’ in the dark and fell.” He clamped his hand over Ephraim’s mouth, pressing the rough burlap against his lips. “Listen, Cutler,” he whispered. “You got two choices: make a ruckus and wind up with Ernest, or keep quiet and come with us.”
Pain shot up Ephraim’s arm. When he tried to move his right thumb, he winced. It felt like he’d broken it when he hit Clabe. But he stayed silent, hoping to
buy time.
“Jake, make sure he stays quiet while I tie him up,” Clabe said.
“He ain’t goin’ to bite me, is he?” Jake asked.
“Shut up and get your hand over his mouth.”
Jake obeyed, and Ephraim felt a rope being wound around his wrists and ankles. The knots were pulled tight, and the excess rope cut off with a knife.
“Well, looky there, we got enough rope left to do this,” Clabe said. He wrapped the remainder of the rope around Ephraim’s neck, cinching it snug. “That ought to keep your hood on. Come on boys, let’s go.”
Ephraim was picked up and slung across someone’s shoulders—Frank, he decided. His arms and legs were held together like a gutted deer. “Lead the way,” Frank said to Clabe, and they set off into the woods.
Frank carried Ephraim for what seemed like an hour. But finally, Ephraim was set down and the sack was pulled off his head.
They were in a hollow, Ephraim guessed somewhere on the side of Flint Ridge, sitting by the remains of a campfire and a contraption made of a stone furnace, stove pipes, copper tubing, and two barrels—the Fletchers’ still. A mountain spring burbled somewhere nearby.
“Make yourself at home, Ephraim,” Jake Fletcher said.
Frank walked over to the still’s mash tub and scooped out a gourd dipperful. His Adam’s apple pumped up and down as he drained the slop. He dipped a second time, looking at Ephraim, then smiled, revealing black gaps between rotten teeth. “You want a drank?”
Ephraim cradled his injured hand in his lap and shook his head. He felt sick as he watched Frank guzzle the second dipper of sour mash.
“Don’t you go drinkin’ all the mash before we turn it into whiskey,” Clabe said. To Ephraim he added, “Frank likes drinkin’ it more’n he likes makin’ it.”
Frank waved Clabe away as he drained yet another dipper. “It’s my corn in the mash. I’ll drink it when I want to.”
Clabe shook his head and sat down in front of a stump. He threw a few billets of wood onto the embers and teased them with a stick until flames began to lick to life. “Lot of folks lookin’ for you,” he said.
“Yeah,” Ephraim said. Why are they being nice to me all of a sudden?
Clabe looked up from the fire and grinned, pointing to a purpling bruise on his forehead. “You got me pretty good.”
Ephraim looked at his throbbing thumb. The last knuckle was turned up, like a nail with its head hammered over. He tried to move it and grimaced.
Jake settled down across the fire from his brother. “I still cain’t believe you gunned down Silas Henson. Boy, you got some balls! If I remember right, it was his little brother that stole your girl at the dance, though. You get ’em mixed up when you pulled the trigger?”
Ephraim shook his head and looked away.
Jake laughed. “Not that it matters much. A Yank’s a Yank.”
Clabe threw another log on the fire. “We didn’t know you had it in you. Guess a man’s backbone don’t print through his clothes.”
So that was it—they thought he hated Yankees like they did. Maybe this meant they would let him go.
Ephraim held up his hands. “How ’bout I tell you fellers the story? Care to untie me first?” He felt sick, offering to talk about killing Silas like it was some coon-hunting story, but he had to get out of here and find Nancy.
Clabe clasped his hands behind his neck and leaned back against the stump. “Well now, I’d really like to hear that, Ephraim, but me and Jake are in a bit of a bind. See, we got to raise a bundle of cash. We’re fixin’ to get ourselves out of these mountains and down to Louisville.”
Ephraim’s heart sank. They wanted the reward.
“We got a cousin down there, works on a barge they take up and down the Ohio,” Jake chimed in from across the fire. “He told us we could make a fortune runnin’ a saloon for the roustabouts and river men that come through there.” He leaned back on both hands and puffed out his chest. “And Rindy Sue said she’d marry me if I take her with me. She wants to live in a big city, she ain’t picky ’bout which one—said Louisville would suit her just fine.”
Clabe’s face broke into a grin. “That what you and her was gigglin’ about at the stir-off?”
“Sure was.”
“You gonna marry her then?”
“’Course I will. Don’t you think she’ll make me a fine wife?”
Clabe took a black twist of chaw out of his pocket and gripped one end between his teeth. He pulled out a knife and sawed it off at his lips, then put the remainder back in his pocket. He chewed methodically, considering the question, then said through amber teeth, “I don’t care what you do with her, long as she sings in my saloon.”
At the mash tub, Frank erupted into snorts of laughter while sucking down another dipper of mash. He coughed, “Clabe sure knows what to do with a woman!”
