He picked up the cigar and puffed until he could blow smoke rings. “Of course. What kind of damn fool do you take me for?”
“No kind, sir. I’ll round up tents and bedrolls.”
“Won’t people put us up? That famous mountain hospitality?”
Ray coughed into his hand. “Excuse me. Yes, sir. Tell me where we are off to.”
Evans walked to the map on the east wall. His crop outlined a trip along the northern border, from Sugarlands to Cosby, then to Big Creek and up to Mount Sterling, where Evans figured to spend the night. Cataloochee beckoned next, then to Ravensford, over Newfound Gap, and back to Sugarlands. A trip, depending on hospitality, weather, and their vehicle’s temperament, of four to six days. “I really want to see Cataloochee. You’ve been there?” Evans asked.
“Once, sir, when we were lost on a family outing. It was farmland—nothing like the crags around Chimney Tops. Pretty, but in its own way.”
“Well, finish that damned report and get ready.”
That afternoon they headed east in the black Model A, the trunk holding a leather bag, a cloth satchel, tents, and bedrolls. At a Gatlinburg roadside stand Evans bought apples and a jar of cloudy fluid the proprietor called sourwood honey. At first they drove with windows cranked down, but a breeze soon dropped the temperature. Ray counseled they find beds in Cosby, but Evans wanted to sleep in high mountains. Shadows lengthening, clouds gathering, Ray worrying, they set out for Mount Sterling.
Halfway to the gap, a roadside cabin appeared. Full clothesline, wispy wood smoke hugging the ground. “Damn it all, Ray, pull in here.”
“This won’t help, sir,” said Ray, braking the car and shoving in the clutch, but Evans seemed not to hear. He plucked a jar from the backseat, adjusted his hat, and headed for the porch. Ray shook his head, killed the motor, and followed. Evans knocked.
A young woman opened the door slightly. “Don’t believe I know you.”
Evans removed his hat with a flourish worthy of Valentino. “Miss, I’m J. Harold Evans, superintendent of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. This is Mr. Bradley, my right-hand man. We’re traveling through the park to become acquainted with people, and perhaps partake of your hospitality.”
“That so.” Dim afternoon light accented a sharp jawline.
“Yes, miss,” said Evans. “May we come in?” He held the jar up. “We brought you this.”
Her piercing gray eyes shot from one interloper to the other. “What makes you’uns think I’m a miss? Or, for that matter, taking in boarders for one sorry jar of apple butter?”
“Madam, it’s honey.”
She laughed. “That mess is too dark to be any good except to bait a bear with. Look here. You want drink, the well’s yonder. You want vittles, I’ll set out a pan of cornbread. But you won’t come in, nor sleep here.” Her left leg was suddenly encircled by a toddler’s dirty arm.
“Sorry to have put you out,” Ray said, tipping his hat brim. “We best go. Much obliged.”
She looked over Evans to acknowledge Ray with the briefest glance, then closed the door.
“I’m sorry, sir. I read the clothesline right but should have warned you,” Ray said as they headed to the car.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing but diapers and a frock.”
“So there’s no man.”
“Not now. Maybe not ever, at least not the marrying kind. She sure as shooting isn’t going to let two men in her house.”
Twice more they struck out. One house seemed to hold only girls giggling at their uniforms. At the other a man slowly eyeballed them and spat. “So you want to get to know us.” He pulled a knife and stick from his bib pocket. “To do that you’d have to run them furrows yonder,” he said, whittling a groove toward the end. “Kill or grow what you eat. Lay your old woman in the ground one day and go back to plowing the next. Look your boys in the eye and tell them the government’s taking this land.” He’d turned the end of his stick into a rudimentary acorn—which he lopped like an executioner. “Misters, I’d get to hell gone if I was you.”
They saw houses recently abandoned, and one burned to the ground, either by the prior owners or by firebugs. They climbed toward the gap through cut-over timberland that reminded Ray of pictures of the western front. A deserted church looked as lonely as its cemetery. A chilly wind, turning southwest, smelled of moisture.
At the gap, a rude lean-to built by a prior generation’s herdsmen sat by the roadside. Ray looked at his boss. “We can bunk here against whatever’s coming.”
