by Phil Truman
Not long after they entered the store, Red Randy and Threebuck had their first encounter with Maxine Applegate. They’d come in looking about, not at all appearing like Applegate’s usual clientele, when Maxine came up behind them. She’d concealed herself from view behind an octagonal sunglasses case near the front window, and waited until they were well into her lair before she pounced on them.
“Whatcha need?” she asked them in her ancient gravelly voice. Despite their junkyard dog meanness, it made the two men jump. They also both took a startled step backwards when they turned and looked at her.
In her youth, Maxine Warner had been what some people called impish. That is, she’d been a small mischievous child, who many might have considered cute, if not for her mean streak. By age twenty her spiteful nature had earned her the title “Bitch.” In her thirties she was unanimously promoted to “Queen Bitch.” By the time gravity, cigarette smoke, and her nasty disposition had sculpted her appearance for more than a half a century, she became known as “The Witch Bitch.”
In her late forties, she met Bud Applegate and somehow convinced him to marry her. During business hours Bud stayed safely tucked away behind the barrier of the pharmacy window. No customer who came into Applegate’s ever saw him outside the pharmacy alcove, and no one ever heard him speak a word to Maxine.
Applegate’s didn’t have as large a customer base as they’d had back in the Sixties when Bud first opened the place up. It had dwindled even more after the Walmart opened on the edge of town near the casino. Part of that may have been because of Maxine. Most had come to at least tolerate Maxine’s odious personality; but despite that, she had an uncanny knack of stocking unique and useful household items. Maxine hadn’t exactly turned the retail side of Applegate’s into a boutique, but you could buy things there you couldn’t find even at Walmart. Maybe not eye of newt or toe of frog, wool of bat or tongue of dog... but close.
She stood facing Red Randy and Threebuck demanding an answer to her question as if they faced a trespassing charge. She was small and stooped and wrinkled like an old gnome or hobbit. If you could get past her blazing red hair, which in its current arrangement did, in fact, resemble flames, you would see eyes clouded by a lifetime of discontent. Her old face had the color of a powdered corpse. Her over-extended lipstick radiated redder than her hair, as did some of her teeth, upon those where the lipstick had descended. On her lower left cheek, not quite on her chin, a large mole protruded from which grew a small cluster of hair; one strand in the group growing about an inch long.
“We, uh, we...” Randy spoke for the two of them. “We wanted to sign up for the Noodlin’ Tournament.”
Maxine seemed to take this badly, as she scowled even deeper, and looked past Randy toward the back of the store. The Chamber of Commerce had put the posters and registration forms in several retail establishments around town to entice prospective contestants. Maxine considered it a pain in the butt. She started shuffling toward that place in the back, and at about the ten-foot mark from the men, called over her shoulder, “Back here.” Randy followed her; Threebuck wandered over to the greeting card rack.
At an old wooden desk just outside and to the right of the door to the pharmacy, Maxine opened a drawer and pulled out a manila folder. She opened the folder and tore two sheets off a pad, handing them to Randy.
“Each of you fill these out and give them back to me. The entry fee is twenty dollars a piece,” she said.
She seemed to realize then that only Randy had followed her to her desk, so she looked past him trying to locate Threebuck’s whereabouts. She saw him standing at the card display, reading cards.
“You going to buy any of those?” she yelled. Threebuck, totally absorbed in some greeting card verse, hadn’t realize Maxine was talking to him.
“Hey!” Maxine yelled after five seconds of getting no response. Threebuck jumped, and tried to put the card back in its slot, but dropped it. He looked at Maxine with what looked like fear.
“Hey what?” he finally asked.
“I said, are you going to buy any of those cards?”
“Naw, just looking,” Threebuck answered. He tried to smile.
“Well, don’t be getting your finger smudges all over them if you’re not going to buy any,” Maxine ordered.
Threebuck nodded, picked up the one he’d dropped to put it back in its place, then with his hands in his pockets turned to look at a round rack of earrings on a swivel behind him. He put his hand out to turn the rack, but stopped and looked at Maxine first. She continued to scowl at him, so he put his hand back in his pocket, and moved himself around the display.
