Some Dark Holler (The Redemption of Ephraim Cutler Book 1)

by Luke Bauserman

  Rindy Sue finished her song and curtsied. The crowd applauded while the fiddler struck up a waltz to end the dance. Ephraim wondered if Isabel would teach him how to dance as a couple.

  Maybe I should ask her now.

  He turned toward Isabel—and found himself facing a pair of boots. The boots belonged to Peyton, who was bent over, extending a hand to Isabel.

  “May I?” Peyton asked.

  Isabel stood up and placed her hand on Peyton’s shoulder. “Of course,” she said, glancing back at Ephraim as she moved to the center of the floor.

  Peyton shot Ephraim a smug grin, one eyebrow raised. “Better find another place to sit, Cutler. You might get stepped on.”

  Ephraim’s face grew hot. He walked back to his seat on the sorghum stalks in disbelief. Was Isabel upset because he hadn’t held her hand? Hadn’t she seen her pa watching?

  The waltzing couples progressed counterclockwise around the dance floor. As they swirled, Ephraim saw Peyton’s hand on the small of Isabel’s back. He felt his stomach twist into a knot.

  Then Peyton twirled Isabel, and her dress whirled out about her. She gave a little gasp as she turned. And as she came back around to face Peyton, she smiled.

  Ephraim felt betrayed. I ain’t goin’ to sit here and play second fiddle to no one, he thought. Least of all Peyton. He stood and wandered past the knot of people gathered around the syrup kettle. Several of them were leaning over it, inhaling the fragrant steam with murmurs of satisfaction. Ephraim continued walking toward the road.

  “That was some shootin’ you did earlier.” Lester Ewing clapped a hand on Ephraim’s shoulder and thrust the basket containing the cake into his hands. “I bet your ma will enjoy some of this cake. How’s she doin’ these days?”

  “Fine, I guess,” Ephraim lied.

  “You tell her I asked ’bout her,” Lester said. “And tell her we missed seein’ her tonight.”

  “Yessir.”

  Lester headed back toward the dancers, and Ephraim turned to leave.

  “You sad your girly is dancin’ with that Henson boy?”

  Ephraim looked back.

  Clabe Fletcher stepped away from the kettle and walked in front of Ephraim, licking a piece of sorghum cane he’d dipped in the molasses. His nose had been broken so many times it looked like a staircase.

  “You got that same hangdog, lonesome look my brother gets when he ain’t seen his Rindy Sue for a couple of days.”

  Ephraim grunted and tried to sidestep Clabe.

  Clabe stepped with Ephraim. He stuck the piece of cane between his teeth and sucked on it. “Them Yankees is all the same. They come down here from Durant County and think they can take what they like—our land, our business, and our women. Why, the Henson boys hadn’t been in Sixmile Creek two months when Silas tried to horn in on Rindy, and I know he seen she belonged to Jake.”

  He reached into a pocket, pulled out a set of brass knuckles, and offered them to Ephraim. “Why don’t you give that Henson boy a taste of these knuckle-dusters when he’s finished dancin’? I’ll hold that there cake for you.”

  Ephraim shook his head. “I ain’t lookin’ for no fight, Clabe.”

  Clabe laughed. “Ain’t you goin’ to defend your woman? Boy, if you don’t stand up to them Yankees now, who knows what they’ll take next?”

  “I just want to go on home,” Ephraim said, trying to step past Clabe again.

  “That so?” Clabe said, still stepping with Ephraim. He pocketed the brass knuckles. “Well, I got just the cure for that. A shot of Clabe Fletcher’s liquid courage—that’s what you need.”

  “I don’t want none of that.”

  “What’s the matter? You take a temperance pledge or somethin’?”

  “No.” Ephraim shifted the basket, forced his way past Clabe, and headed toward the road.

  “I was just about to cut you a deal,” Clabe called after him. “You being a first-time customer and all.” He chuckled. “If you’re scared it’s goin’ to burn, I could mix some of this here molassy with it.” He erupted into a raucous laugh, and Ephraim heard him slap his knees. “It’ll be sweeter than your mama’s titty!”