Evans cranked the window halfway down. “You’re nuts. We can’t sleep here.”
“Why not, sir?”
“It’s… it’s…”
“Had you rather pitch a tent?”
Evans emerged, muttering. “Hellfire. Let’s look.”
They were obliged to duck their heads to enter. Dirt floor littered with the bones of animals campers had eaten, and scat and tracks of smaller creatures those meals had attracted. “Bradley, we can’t stay in this shit hole.”
“Give me ten minutes, sir. I’ll build a fire and sweep. I have bedrolls. Weather’s coming, and no one’s between here and Cataloochee except the fire watch, who has no room.”
Evans stopped complaining after a smoke and a slug of gin from a silver-capped hip flask. Two more made him agreeable enough to crawl into his covers. In the night both wind and fire died, and by morning the snoring men’s covers were dusted with snow. Six inches on the ground. Not even a songbird flitted among the balsams. After Ray rebuilt the fire and made coffee, they broke camp and headed down the mountain.
A slip had them heading over a precipice before Ray steered into the slide. Evans cursed Ray up one side and down the other, then praised Jesus they were not stove against a tree seven hundred feet down. Ray put the car in granny gear and was happy a scary mile later to escape the snow line.
They pulled beside the Carter barn at about eleven. Across the road, the house, snug against Nellie Ridge, seemed an oasis of normalcy amid abandoned farmland and boarded-up houses. Smoke drifted from the chimneys, and there seemed also to be a backyard fire.
A man appeared on the porch, shading his eyes. Evans waved, spoke to Ray, and started across the road.
“Hellfire,” muttered Thomas Carter from the porch. “Park brass. And us canning bear meat.” He bolted toward the backyard.
After a mild winter, bears were active. Two of their shoats had been purloined, so on Monday, Manson and Thomas had hied out with their dogs, which had raised chase early. By noon they’d bagged a sow of some two hundred and fifty pounds up Shanty Branch. The dressed carcass had hung in their backyard at dusk. The night had promised cold, so Tuesday morning they’d begun to process the miscreant. Bear roast had soon graced the cast-iron pot on the range top.
“Mama, we’re done for!” yelled Thomas now.
“What do you mean?” asked Mary, sterilizing mason jars in the black kettle.
“They’s park service coming. With brass all over them.”
“Here, mind these jars.” She went inside, hung her jacket beside the hall clock, and primped by her reflection in its face. From the front door she saw Jim Hawkins ride up and intercept the men. She hoped Jim would make them go away, but when they all started walking, she smiled resignedly. “It’s worth a try.” She chopped half a dozen rat-tail peppers and scattered seeds and all over the meat.
Jim knew two things were askew: a Tuesday backyard fire, and a park service vehicle. He suspected Evans did not need to nose around the Carter place. Then it hit him—neither did he. The Carters never postponed washing clothes, so likely were violating some regulation. By noon both his family and the Carters might be headed out of the valley.
“Morning, sir,” he said to Evans, saluting as he dismounted. “Ray, how are you? What brings you all to Cataloochee?”
“Just a friendly visit to the natives,” said Evans.
“Meaning no disrespect, sir, but don’t call them that to their fac
es,” said Jim.
“Oh, I wouldn’t. Who lives here?”
“That’s Mary Carter’s place. They look busy. Maybe we could see Silas Wright instead.”
“No, of course not—I like to observe people plying their native trades.”
Jim shook his head at Ray, who winked before following Evans. Jim’s heart raced. He caught up as Mary walked onto the porch. “Mrs. Carter,” he said, “this is Superintendent Evans and his assistant, Mr. Bradley. Gentlemen, meet Mary Carter.”
They shook hands. After considerable small talk Mary shivered. “Lands sakes, come inside. I got hot in the kitchen, but that’s done worn off. We’ll have a fine dinner, a beef roast I put on this morning.”
Jim smiled. “You kill a beef this time of year?”
“Steer broke a leg. Wish we could have fattened him, but you do what you got to do.”
“May I observe your work site?” asked Evans.
“Why sure. Thomas and Manson’s out back. I’ll check on dinner.”