Randy turned and held up one of the entry forms and said to Threebuck, “Hey, dumbass, come and fill this out. And I need twenty bucks.”
After the two completed the registration, Maxine took their money and handed them two receipts with numbers on them. They matched the numbers on each of the entry forms.
“You’ll need these to get in the tournament,” she said.
“How do we get to this Eagle Branch place?” Randy asked her.
Maxine looked at Randy with aggravation. “It’s kind of complicated,” she said. “Go down to the Chamber Office; they got maps.”
“And where’s that?” Randy asked.
She pointed a boney finger towards the front of the store. “Go out the front door. Turn left and go to the end of the block. Turn right and cross the street. It’s two doors down from there right past Samuel’s Real Estate office.”
Outside, Randy noticed that his partner looked a little spooked. Threebuck’s hands trembled slightly, and sweat beaded his forehead.
“I believe that old hag shook you up a little,” Red Randy said with a grin as he slid his shades in place.
Threebuck pulled on his gloves, and extended the kick-start lever with his left boot. “She reminded me of my ma,” he said.
Chapter 15
Sunny Brings a Picture
“Sunny, did you locate that picture Buck had of the founders?” Chairwoman Euliss asked.
“Yes, I did,” Sunny responded and pulled an item wrapped in a hand towel from her backpack. She unfolded the towel from around it, and held up an ornate cast iron frame with an old five by seven photograph in it. She passed it to her left so that it could make its way along the committee members on her side of the table to the Chairwoman. When it got to Euliss she pushed up her glasses and looked down her nose at it.
“Oh my,” Euliss said in obvious wonder. She looked at the picture of the five men in front of the large steam tractor. Most of them wore overalls or well-worn work clothes. The exception had on a three-piece tweed suit, a bow tie, and wore a bowler. “This is very nice.” She studied it a little longer. “Very nice, indeed,” she added. She handed it to Doctor Waxworth. “Did Buck tell you who these gentlemen were?” she asked Sunny.
“The one sitting down on the crate is Buck’s grandfather,” Sunny said. “I believe his name was Ned Starr. He told me the names of the others, but I don’t remember any of them.”
The passing of the picture continued around the conference table. It stopped at Hayward Yost who held it and stared at it for some time, and then he leaned over to Soc and muttered something.
Euliss watched them. “Hayward, do you and Soc know any of those men?”
“Well, we’re thinking this old fella on the right, behind Ned Starr, is Zeke Proctor and the one on his right is Soc’s granddaddy, Highman Ninekiller. We don’t know who the gent on Zeke’s left is, but he looks like a banker. Maybe he owned that big steam machine.” Hayward continued. “I think Buck told me this fella by the back wheel was Ed Reed. He was the son of Belle Starr, and also a deputy marshall in the early town.”
“How fascinating,” Euliss said.
Nan Dorn, writing at her normal slow pace had only gotten to the place where Hayward had said something about a “bad seed” and then something about feldspar Nan wrote about ten words behind her listening, and sometimes had to
get clarification. “You did what?” she asked Euliss.
The chairwoman leaned toward Nan and said in a louder voice, “I said the picture is fascinating, dear.” Nan nodded and wrote.
The committee members looked at Hayward as he took the floor again. “Deputy Ed was shot and killed in a bar fight. Must’ve been after this picture was taken.” A few chuckled. “There’s an interesting story goes with this picture, though. Sort of a legend around here, I expect.”
Hayward stopped and looked around the room. He stopped when he got to Sunny, looking at her intently for a few seconds.
“Are you going to tell us the legend, Hayward?” Euliss asked.
“The story goes,” Hayward continued. “Ed came to town with a lot of loot he took from his ma, Belle Starr, after she was killed. Some even think Ed might’ve been the one who shot her. Anyway, Ed had all this treasure—gold coins, jewelry, maybe other valuables—some of the things Belle had collected during her outlawing days. Ed is supposed to have hid or buried this treasure around here somewhere. Folks looked for it for a long time, but no one ever found it. Now it’s mostly forgotten about.”