Clabe grunted, reached over with his knife, and cut through the ropes that bound Ephraim’s ankles. He stood, put his hand in the small of his back, and stretched. Then he pointed his rifle to a place outside the light of the fire. “Come on, Cutler. I got somethin’ to show you. You’ll like this.”
I doubt it, Ephraim thought, getting to his feet.
Jake rose and followed them.
A few yards outside the firelight, they came to a sinkhole. The jagged mouth of the pit was darker than the night around it. Clabe pointed down with the barrel of his rifle. “Back in ’65, Jake and me was up here buildin’ our first still. This Yankee kid came a-runnin’ through the woods. He’d deserted his regiment and was tryin’ to make it back to Ohio.”
Jake interrupted his brother in a mock-weeping voice, “Said he didn’t want to fight in the war no more.”
Clabe laughed. “I shot him, and we threw him down there in the sink. Couple days later, we come up here, and a hog was down there with him. I think it was one of Franz Akers’s shoats. It’d climbed down there with that blue-belly, and was eatin’ his head, just like it was a turnip.”
The Fletcher boys both burst into laughter.
“I looks at Jake, and I says, well, that proves that only a hog can stomach a Yankee.” Clabe wiped tears from his eyes, shoulders shaking with mirth.
Ephraim felt ill. Was he like them? What made one murderer different from another?
Forcing a smile, he looked at the Fletchers. “That’s some story you got there. Listen, my ma is powerful sick, and I really need to find Barefoot Nancy. I know you boys want that reward, but I’d sure appreciate your help.” He gulped. “Seein’ how we got so much in common and all.”
The Fletchers grew quiet, the smiles fading from their faces. “Killin’ Yanks and lookin’ after your mammy,” Clabe said. “I got to respect a man like that.” He scratched his nose. “Tell you what, Ephraim. I like you so much I’m goin’ to give you a choice: you can climb down in that hole and stay there, nice and quiet, while we finish this run of liquor… or I can put you down there myself.”
Ephraim threw himself forward, crashing into Clabe. He swung his hands together, landing a blow across Clabe’s crooked nose, then rolled to his feet and ran for the cover of darkness. A shot rang out, spraying dirt inches in front of Ephraim’s feet. He stumbled to a halt.
“You’re still worth a hundred dollars dead, Cutler,” Jake Fletcher said. “Don’t matter what condition you’re in when we take you in, we’re goin’ to make a profit.”
Clabe sat up and wiped a trail of blood from beneath his nose. “That’s twice you’ve hit me tonight,” he said, getting to his feet. He strode over to Ephraim, his rifle held at belt level. “The first time I reckoned it was because we scared you, so no harm done. But that last one was just plain meanness. So now it’s my turn.” He jammed his rifle into Ephraim’s ribs and backed him toward the sinkhole.
“Listen, Clabe, I’m sorry, my ma—” Ephraim stammered, stopping as his heels reached the edge.
“I know. I know,” Clabe said. He flipped his rifle around and slammed its butt into Ephraim’s
stomach.
Ephraim gasped and doubled over.
“You’re just tryin’ to save your ma,” Clabe said. He planted the sole of his boot on Ephraim’s crown and shoved him into the pit.
Ephraim landed on his back with a thud. The breath was knocked from his lungs.
Clabe leaned over the edge of the hole and spat a giant glob of tobacco juice. It splattered next to Ephraim. “This ain’t nothin’ personal,” he said. “We’re just tryin’ to make some money. Two hundred dollars is two hundred dollars.”
Ephraim’s stomach and back ached, and his hand throbbed. He got to his feet, ankle deep in dry leaves. The remains of a dead possum lay a few feet away, bones jutting from its rotten hide. The sweet smell of ferment drifted down from above.
He walked the circumference of the sink, inspecting the walls. The pit was easily fifteen feet deep, and its sides were steep. A gnarled tree root bulged out of the side farthest from the still.
Ephraim considered. He could maybe use that root to get out if the opportunity presented itself. And he had to try. He needed to find Nancy and make it back to Ma in time. All I need is for them to get drunk and sleep, or somethin’.
He heard the murmur of conversation.
“Looks ’bout ready to put the cap on,” Clabe said.
A clang sounded, copper on copper.
“Frank! Get out of that slop! You drink any more of that, and you won’t make it out of this holler, I guarantee it! You’ll be piled up in them weeds over yonder!”
Frank swore.
“Go on now, put the paste around the cap,” Clabe said. “We ain’t got all night.”
Ephraim sat down on the floor of the sinkhole and tried to free his wrists from the rope. It was no use; the knots were too tight. He felt around in the leaves for something to cut the rope with. When his hands settled on something hard, he lifted it from the leaves and studied it in the gloom.
With a cry, he dropped the object. It was a human jawbone, with several teeth still jutting from it.
The Fletchers’ story about the Yankee deserter must be true.
Ephraim crawled back away from it and rested his back against the side of the hole, breathing deeply as his heart raced.
Some Dark Holler Page 10