  Ephraim walked down the dark road followed by the scent of wood smoke. The chirping of crickets replaced the fading sounds of the fiddle. Cool night air washed over his face, but the image of Peyton twirling Isabel still burned in his memory. He spat in the dirt and kicked at a stone, sending it careening into the darkness. Isabel could waltz all the way to Charleston with Peyton, for all he cared.

  But seeing those two together on the dance floor had stirred up an eddy of thought that had been lurking in the corner of Ephraim’s mind for a while. What if I’m not good enough for Isabel? What could he offer her? A drafty log cabin, a few scant acres of mountainside, and a mother-in-law who needed tending every day? Peyton and Silas, on the other hand, were already farming a chunk of the best land in the county.

  A figure emerged from the shadows up ahead. Ephraim stopped, and the figure grew closer, passing through a patchwork of darkness and moonlight. The man had a pack on his back; his pants were torn at the knees. On his head was a wide-brimmed hat that looked flimsy from wear, and its brim drooped, obscuring most of his face. Ephraim realized with a start that the man wore the old gray sack coat of a Confederate soldier.

  Something white floated in the air just ahead of the stranger. It twirled, the ghost of a falling leaf. It looked like a page torn from a book.

  As he neared Ephraim, the man snatched the page out of the air, folded it, and tucked it into his coat. He removed his hat and smiled in greeting, baring rotten teeth. “Excuse me, son, you comin’ from that gatherin’ over yonder?” His voice rasped like a turning millstone.

  Ephraim nodded. “That’s Lester Ewing’s place.” At this proximity, the man’s overpowering scent assaulted Ephraim’s nose. It was hard to tell if the man had been drinking or if the fermented scent was his own, but in either case, it had clearly been a while since he’d bathed. Ephraim backed up a step.

  “You think a traveler could find a meal there?” The man licked his lips.

  “I’m sure you could. He’s a nice man. They got plenty of food.”

  The stranger grunted and peered toward the house. His eyes glinted in the moonlight.

  A chill ran down Ephraim’s spine. “What brings you to Sixmile Creek?” he asked. Any traveler on this road was well off the beaten path.

  “Just passin’ through,” the stranger said, replacing his hat. He made to leave.

  A thought occurred to Ephraim. “You want a cake?” He had no appetite after seeing Peyton steal Isabel right in front of him.

  The stranger turned around with a greedy look on his face. “Is that what you’re carryin’ in that basket?”

  Ephraim nodded and offered the basket to the man.

  The stranger tore it from his hands and flipped open the lid. “Aw, looky here,” he said, pulling a knife from his belt. He hacked off an irregular piece of the stack cake and stuffed it into his mouth with filthy hands. He chewed noisily, closing his eyes in ecstasy. “Mmmm, it’s been a right long time since I ate somethin’ this good.”

  He opened his eyes and scrutinized Ephraim. “Say, you don’t happen to know anyone around these parts by the name of Amos, do you?”

  Ephraim thought for a moment. “No, I don’t reckon I do.”

  He’s a little older than you, maybe he came to town a few years back, could’ve just been passin’ through, like me. Think about it: you ever meet anyone named Amos travelin’ this way?”

  Ephraim shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “Shame,” the man said, cramming another handful of cake into his mouth. “I don’t reckon you know anyone by the name of Boggs either.”

  Ephraim watched the man carefully. Could this man be some long-lost relative of the reverend? “Actually,” he said, “the preacher here, his name is Boggs.”

  The stranger stiffened. He wiped his hand on his pants and stepped cl
oser to Ephraim, his eyes narrowing. “Preacher? What’s he look like, boy?”

  Ephraim nearly choked on the man’s stench. His breath was rancid. “He, uh, well, he dresses like a preacher… ’bout your height, I’d say.”

  “There more’n one church in this town?”

  Ephraim shook his head. “No, sir. Just the one.”

  The man’s eyes grew distant. He fished around his teeth with his tongue, dislodging morsels of cake. “That’s gotta be him,” he muttered. He tipped his hat and shrugged his pack higher onto his shoulders, then set off down the road without another word.

