He selected a rooster carving with a tail of shavings that arched higher than its head, pulled out his knife, flipped the carving over, and began notching letters into its base.
TO ISA—
“You’re mighty quiet, son.”
Ephraim hadn’t noticed Ma wake up. “There’s a stir-off tonight at the Ewings’,” he said. “Thought I might go.” He folded his knife and slipped the rooster into his pocket.
Ma coughed. “Wish I could come with you, but I’m feelin’ poorly today. I reckon I caught my death last night waitin’ for you to come home and get another fire goin’.” She pulled the quilt tighter around her.
“Ma, I’m sorry. I forgot to fill the wood box. I had wood split out in the yard, I just—”
“I know how much you like huntin’, Ephraim.”
“No, I mean, I do like huntin’, but I was out there trying to get us some meat.”
Ma coughed again and closed her eyes.
Ephraim glanced at the cooking pot. He’d been planning on telling Ma she could have the leftovers from last night’s stew for supper, but if she wasn’t feeling well, maybe she needed something thinner. “I won’t go to the stir-off tonight, Ma. I’ll stay here and make you some soup.”
“You’re gettin’ older, Ephraim. Folks your age like to stay out late, go dancin’, go huntin’, drink moonshine. I won’t have you missin’ none of that on my account. You go ahead and go on over to the Ewings’. I ain’t that hungry. I can manage on my own tonight. Once a widow woman’s raised her son, she best get used to sitting in a cabin all alone.”
Ephraim pulled a chair out from the table and slumped into it. “It ain’t goin’ to be like that, Ma. I’m goin’ to take care of you just like I always do.”
“I hate to be a burden.”
“Ma, don’t say that. You ain’t a burden.” Ephraim sighed and hunched over the table, tracing the grain of the wood with his finger.
“Your pa used to do that very same thing when I’d vexed him.”
Ephraim looked up. “Do what?”
“Sit there and stare at the table like that. I wonder what it is you two see in that hunk of wood.”
Ephraim shrugged.
“You remember when we buried your pa?”
“Sort of. Bits and pieces.”
“You were so little then, but you were always a strong boy. I cried my heart out washin’ your pa’s body and gettin’ him dressed for buryin’. But you didn’t cry. You just squeezed my hand. You knowed you had to be strong for me, didn’t you?”
Ephraim nodded. Ma usually grieved in silence. He’d seen her cry plenty of times before when she thought he wasn’t looking. Why was she talking about it now?
“He was a handsome man, my Josiah. Hair blond as corn silk and the bluest eyes… You look just like him. I still don’t know how I ever managed to win his affection.” Ma coughed and pointed across the room. “I have somethin’ for you. Go look under the foot of my bed.”
Surprised, Ephraim went to the foot of her bed and lifted the draping end of the quilt. Underneath it was a pair of stout leather boots.
“Those were your pa’s. Try ’em on.”
Ephraim removed his worn brogans, let them fall with a thud, and slipped on his father’s boots.
Ma smiled and clasped her hands. “Look. They fit you so well. Keep ’em. You know, Ephraim, lot of folks ’round here act like the war never happened.” She coughed again. “They’ve forgotten what the Yankees did to us. But I haven’t.”
“You talkin’ ’bout the Yankees that killed Pa?”
“That’s right.” Ma lifted her head, and anger flashed in her eyes. “Did you know that Silas Henson fought with the Yankees?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Ephraim recalled Peyton showing him the Yankee rifle.
“Think about that for a minute, Ephraim. Silas Henson fought with the men that cut your pa down.” Ma punctuated every word with a jab of her finger. “For all we know, it might’ve been him that done it.”
“I guess so. But there was so many folks that died in the war, there’d be no way to know.”
Ma shrugged. “The way I see it, shootin’ your pa and fightin’ with the Yanks are the same thing. Even if it wasn’t him, he would’ve done it if he’d had the chance. Tell me that ain’t true.”
Ephraim didn’t know what to say.
“I hear that Silas can dance a reel better than any man in the county. Think he’ll be at that stir-off tonight?” Ma asked.
