Until that point, all illnesses had been treated with herbal cures or incantations, and all toothaches were simply cured by extraction, but now ambitious young men among the families of Plowright, Swain, Chism and Whitter, who had been taught by Boone Harrison in their childhood to read and still remembered how, sent off to St. Louis for correspondence courses in medicine and dentistry, studied their lessons diligently, practiced on the idiots until they had ironed out the kinks in their practice, then hung out their shingles on small new white-painted buildings up and down Main Street. The idiots’ other problem was that because of the population explosion they were crowded off of Lum’s store porch and lost their favorite gathering place. Restless, they wandered, and discovered an orchard, and ate green apples, and had to be taken back to the doctors.
There were so many people in Stay More that nobody could keep track of them all. A few got lost, and nobody noticed. John Ingledew, if pressed, could not tell how many brothers and sisters he had, nor, in fact, how many children he had. (He had ten, all told, each conceived in his sleep, except for one, who was, as we will learn, conceived in the sleep of his brother Willis.) There were times when he could not even find his wife, Sirena. He would hear her, in some other room, humming to herself, or sneezing, or just breathing, but he could not find her. This contributed to his constant expression of foreboding, which people associated with the childhood nickname he had never outgrown, “Doomy.” As his sister Perlina expressed it to her husband, Brother Stapleton, “Doomy allus looks like the world’s comin to a end any minute now.” This air made him the less effective of the two brothers who clerked at their Uncle Lum’s store; in fact, anybody coming to the store would always rather have Willis wait upon them, and would turn to John only if Willis and Lum were both very busy. John was sensitive about this, and it further affected his facial expression. No doubt John had a good heart and was a good husband (when he could find her) and a reasonably good father, but in appearance, although he was just as handsome as any other Ingledew, he was the most disagreeable of them all, and for this reason I am, and always have been, prejudiced against him.
When Lum Ingledew died, he willed his store to Willis, not even mentioning John, and this further affected John’s mien. Lum Ingledew died during an epidemic of typhoid fever, the first corrective measure that Nature took against the overpopulation. This is not to suggest that Nature singled out Lum Ingledew, but that he was haplessly one of many random persons who were put beneath the earth in order to make more room on top of it. Before Stay More got its doctors, the worst afflictions that anyone got were pneumonia and the frakes, neither of which is contagious, and nobody ever died of the latter. But after the doctors hung their shingles, there were epidemics of, successively: typhoid fever, shingles, tuberculosis, influenza, meningitis, poliomyelitis, and yellow fever. The doctors were able to identify each one of these, but they were not able to cure any of them. They prescribed and sold an esoteric pharmacopoeia that was of no earthly use. The lucky persons were those whose grandmothers insisted on administering the old remedies: slippery-elm bark tonic, chicken blood and cat blood, ground roots and herbs. The unlucky ones, or those who did not have grandmothers, like Lum Ingledew, perished. Even some who had grandmothers perished. John and Sirena Ingledew lost two of their children. Perlina and Long Jack Stapleton lost three of theirs. Denton and Monroe Ingledew gave up farming and turned to gravedigging and were employed so steadily they both got the frakes. The doctors too were working so hard they both got the frakes, and treated one another, without success. One by one the idiots died and could not grieve for each other, until there was only one left, and he, in his last hours, seemed suddenly to realize that all of his companions had preceded him out of this life, but, instead of weeping, he laughed and cheered.
And then the Century died. The whole Century itself, which had lasted for an even hundred years, was dead. It would be no more. Those who had been born during it, as all of them had, grieved for its passing. Old Jacob Ingledew especially, who had lived through more of it than anybody else, mourned its irrevocable demise, and took to his bed, never to rise again. It was some small consolation to him that during the first year of the new Century the people of Arkansas elected another Ozarks mountaineer, Jeff Davis, as their governor, but even that good news was not enough to give him something to live for, and he expired. He said to his wife, seated at his bedside, “Sarey, feel my pulse.” She felt for it, could find none, and told him so: “You aint got ary pulse, Jake.” He then said, “That’s what I figgered. Wal, afore I go, Sarey, promise to tell me somethin.” She promised. “Tell me, Sarey, how come, all our life long since you and me was hitched, we never…did…get our things together more often than once a month at the mostest.” Sarah blushed, swallowed, and, because she had promised, but because her “friend” who was also Jacob’s ladyfriend was present in the room, she bent down and whispered the somewhat lengthy answer into Jacob’s ear, and he smiled and closed his eyes and died. While he was lying in state, the next day, Sarah lay down beside him and followed him out of existence.