  Ephraim watched him go. As the stranger neared a bend in the road, he stopped, pulled the folded page out of his pocket, and tossed it into the air. The paper unfurled and began darting back and forth in the air, impelled by a nonexistent breeze. It twirled past the stranger’s face and came to rest on the ground behind him. He turned and gazed back in Ephraim’s direction, his expression grim.

  7

  Foxglove Tea

  Firelight illuminated the top of the Cutlers’ chimney. Ma hadn’t let the fire die tonight; apparently she’d stoked it to a blaze—heat to match her temper, no doubt. Ephraim steeled himself and opened the door.

  Ma stood by the hearth, stirring something in the pot.

  “You haven’t gone to bed yet, Ma?” Ephraim asked. He hung his hat on the peg and ran a hand through his hair.

  Ma peered up from the fire, her eyes alight. “Ephraim, I told you if you weren’t willin’ to avenge your father, you’d live to regret it.”

  An ache grew in the back of Ephraim’s throat. He swallowed. “Ma, I know you said that, but I ain’t killin’ nobody.”

  His mother reached into the pot with a ladle and scooped up a dark liquid, which she poured into an earthen mug. She sat back in her chair and held the mug in both hands. Steam rose from it, and she breathed in deeply. “Yes, you are, Ephraim. You’re killin’ me.”

  Ephraim’s hands began to tremble. He clenched them into fists. “What have you got in that mug, Ma?”

  “Foxglove tea.”

  Foxglove? Ephraim racked his brain. What is foxglove used for? A sudden coldness hit him at his core. “That’s poison.”

  “I know it is,” his mother said. She rocked the chair slowly, a serene smile on her lips.

  Ephraim shook his head. “You ain’t goin’ to drink that, are you?”

  “I will—if you don’t shoot Silas Henson.”

  For a split second, Ephraim imagined shooting not Silas, but Peyton. Gunning down that dandy for stealing the last dance with Isabel. He closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to clear it. “But, Ma… the Bible…”

  She held up a hand. “This might be hard for you to accept, Ephraim, but God wants this.”

  “God wants this? How do you figure?”

  Ma rose from the rocking chair. “I just know it.” She leaned toward her son and whispered. “In the years of my sorrow, I raised you. You were only a small thing when your pa died. You’d go to school, and I’d go into town to do other folks’ washin’. Do you know what folks thought of us? They thought the Cutler name had died with Josiah. They thought we’d never amount to nothin’.” She looked down at her mug, careful not to spill any of the tea. “But I told myself: Lucretia, you keep raisin’ that boy. Someday he’ll do things for you that you never could do for yourself.”

  “I do,” Ephraim said. He gritted his teeth. I do just about everythin ’round here. He pointed to the stew pot. “I put meat in the pot, and corn in the shed.” He counted on his fingers. “I chop wood, I hire out to get a little money, I even do the washin’! Ain’t all that takin’ care of us? Ain’t that enough for you?”

  His ma sighed. “Ephraim, you do a wonderful job takin’ care of me. But you’re almost full grown. Pretty soon you’ll be married and startin’ a family of your own. I need you to do this for me, while you’re still mine. My health is poor, I ain’t long for this world, and I want to rest easy in my grave.”

  Somewhere deep inside Ephraim, a dam broke, flooding him with white-hot rage. His ears filled with the pounding of his own heart. “You don’t know nothin’, Ma! I ain’t never getting married! Me and everyone in this town knows I’m goin’ to spend my days stuck here in this cabin with your sorry sack of helplessness!”

  Ma’s eyes narrowed. “Ephraim Cutler! How dare you raise your voice at your mother!”

  Ephraim’s stomach twisted into a knot. He regretted his outburst instantly. “Ma, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that I—”

  She turned toward the fire. “If that’s truly what you think of me, the woman who brought you into this world, then I’ll drink this and rid you of the burden of my presence.” She brought the mug to her lips.

  Ephraim ran forward. “Ma, wait! Stop! Listen. Put that mug down, and let’s talk about this.”

  She tightened her grip on the mug and stared unflinchingly back at him. “No.”

  Ephraim put his hands on his mother’s shoulders. He tried to force his voice to be calm. “Put it down.”

  She jerked away. “Don’t you place a hand on me!” Her voice rang with the unquestionable authority of a mother. “I know you can take this from me. But if you do, I’ll just make more. I’ll wait until you’re out on one of your precious hunts someday, and do it again!”