“I reckon,” Ephraim said. “Peyton told me he’s goin’.”
Ma stood, lifted the revolver from its place on the mantel, and sat back in the rocker. “Wouldn’t it be somethin’ if he was cut down right there in front of everyone while he was dancin’?”
Ephraim snorted. “Ma, you’re talkin’ out of your head.”
“I’ve kept the lead that was in this revolver the day they brought your pa home. I’ve got it loaded right now.” She nodded toward the table, and Ephraim noticed, for the first time, the powder flask lying there. “Take it, Ephraim.” She lifted the gun by its barrel and offered him the grip.
Ephraim turned away.
“Come on now. Let me see you holdin’ your pa’s gun. You already got his boots on.”
Ephraim sighed and took the pistol.
Ma’s eyes shone with tears. “I wish your pa was here. He’d be proud of the strong son I’ve raised. He’d be proud of how well you track and shoot. Ephraim, you are an honor to the Cutler name.” She reached out and grabbed his hand. “The lead in that pistol has been a-growin’ nigh on seven years, and tonight it’s ready to be planted in a Yankee’s heart. Your pa would be awful proud. If Silas Henson was cut down tonight, I’d wager there’ll be daisies sproutin’ through the frost on your pa’s grave tomorrow mornin’.”
Ephraim looked away. “You need to get out of this cabin, Ma. The war’s over.”
“If I could do it myself, I surely would. But I am a sick woman. I don’t have long before I’ll lay down next to Pa. It wouldn’t be right if I didn’t see justice served afore I do. You can cut down the coward that killed your pa. Will you do it for us, Ephraim?”
Ephraim laid the pistol on the table. “I ain’t killin’ Silas Henson. Or anybody else.”
Ma’s eyes flashed, and she rose to her feet. “Son, if you don’t do this, you will live to regret it!”
She spoke with a ferocity Ephraim had never felt from her. He stepped backward, shaking his head.
“It ain’t right to murder a man, Ma. You know that.”
Ma’s shoulders slouched, and she sat back heavily into the rocking chair.
Ephraim moved to the door. He needed to get away from this crazy talk. Ma would be all right if he left for a while—it wasn’t like he left her alone every night.
He picked up his hat and rifle. “I’m goin’ to check my trapline,” he said. “And then I’m goin’ to the stir-off. I won’t be home until late tonight.” Ma wasn’t looking at him. “There’s cornbread in the skillet and some stew left in the pot. Don’t wait up for me.”
The door creaked as he opened it. He stepped outside and shut it behind him; the clap of it closing echoed across the hillside.
Ephraim peered at the sky and took a deep breath, then shouldered his rifle and set off for the woods, eager to put distance between himself and his wild-eyed mother.
4
Molasses and Moonshine
Ephraim owned three steel traps that Manson Owens had made for him in exchange for some work around the smithy. He’d set them along a spring-fed stream that trickled through the woods on the far side of Laurel Knob. He found the first trap on a stretch of sandy soil along the stream’s bank. Coon tracks went up to the edge of the water, but the trap was empty. He had similar luck with the other two traps.
As Ephraim stood by the last trap, listening to the musical rushing of the stream, the wind blew gently, setting the shadows of branches wavering on the ground. A rustling came from the underbrush. He clos
ed his eyes, sorting through the sounds. A small bird flitted through the growth in little bursts of movement; squirrels hopped in the dry leaves; an Indian hen woodpecker rattled on a hollow trunk somewhere downstream.
Ephraim opened his eyes. A hollow tree was likely to be a coon den; he’d move a trap near it.
He poked a stick through the trap’s chain and lifted it, careful not to touch the metal and taint it with his scent. Following the sound of the Indian hen, Ephraim made his way to the hollow tree. It was a poplar with a hole the size of a pot lid near its base. Ephraim set the trap on the bank in front of it.
He looked up at the sky; the stir-off would be starting soon. Removing his hat, he studied his reflection in the water. His blond hair stuck up in a rooster tail. He wet his hand in the stream and pawed at it, smoothing it down.