Everybody else who had not died came to their joint funeral, which was the grandest funeral ever given in Stay More, despite a constant rainstorm. Brother Long Jack Stapleton gave the eulogy: a five-hour show of Jacob’s entire life condensed, and considerably censored. Everyone present realized that there could never be another life like that, and because they already realized that there could never be another Century like the one late lamented, they were inconsolable and lachrymose. For weeks after the funeral no one was able to do anything. It was as if everybody was temporarily recovering from the frakes. John Ingledew in particular, who already had such a doomy air, was plunged into gloom over the loss of his grandparents and the loss of the Century. We too should pause here for a minute of silent meditation.
Death cheapens the value of life. As dying becomes commonplace, grieving is rarer, shallower. So many people had died in Stay More that nobody cared anymore who was living or not. Death was a fact of life. Some people did not get sick at all, and felt guilty, and committed suicide, leapt from Leapin Rock. There were incidents of poisoning, arson, shooting, lynching, all unheard-of before. More unheard-of were the incidents of rampant ruffianism. Nearly all Stay Morons had been noted for their simple gentleness, but now several of them turned mean and rowdy. If there had been one distinguishing difference between the mountaineer of the Ozarks and his kinsmen the mountaineers of Kentucky and Tennessee, it was that the latter were noted for bloody feuding while the former, even if just as impulsive, was not quarrelsome. But now men began beating and shooting one another in earnest. Take, for example, Ike Whitter, who was possibly the worst rowdy in Stay More. He was a rugged six-footer, barrel-chested, brawny, hard as nails. When sober he was merely ill-humored; when drunk, as he was every Saturday, he became ferocious. Any man bold enough to fight him had to agree to his rule that the taking of eyeballs was permitted. Three men each had an eye gouged out before everyone conceded that Ike Whitter was the toughest customer in the village…next, of course, to Isaac Ingledew, whose strength was so legendary that Ike Whitter never even gave a thought to challenging him, even though Isaac was getting pretty close to sixty. The people always knew that there was one man who could always lick Ike Whitter, so they let Ike have his fun, and even enjoyed the spectacle of his gouging out an eyeball here and there. But nobody wanted to invite Ike Whitter to anything; he was never invited to the house-raisin’s, barn-raisin’s, shootin matches, cornhuskin’s, games of Base Ball, square dances or Brother Staple-ton’s Magic Bible Shows. He was indignant at these slights, but he did not object, until he was not even invited to his own sister’s weddin, and when that happened he showed up anyway, picked a fight with the groom, and killed him. They sent to Jasper for the sheriff. Sheriff Barker came with a sworn warrant, and two revolvers, which he cocked and pointed simultaneously at Ike Whitter.
“Ike Whitter,” said the sheriff. “You are a prisoner, under suspicion o
f murder. Come along peaceable.”
“Haw,” snorted Ike Whitter. “The devil ye say. You’d better jist slope away from here, sheriff, cause I’m liable to git dangerous toward ary man that would point pistols at me.”
“I’m only doin my duty,” the sheriff said, somewhat apologetically. “The people of this here county have appointed me to keep order. You have did a crime. Grubbin out a eyeball here and there is one thing, but murder is a hoss of a different feather. It is my bounden duty to remit ye to the county jail.”
Ike Whitter leered. “Wal, reckon ye got the drap on me.” He held out his wrists. “Put on the handcuffs.”
The sheriff, in order to fish out his handcuffs, had to return one of his two revolvers to its holster, and as he did so, Ike Whitter slapped the other one out of his hand, then hit the sheriff a swipe on his ear that laid him out, then extracted one of his eyeballs. The sheriff, screaming “Oh, Ike, Lordy, don’t kill me!” made a hasty retreat. When the sheriff returned to Jasper and reported what had happened to him, it aroused so much interest and was considered so newsworthy that a printing press was brought from Harrison and Newton County’s first newspaper, the Jasper Disaster, was established, with a banner headline on its first issue: SHERIFF HALF-BLINDED BY STAY MORE MALEFACTOR.