Jim walked around the house with Ray and Evans. The boys had hidden all but essentials: boiling water, jars, lids, rings, and meat. When you get down to it, Jim thought, bear doesn’t look much different from beef. But it sure don’t taste the same. Hope she can pull this off.
The boys answered Evans’s questions, but discouraged him from prowling in outbuildings. Jim was nonetheless nervous. If Evans finds a fresh bear hide hanging in a stall, he might as well stick my badge and hat on it.
Mary invited them on a house tour. She pointed lovingly to Hiram’s case clock, and the variety of woods paneling the hall—pine beaded ceiling imported from Waynesville, tulipwood and white pine cut from the place.
“How long have you lived here?” asked Evans.
“Nearly thirty years, but see the cabin up the road? I first moved there in 1880, when me and Hiram married. Fifty-one years ago. Don’t seem possible.”
“Boy, it smells great in here,” said Ray.
“Wait till I fry ramps,” Mary said. “We got our first mess yesterday.”
“Ramps? I’ve never had any,” said Evans.
“Why, don’t tell me that,” said Mary, laughing. “You like onions?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’ll love ramps, then. Best spring tonic there is.”
They sat to a feast. In the table’s center sat the bear roast, surrounded by baked sweet potatoes and onions. Platters of kraut, green beans, pickled beets, and cornbread. A basket of cathead biscuits strategically stationed between a dish of apple butter and a boat of bear gravy. A plate of fried ramps and Irish potatoes. Manson doled out meat as they passed their plates. The Carters, usually no folks to stand on ceremony, held back until Evans took a bite.
“Best roast beef I’ve ever eaten,” he said. “How did you get it so moist?”
Mary pretended to blush. “Oh, Mr. Evans, it’s nothing. It’s all in the spices. This one’s had some red pepper laid to it.”
“I want the recipe for my wife.”
“Mr. Evans, I never use a recipe. I just cook it till it’s done.”
“If I lived with you people, I’d weigh a ton. Man, those ramps are good. Where do you get them?” Sweat beaded above his upper lip.
“In the woods.”
“Here?”
Everyone stopped eating. “Sir, I don’t know that they grow anywhere else,” said Thomas.
“I don’t remember if this is on our protected plant list.” Evans’s forehead reddened.
“You mean we might not be able to harvest them no more?”
“No visitors may remove plants from the park, but perhaps there could be a PSSUP.”
“Long as we can have a mess in the spring,” said Mary. “We’ve always taken care to leave some for seed, you know. Honoring the garden God gives us.”
Evans sweated like a man at hard labor. From the end of his nose dangled a bead of clear snot, to which he applied a white handkerchief. “Excuse me, but I love hot pepper. Good for the sinuses.” He blew his nose and nodded at Mary. “I applaud your comment about gardens. This valley will eventually have poplars big as silos, trout the size of handsaws. It’ll be a veritable Garden of Eden. But you know what? This time it’ll be done right.” He drank deeply from a glass of sweet milk.
Everyone stared at him. “What did I say?” he asked.
“Mr. Evans, it sounded like you might misdoubt the Lord’s work,” said Thomas.
“Mr. Carter, I certainly meant no aspersions against the Almighty. I merely remarked that the first Eden was spoiled quickly—by people. This time—”
“Mr. Evans, put the quietus on this before—” said Manson.
Mary stood. “You all stop. This isn’t a debating society.” She stared at Evans. “My daddy never talked politics or religion over dinner. Nor should you men.”
“Exactly, Mrs. Carter. And let me reiterate, this is the finest roast I have ever eaten. May I have more?”
The Carters waved good-bye to the uniformed men as they set out for Silas Wright’s place. Jim left his horse at the Carter’s barn in favor of the backseat, although he felt ill at ease in motorcars. He suppressed a grin as Evans lit a cigar and waxed poetic about roast, and silently offered thanks to whoever was in charge.
“Whose place was that?” asked Evans, as they bounced and rattled past a forlorn farm.
“Andy Carter’s, sir,” said Jim, leaning forward. “Andy was Hiram Carter’s uncle, a brother to old Levi, the first settler.”
“Stop a minute, Bradley. How long since it’s been inhabited?”
“Uncle Andy died in the nineties. His widow stayed till she died, then her son took over. I reckon he’s been gone five or six years. Got work at the paper mill,” said Jim.