Hayward looked at Sunny again, and went on. “According to Buck, there was a letter he had that ol’ Ed wrote to his friend Ned Starr telling him where the treasure is hidden. But he’d used code words in the letter that only he and Ned knew so it wouldn’t be so easy to find. Must’ve been a good code, because, as far as I know, that treasure is still hid. I seen that letter. Buck used to keep it behind this picture. Sunny, you mind if I take a look?”
“Sure, go ahead,” Sunny said.
Hayward nodded and turned the frame over to loosen the back, and then remove it.
“It ain’t here,” he said. He looked at Sunny. “Did you take it out, Sunny?”
“No,” she said. “I, uh... haven’t seen it. Don’t think I’ve ever seen such a letter.” She coughed into her hand, looking at the tabletop, then nervously pushed a strand of hair behind her left ear.
Hayward nodded. “Well, it’s probably just as well. Thing like that gets out, gets a little publicity, and this town would be overrun with all kinds of weirdoes looking for that lost treasure. Sort of like having another casino,” he added. Everyone in the room but Jorge laughed.
“No offense, Jorge,” Hayward added.
“None taken, amigo,” he said back to Hayward with a smile.
Sunny felt uncomfortable because she’d lied. Well, technically, it wasn’t a lie, because Buck never did show her the original letter. She’d seen a photocopy of it, though; the one he’d sent Goat. It was news to her that Buck kept the original behind that old picture, and she wondered where it could’ve gone.
She’d dug that picture and frame out of a box of stuff stashed in a closet for storage. That took place a couple of nights ago, and Gale had been there. He’d become real interested in it, and asked if he could look at it. She didn’t think anything about it at the time, and gave him the picture. Could he have known anything about this letter? Perhaps he’d taken it that night. She shot him an inquiring stare, but be seemed to be avoiding her look.
“They’s another legend around here,” Punch said to the group. All eyes turned to him, but he kept silent.
“And what legend is that?” Euliss asked.
“Well,” Punch started. He looked at Hayward and Soc; then he cleared his throat. “Well, there’s the Tsalagee Hill Man.”
Murmurs started around the table interspersed with a few chuckles.
Euliss tapped her gavel a couple of times to restore order. When silence returned she spoke. “Well, yes,” she said with the comportment of a judge. “That legend does exist, but I believe it’s more in the area of a myth or fairy tale, than anything else. It’s hardly something we want to publicize or celebrate as a part of our town’s history.” She gave Punch and the group a condescending smile.
Bobby John Samuels raised his hand, “Madam Chairman?” Euliss gave him a royal nod. Bobby John, a chubby middle-aged man who liked to refer to himself as a Clinton Democrat, sat as the Chamber of Commerce’s representative on the committee. He also owned Samuels Real Estate.
“I’d like to discuss this Belle Starr treasure legend some more. I think it would be a good idea to use this in our Founders Day promotion.” Bobby John always thought anything to bring people into town was a good idea, no matter the nature or consequences. To him more people meant more spending, meant more jobs, meant more residents, meant more house buying. The Annual Catfish Noodlin’ Tournament had been one of his ideas.
“I really don’t think we want to do that, Bobby John,” Hayward said.
“Why not?”
“I already told you why, son.” Hayward was old enough to call anybody he wanted to “son,” except Soc.
Bobby John leaned forward with forearms on the table, fingertips touching. He liked to wear heavily starched long-sleeved Ralph Lauren button-down shirts with the collar and the first button unfastened to expose the upper part of his wooly chest hair and gold chain necklace. Bobby John’s well-coifed hair held about as much starch as his shirt, and a three foot aroma cloud of expensive Italian cologne enveloped him. His portly stomach pushed into the table edge as he started to speak. “I don’t think—”
“It’s not a myth,” Soc Ninekiller said.
Bobby John looked at Soc. “What?” he said.
Soc didn’t change his expression, nor his relaxed position in his chair. He regarded Bobby John for a second; much as he would a fly he was about to brush away, then spoke to Euliss. “Catoosa Ay ey hih, the Hill Man, is not a myth.”