A scar split his left eyebrow in two, a mark he’d received from the cloven hoof of Erma Jean, the family milk cow, when he was five years old. Ma had sold the cantankerous animal the day after it’d kicked him. Ephraim licked his thumb and tried to straighten the disorderly hairs that grew on either side of the scar. Finally, he scrubbed his face, straightened his brown wool shirt, and shouldered his rifle.
Lester Ewing’s house sat a stone’s throw from the base of Laurel Knob. As Ephraim exited the woods, he saw a sorghum gin under a hickory tree in the yard. Lester and several other men were working around it, feeding in stalks of sorghum cane to be ground. A mule, hitched to the machine, provided the power for grinding.
Ephraim felt a lightness in his chest. As Ma had grown more ill, they’d come to gatherings like this less and less frequently. The realization that tonight was his first night attending a stir-off without her filled him with a thrill of independence.
He searched the yard, looking for Isabel.
She stood by a large cast-iron kettle. Her dark braids were tied with yellow ribbons, and she wore a cornflower-blue dress.
The kettle emitted a cloud of pale vapor in the cool evening air. A field hand skimmed the surface of the boiling liquid and poured the green goop he removed into a hole dug beside the pot. As Ephraim approached, Polly Ewing stopped by the kettle and peered into it.
“Mind not to over-boil it, Isabel. We’re making syrup tonight, not pull-candy.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Isabel said.
“Where’d Rindy Sue get to?” Polly asked. “She’s supposed to be helping you, but I ain’t seen her since the Fletcher boys showed up.”
“Last I saw, Jake and her were taking a walk through the orchard.”
Polly’s nostrils flared. “If Lester comes looking for me, tell him I’m out in the orchard tanning his fool daughter’s hide.” She rolled up her sleeves and stalked toward the orchard muttering something about her empty-headed Rindy falling for a “whiskey-makin’ no-account.”
Isabel turned to Ephraim and burst into laughter. “That romantic walk isn’t going to last very long.” She gave Ephraim a warm smile. “I was hoping you’d come.”
Ephraim grinned. “Well, I’m here.”
Isabel straightened up from the kettle and clapped her free hand to her forehead. “Oh, no!” she said. “I carried the stack cake here, and I forgot to bring your present.”
“That’s all right,” Ephraim said. He leaned over the pot and inhaled the heavy sweetness of the hot molasses. His mouth watered. “When will this be ready?”
“Not for a few more hours. Don’t steal any—you already saw the mood Polly’s in.”
A few yards away, on the back porch of the house, a crowd of youngsters had gathered around Manson Owens’s feet.
“Tell us ’bout Barefoot Nancy and the Skinner witch,” one of the children said.
Ephraim looked up from the molasses. He’d heard it mentioned that Barefoot Nancy had banished a witch from Sixmile Creek, but he’d never heard the story.
Manson rocked his chair back a little and smiled. “Nobody can tell that one like Nancy does herself.”
The youngsters groaned in disappointment.
Manson smiled. “But, seein’ as she ain’t here, I guess I can take a crack at it.”
The children cheered.
“It seems when I was ’bout you’uns’ age, there weren’t too many folks ’round these parts. There was a witch that roamed the hills in them days by the name of Josephine Skinner. She weren’t too popular ’round here on account of her devilish ways. Folks said she had the evil eye, and it gave her power to perform all kinds of curses. She could cause a cow to give bloody milk, stop hens from layin’, and turn the purest spring water sour. Josephine could also spell your gun so it’d never hit nothin’ you aimed at.”
A hush fell over the children. They all scooted in closer to Manson’s feet.
“And that weren’t the worst of it,” Manson said, leaning in toward his audience. He squinted his eyes and lowered his voice. “If Josephine took a powerful dislike to you, she’d send a black cat into your home, and it’d steal the breath right out of your babe’s mouth. Make it die in its sleep. She could call up awful storms that’d ruin a year’s crop.” Manson paused and shook his head. “But none of that holds a candle to what she did to little Alice Sherman.”