An emaciated dog with matted reddish fur emerged from the barn, dugs nearly scraping the ground. She glanced at the automobile and headed behind the structure as if on some shameful mission.
“Whose dog?” asked Evans.
“Never saw her before,” said Jim.
“Excellent example,” said Evans.
“Of what, sir?”
“That dog isn’t the only creature holing up in these structures. Rats, mice, all carrying fleas, ticks, mites. Snakes. The vermin birds carry. Fugitives. Firebugs, too. Look at that corner—cracked wide enough to toss a cat through. Chimney shedding rocks. Dangerous for human habitation. All these buildings need to be destroyed.”
“Do you mean tear them down?”
“Burning is more efficient. You will receive a directive about it soon. Move on, Bradley.”
“Yes, sir.” Ray put the car in gear and began crawling up the road. Jim sat back and stared out the window at his future. Burning his boyhood.
He sensed as much as saw a lurking presence behind a roadside poplar. Who or whatever it was kept the tree between itself and the car as skillfully as a woodpecker will. Jim wondered if that was Willie McPeters but decided not to ask Ray to stop the car.
Roads in the valley normally followed the creek, but this stretch of water meandered enough to force them to ford it several times. At the last crossing, the road was barely wide enough for the car. The men emerged and stretched beside a hitching post. The screen door banged shut, and Silas, head cocked, hands in overall pockets, peered at them as if they were exotic—if suspicious—birds.
Jim put up his hand. “Howdy, Silas. Brought a couple of visitors.”
Silas nodded, smile as thin as a hoe blade. “Afternoon, gents,” he said.
Evans walked to the porch with his hand extended. “J. Harold Evans, park superintendent.”
Brass on Evans’s jacket glinted in the sunshine. “Don’t let a gang of crows see that coat,” Silas said. “They’ll up and carry you off. I’m Silas Wright.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wright. This is my assistant, Mr. Bradley.”
Silas nodded to Ray. “Meaning no offense, Mr. Evans, but you boys ate some powerful ramps for dinner.”
“Oh, sorry,” Evans
said.
“Don’t be. Wouldn’t have noticed if I’d had some myself. Here. I’ve taken to carrying jawbreakers.”
They unwrapped the peppermints. “Thanks very much,” said Evans.
Silas lit his pipe. “You’re welcome. Now, what can an old man do for you jaybirds?”
Evans put candy in his mouth and looked around. “You sure live away from everything.”
“My daddy settled this far back because he didn’t want every Tom, Dick, and Harry traipsing in the front yard, and I don’t neither.” Silas smoked and eyed Evans’s riding crop, which was beginning a tattoo on his boot.
“May I ask how old you are, sir?”
“You can ask. Don’t mean I’ll answer.”
“Fair enough,” said Evans. “Mind if we look around?”
“Nothing here to hide.” They walked to the barn.
“This farm is trim and neat,” said Bradley. “You work it all by yourself?”
“It’s gone to hell next to what it used to be,” said Silas. “A man my age—eighty-one, by the way”—the aside spoken to the top of Evans’s head—“can’t do it all. Ten years ago you wouldn’t find a weed. Now it’s all I can do to keep poison oak grubbed out.”
At the woodshed Evans fingered gray, checked ends on splits. “Can’t accuse you of illegal firewood. This’s been stacked awhile.”
Silas did not mention the red oak he was working up to mix with his cured pieces. “When we heard about the park, we cut enough wood to last for years,” said Silas.
“Prudent,” said Evans. “This represents a lot of work.”
“Hard work makes a farm, and I can lay my head down nights knowing I’ve made the place a little better. Not every man can say that.”
The boss smiled. “Well, Mr. Wright, we’ll let you get back to your chores. It was a pleasure meeting you. I hope we become friends.”
“Don’t hold your breath till that happens. I’m civil when Jim’s around, because I kind of like the boy. But I was you, I wouldn’t come here by myself.”
“Is that a threat, Mr. Wright?”
“Nope. I wouldn’t hurt a man. But I can sure as hell ignore him.”
Once they were back in the car, Ray pulled the choke and stepped on the starter. Nothing. “Shoot, sir. It won’t start.”
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