Other items reported were scattered incidents of poisoning, arson, shooting, lynching, prostitution and insanity, as well as a few wedding and birthday announcements, and the meeting of the Grange. Copies of the first issue reached Stay More, and one of Ike Whitter’s few cronies read the front page to Ike, who could not read, and Ike was considerably impressed that there was such a thing as a newspaper and even more impressed, and immensely flattered, that he dominated the first issue of it. He took the front page and nailed it to the front of the Ingledew General Merchandise Store, for all eyes to see, but the eyes were not seeing it because they were staying home out of fear of him. He had the town to himself. Willis Ingledew turned the store over to John and went off to see the St. Louis World’s Fair. John Ingledew managed the store for only a few days until Ike Whitter came in and began helping himself to Vienna sausages and crackers and anything else he desired. John went to his father, Isaac, and complained, “Paw, somethin’s got to be done about Ike Whitter.”
Isaac, as taciturn in his late fifties as he ever was, suggested laconically, “Lynch him.”
John went around the village, talking to all the men. Most of them did not wish to meddle with Ike Whitter, but John succeeded in recruiting, in addition to his older brothers Denton and Monroe, one Dinsmore, one Chism, one Coe, one Plowright, and one Swain. These eight men took their rifles and coils of rope and marched upon the Ingledew General Store, where they found Ike Whitter and two of his cronies sitting on the porch, eating can after can of confiscated sardines. Ike Whitter had his rifle in his lap, and at the approach of the lynch mob he raised it and began firing at them, wounding one Coe and one Dinsmore. The only place the lynch mob could take cover was Jacob Ingledew’s house, where Jacob’s ladyfriend now lived alone, severely frightened by the sound of gunfire. They told her to take cover in a back room; then they manned the windows of the three front rooms, breaking out the panes and firing across the road at the three doors of the General Store, where Ike and his two cronies lurked and returned the fire. For an hour they fusilladed one another, without any apparent effect on either side, except the shattering of every window in the Ingledew house and in the Ingledew store. Glass was a lot cheaper in those days than it had been when Jacob Ingledew installed the first panes of Stay More, but still it wasn’t so cheap that this wasn’t a terrible waste, and there was one man at least who was mindful of it.
As John and his lynch mob watched, one of Ike Whitter’s cronies, the one in the left door, came tumbling out through the door of the store, down the steps, and crashed into the dirt of the road, where he lay jumbled and inert. John and his lynch mob stopped firing. After another instant, the other crony in the right door repeated the movements of the first. Then, after a longer pause, Ike Whitter himself came tumbling out through the center door and collapsed into the road. John and his lynch mob rushed to investigate, found Ike Whitter breathing, but just barely, and entered the store just in time to see Isaac Ingledew closing the rear door behind him.
“Gawdamighty,” each of the eight said quietly. Then they revived and bound Ike Whitter and his cronies, and lynched them. The new Jasper Disaster headlined the event: STAY MORE VIGILANTES PUT NOOSE ON VILLAINS. There would not be any more ruffians in Stay More for years and years.
But the sheriff, One-eyed Barker, appeared with a warrant for the arrest of John Ingledew and the other vigilantes.
“What in tarnation for?” John demanded.
“Violation of the lynch law,” said One-eyed Barker. “It’s a-gin the law to take the law into yore own hands.”