“Liza May Williams!” a woman’s voice cut in. “Come over here this instant!”
Ephraim turned and saw Francis Williams with her hands on her hips.
“But Ma,” protested Liza from the porch, “Mr. Owens is tellin’ us ’bout Barefoot Nancy and the witch.”
“Liza, you go on home right now, and you might as well find a switch along the way. We do not listen to stories of witches. Such talk ain’t Christian.”
Manson raised an eyebrow. “Not Christian? Francis, you see me in church every Sunday. I’m just tellin’ the young’uns a little local history, that’s all.”
“Well I don’t approve,” Francis said. “And neither does Reverend Boggs.” She walked to the porch, snatched Liza by the arm, and marched her off.
“Mr. Owens, what’d Josephine Skinner do to Alice Sherman?” a towheaded boy asked in a shrill voice.
Manson shifted in his chair and resumed his tale. “Well, Alice’s daddy, Wes, was one of the meanest men what ever lived. He lived up at the head of Butcher Holler—I was just up there myself last night and saw his cabin. He wouldn’t let no one set foot in the wood ’round his place without his permission. He claimed all that land for hisself. One night, he saw Josephine Skinner out a-prowlin’ in the woods, and he lit up her backside with a load of bird shot. The witch shrieked and run off a-howlin’ to beat the band! Wes thought he was really somethin’. He told everyone what he’d done, and said anyone who was afeared of old Josephine was a fool—said she weren’t no more than a crazy old bat.
“Couple nights later, Wes sent Alice out to fetch a pail of water from the spring.” Manson paused and shook his head gravely. “And the girl never come back.”
The children gasped. “Where’d she go?” asked the towheaded boy.
“Weeks passed with nary a sign of the girl,” Manson said. “Then one night, Wes was a-cookin’ hisself some supper when he heard this scratchin’ from up on the roof of his cabin. Well, he lit a lantern and walked outside, thinkin’ there was a coon up there or somethin’, but when he shone the light up there, it weren’t no critter. It was Alice.”
“It was Alice!” echoed the children, looking at one another, eyes wide.
“‘What’re you doin’ creepin’ atop the roof, Alice?’ says Wes. ‘You ’bout scared me half to death!’” Manson leaned forward. “Alice jumped down, landed on the ground right in front of him, and Wes saw that it weren’t Alice. It was Josephine Skinner, a-wearin’ Alice’s hide!”
The children huddled in a knot. A few whimpers leaked out.
“But what about Barefoot Nancy?” It was the towheaded boy again.
Isabel elbowed Ephraim in the ribs and giggled. “I know who’ll be wetting the bed tonight,” she whispered in his ear.
A pleasant fuzziness filled Ephraim’s he
ad as he felt her breath on his ear. She kept her face close to his as they listened.
“Well, this is where she comes into the story,” Manson said. “See, we didn’t have a granny woman ’round here in them days. So someone sent for one when we heard Wes Sherman a-rantin’ ’bout what Josephine done to Alice. It weren’t too long ’fore Barefoot Nancy showed up.” Manson sat back in his chair. “She seemed old to me then, and I’m an old man now. That granny must be as old as the hills.” He shook his head slowly. “Anyways, it was her that drove Josephine Skinner away from Sixmile Creek.”
“All right, now!” a man’s voice called across the yard.
Ephraim and Isabel turned their heads.
Lester Ewing stood on a stump in the middle of the yard, his hat raised in the air. “We’re fixin’ to have us a turkey shoot! Any of you that wants to shoot come on over here and put your name in my hat!”
Ephraim picked up his rifle.
Isabel looked up from the kettle. “I want to watch, Euly,” she said to the field hand skimming the molasses. “Can you take a turn stirring?”
Euly nodded and replaced her at the kettle.
They walked over to where men were writing their names on small scraps of paper and dropping them into Lester’s outstretched hat. Ephraim got in line and put his name in, then took his place in a group of contestants bristling with firearms.
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.”
Some Dark Holler (The Redemption of Ephraim Cutler Book 1) Page 4