“Mr. Ninekiller,” Euliss said. She spoke not with the usual condescension in her voice, but respect. “The discussion before the committee is the promotion of the alleged Belle Starr Treasure. You will have to wait—”
Soc looked at her, then spoke again to the group, unfazed by, and uninterested in, Euliss’s point of order. “My grandfather, the man in this photograph,” he pointed to the ancient photo still in Hayward’s hand. “...had several encounters with the creature. My grandmother, a Choctaw they called Looking Owl Woman, said the Hill Man is a spirit being who protects all the living things in the woods. My people and the Choctaw have stories going back many generations about the Hill Man, as do other tribes. He is a legend, yes, but no myth.”
The group looked a little stunned. That was the most anyone had heard out of Soc Ninekiller in years. Eventually, Bobby John closed his mouth and smirked.
“Well, with all due respect to you and your people, Soc,” he said. “I’m not sure what your grand daddy or grand momma said moves the Hill Man out of the realm of myth. What we need is current information. Have you ever seen this creature?”
“Yes,” Soc said.
After a few seconds, Bobby John asked, “Well, would you care to elaborate?”
“I saw him in the woods about ten years ago,” Soc said.
“I seen him, too,” Punch said. “And White Oxley has got a movie film of him.” He glanced at Sunny who rolled her eyes and shook her head.
“Also,” Soc added, “the Belle Starr Treasure is said to be cursed.”
“Cursed? How so?” Bobby John asked. He had risen slightly from his chair, leaning across the table toward Soc.
Euliss whacked her gavel twice trying to regain control. “People, this isn’t getting us anywhere. We need to stick to the topic at hand, which is the Belle Starr Treasure and whether we should include it in our promotion.”
“Well, now, hold on, Euliss,” Bobby John said. He’d started to take some interest in this Hill Man thing. The talk of recent sightings had gotten his attention. “Let’s just talk about this some more. I’m thinking this Hill Man thing and the Belle Starr Treasure might be a couple of good draws for the celebration.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Euliss said.
“Who?” Nan asked.
Chapter 16
Threebuck Grabs a Catfish
“Do you know anything about this nood
lin’ for catfish?” Threebuck asked Red Randy.
“I did some when I was a kid.” Randy replied.
Red Randy and Threebuck had pulled their motorcycles in among the pickups parked against the railroad ties marking the edge of the gravel parking area. From an opening in the ties, a four foot wide path made of chat led to a park shelter—a metal roof held up by six hollow steel posts sitting on a sixteen by thirty foot concrete slab. Two aluminum picnic tables sat next to each other length-wise at one end of the shelter. Four men, two at each table, sat facing two lines of mostly men. A sign next to the path entrance declared the spot to be the Eagle Branch Access Area, and a smaller hand-made sign next to it announced,
Noodlers register here.
Starting time: Noon
The line of about thirty men stretched from the tables in the shelter, back through the shelter itself and along the path almost to the parking area.
Randy and Threebuck stayed seated astraddle their bikes. “Well, I ain’t never done it,” Threebuck said. “Never even heard of it. Course, we city kids didn’t get in a lot of fishing like you country squats. Most of our fish came in sticks.”
“You just watch me,” Randy said. “I’ll teach you everything you need to know about the sport.”
“What about our gear?” Threebuck asked. “We didn’t bring no poles or bait or nothin’. These boys gonna provide that?”
Some thick dark clouds had begun to boil upward from the northwest. Red Randy took off his aviator shades, and stuck one of the stems between his tank top and neck. He scanned the clouds. A faint rumble of thunder rolled in the distance. “You got all the bait you need, Three. Noodlin’ is hand fishing. Your fingers are the bait. Noodlin’ ain’t like sitting on the shore with a beer in one hand and a pole in the other. You got to get down in the water where they live and grab ’em. A man can get killed doing this. Catching flatheads and blues with your bare hands is dangerous. Even a seasoned noodler is likely to get bloodied up some. Them big cats got some mean teeth. And, of course, you got to be sure you don’t grab your occasional snapping turtle or water moccasin, too.”