John and his lynch mob surrendered, were jailed in Jasper, and brought before a judge and jury in the County courthouse. They were represented by Jim Tom Duckworth, a Stay Moron, who, some months previously, had mailed off to St. Louis to purchase the twelve-volume Whitestone’s Easy Jurisprudence and Forensic Medicine Self-Taught. Jim Tom argued before the court that Ike Whitter and his cronies were already half-dead when Isaac Ingledew got through with them, and therefore his clients had not killed them but only half-killed them. Isaac Ingledew was subpoenaed to depone. Since the judge, like the jury and everybody else, knew that Isaac Ingledew was too taciturn to depone, the judge conducted Isaac to his chambers along with the prosecuting attorney and Jim Tom Duckworth, and there he explained that the examination and cross-examination were to be arranged in such a way that Isaac could depone simply by nodding or shaking his head in response to yes-or-no questions. The trial then proceeded. Did Isaac Ingledew enter upon the premises of the Ingledew General Merchandise Store in Stay More, county of Newton, state of Arkansas at the time of the incident hitherto described, gaining entry by means of the rear door of said premises? Isaac nodded. Was Isaac Ingledew’s sole motive or intent the cessation, interruption, or termination of the hostilities, armed conflict, altercation, or contentiousness then in progress? He nodded. Did Isaac Ingledew approach each of the adversaries, combatants or victims, each in turn, each and severally from the rear, catching each by surprise? Isaac shook his head. Then if each was not caught by surprise, was the first one caught by surprise? A nod. The first one, as well as the subsequent two, were seen by the defendants to emerge, come forth, or burst out of their respective doorways in extremely rapid manner, not under their own volition; might it be assumed that Isaac Ingledew had thrown, flang, heaved or chunked each man bodily out through their respective doorways? He nodded. And yet, we may assume, that even being thrown, flang, heaved or chunked out through their respective doorways, and thence downward off the high porch and into the road, would not account for the alleged unconsciousness or alleged half-death of each of the three adversaries, combatants or victims; so is it to be surmised that Isaac Ingledew, before throwing, flinging, heaving or chunking each and several of the aforementioned adversaries, combatants or victims, did first bash in their heads?
“Objection!” cried Jim Tom Duckworth, leaping to his feet. “The prosecutor is asking the witness a leadin question.”
“Overruled,” decreed the judge. “Prosecution’s jist tryin to fine out what ole Coon—Mr. Ingledew—actually done to them varmints afore he throwed ’em out. Witness must respond.”
Isaac nodded.
Did Isaac Ingledew do other to the adversaries, combatants or victims, than merely bash in their heads? Isaac nodded. Did Isaac perhaps break their arms? Isaac nodded. Furthermore, did Isaac possibly stomp on their toes? Isaac nodded. Furthermore, did Isaac, by any chance, punch, sock, slug or whop the abdomens or regions of the midriffs in such a way as to deflate the lungs and conceivably cause internal injury? Isaac nodded. Was the motive of this sequence of bashing, stomping, breaking, and whopping to deprive the adversaries, combatants or victims of life, or merely t
o disable them?
“Objection!” said Jim Tom Duckworth. “The prosecutor is askin two separate questions.”
“Sustained,” said the judge. “Prosecution will ask one question at a time.”
Was it to deprive them of life? Isaac shook his head. Was it to merely disable them? Isaac nodded.
Your witness, the prosecutor said to Jim Tom, and Jim Tom stood before Isaac and asked, “Did ye expect them fellers to git up and lead normal lifes after all what you’d done to ’em?” Isaac shook his head. “Wal, did ye expect ’em to git up by and by or at least be carried off to bed to get well, or part well, and then maybe lead jist sorta normal lifes, maybe walkin on crutches, or carryin a cane, for the rest of their lifes?” Isaac nodded. “How long did ye expect ’em to live, thataway? Aw heck, I fergot I aint suppose to ask questions that caint be answered yes or no. Wal, did ye expect ’em to live to be a hundred?” Isaac shook his head. “Eighty?” Isaac shook his head. “Fifty, at least?” Isaac nodded. Jim Tom turned to the judge. “Yore Honor, as everbody knows, fifty is jist one half of a hundred, so I have done proved my point, namely and likewise, that my clients removed only half of the life of them fellers and this ole gent took the other half.” Jim Tom turned to the jury. “Fine gents of the jury,” he addressed them. “Half is half, as you can plainly see. You kin either both half-punish my clients and Isaac Ingledew, or else only punish half of my clients, and as there is eight of them, you’ll have to decide which four. The defense rests.”
The jury deliberated for three weeks and a day. They returned a verdict that the lynch law was unconstitutional and was therefore invalid. The judge instructed them that such a decision was not for them to make, or in any case was not their charge. Their charge was to determine whether the defendants were innocent, guilty, or half-guilty, and, if the latter, whether all eight of them were guilty or half-guilty, or whether four of them were guilty and four innocent, and if so, which four. The jury retired once more. They were never seen again. Some folks claimed that three of them had been seen fishing on the Buffalo River, and another one was thought to be living alone in an isolated cabin on Mount Sherman, but this was only hearsay and not admissible. The judge declared a mistrial and everybody went home.
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