  Ephraim’s hands fell to his sides. The snowflake of a chance he could save this situation melted before his mother’s wrath.

  “I refuse to walk this earth a day longer with your father’s death unavenged, and a son who doesn’t love me. If that Yankee ain’t dead afore daybreak, I’m goin’ to drink this tea, and you’ll be left alone in this world.”

  “Can’t we talk about this?”

  “I’m through with talkin’, Ephraim. Either get that pistol off the mantel or take that shovel by the door and start diggin’ my grave next to Pa’s.”

  Ephraim retrieved the pistol. “I’ll do it,” he said. His thoughts raced. He needed to talk to Reverend Boggs. He’d go wake the preacher and—

  Ma set her mug on the mantel and picked up a candle. She walked to the table, picked up a knife, and cut a notch in the candle about an inch from its top. Then she lit it in the fire. “You have until this candle burns to the mark I made to kill the Yankee and return,” she said. “If you haven’t, I’ll drink the tea.”

  Ephraim was speechless. He stared at the candle. How long did he have? Not long enough to rouse Reverend Boggs and return, he knew that.

  A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face.

  Ma stuck the candle in a holder on the mantel, retrieved the mug, and sat down in her rocker. She closed her eyes and began to rock. “Go now,” she said. “Let’s see how much you really care about your ma.”

  The night was cold enough now to elicit a faint vapor from Molly’s nostrils. Ephraim held the reins in one hand and the pistol in the other, following the moonlit road north toward the Hensons’ farm. Silas would be on his way home by now.

  How had this happened? Ephraim stared at the pistol in his right hand. When had Ma decided that this was what she wanted? Was this what she’d been thinking about during all those days and nights at home, pushing her rocking chair back and forth?

  He passed the Ewings’ place and rode around the bend. A quarter mile later, he made out the sound of two voices singing: Peyton and Silas. He saw the two men strolling in the moonlight. They stopped and turned to face the sound of approaching hoofbeats.

  Ephraim’s hands began to tremble. He gripped the pistol tighter and pulled on the reins to slow Molly down.

  Peyton’s gaze traveled from Ephraim to the gun he aimed at Silas. His eyes widened, and he shook his head.

  “What’re you doin’, Ephraim?”

  Ephraim breathed heavily, his ears filled with the pounding of his own heart. He drew in a breath and pointed the gun at Silas. “I’m real sorry ’bout this,” he said, his voice shaky.

  Silas held up his hands and took a step b
ack, his eyes wide. “What’s goin’ on, Ephraim? I’ve got no quarrel with you.”

  Ephraim wiped his eyes with his shirt cuff. “I don’t want to do this—it’s my ma. She—” He choked on the rest of the words. This just needed to be done.

  His thumb felt weak on the hammer; he could hardly pull it back. But he heard the click of the cylinder rotating into place, the click of the hammer seating.

  His eyes met Silas’s.

  Every part of the Colt’s firing mechanism quivered in anticipation. Molly raised her head, her nostrils flared, sensing the tension in the air. Ephraim willed his finger to fire the gun. It wouldn’t. I can’t do this. A vision of Ma by the fire, her own death cupped in her hands, clouded his mind.

  They stood there for a moment, Ephraim and Silas, locked on the brink of eternity. The very night around them seemed to be holding its breath.

  A branch snapped.

  Molly lurched.

  An explosion split the night. The barrel flashed, and the acrid smell of black powder filled the air. Ephraim’s ears rang.

  Molly reared up on her hind legs, throwing Ephraim from the saddle. The pistol flew from his hand. He connected with the packed earth of the road and rolled to a stop, lying on his belly.

  Silas gave a sharp cry and clutched his chest. His knees buckled, and he fell to the ground in a slack-shouldered heap. A dark stain seeped across his shirt.

  Peyton stared down at his brother, eyes bulging. “Silas!” he cried, his voice high and strange. He fell to his knees and cradled his brother’s head in his hands.

  Silas gasped, a gurgling sound.

  Peyton put his hand over the bloody hole in his brother’s shirt. “Hold on, Silas! We’ll get help!”