The Deer Run Trail

by David R Lewis

  I said hello to Clarence an’ looked at the gun. “Well, it can be done,” I said, “but I don’t know if I can do it. I ain’t never done anything like makin’ a gunstock.”

  While I was talkin’, Arliss fussed with it an’ took the stock off. I looked at it for a minute, then turned to Clarence. “Can you leave it for a while?” I asked him.

  “Yessir,” he said. “It ain’t been shot or even loaded in years.”

  “I got some other stuff I gotta do that’ll take some time, but I should be able to get to it in two or three weeks. I cain’t make ya no promises I can make new stock though.”

  “You damn sure can’t hurt it none,” Clarence said.

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll take a try at it. How long you been a deputy, Clarence?”

  “Be four years this October,” he said. “I got hired on right after Arberry won the election.”

  “He’s elected? I didn’t know that. I thought he was just hired.”

  “No,” Clarence said. “He got elected near six years ago, an’ re-elected four years ago this September.’ An’ agin two years ago this September.”

  “The elections are in September?”

  “Third Thursday of the month, ever two years,” Clarence said. “Got the Fourth of July comin’ up before very long. We’ll be closin’ down two blocks of the main street. Have bingo an’ cakewalks. Box dinner an’ supper auctions, big cookout, games for the kids, shootin’ contests an’ the like. All kinds of things. Oughta be a time.”

  “Sounds like it,” Arliss said. “Lookin’ forward to it.”

  “Thanks fellers,” Clarence said. “I’ll leave ya to do whatever ya can.”

  He went ahead an’ left, an’ I caught Arliss studyin’ on me.

  “What?” I said.

  “I was about to ask you the same thing,” he said.

  “What?” I said.

  “That’s it,” he said. “What. What is goin’ on in that mind a yours?”

  I grinned at him. “What makes you think there’s somethin’ goin’ on in my mind?” I asked him.

  “’Cause I’m gittin’ nervous,” he said.

  “Well, you can git nervous all by yourself,” I told him. “I’m goin’ to work.”

  It took me near two days to finish up the cedar an’ set them windas. I had a mind to git some bricks an’ frame out a hearth for a stove, an’ maybe put a little porch outside the door an’ roof it so I’d have someplace to set in good weather, but that gunstock kept callin’ to me. I went down to the yards an’ looked around a spell. Back in a corner in some weeds I found a chunk a wood, all dark an’ moldy. It was about thirty inches long, five inches thick, an’ went around ten inches wide on one end an’ four on the other. I took it to the feller up front an’ asked about it. He said it’d been layin’ around for two or three years. It was the tag end off a piece cut for a fireplace mantle. He thought it was birdseye maple. He took two bits an’ I took it.

  That wood was hard. I spent a couple a hours fussin’ at it with my big drawknife an’ got it down to a reasonable size. Underneath all that dirt an’ mold, it was birdseye maple, sure enough. Even on a rough surface, a feller could see all the whirls an’ squiggles a grain inside that wood. I took it up to the shop an’ Arliss helped me trace the outline of the stock on it. I locked it up in the big ol’ wood vise on his bench, got my heavy copin’ saw, an’ went to work.

  It took me that evenin’ an’ all the next day to git it worked down with my rasps an’ files to where it looked like it might be a gunstock someday. It took me another day to git it all cut out an’ inletted so the rifle fit in it right snug an’ screw in tight. I cut it off about a half inch short, then worked a slice of center-cut black walnut into kindly a butt plate an’ filed it down into a shallow curve to fit on a feller’s shoulder right comfortable.

  The next mornin’ I was workin’ on it with my scrapers, takin’ that wood down to where it was as smooth as glass. I was honin’ a curved scraper on a oil stone when Arliss come back an’ dropped a coil a brass wire on the bench, an’ left. I looked at that wire, an’ then I looked at the stock, an’ then I fetched my pack of little gouges an’ cutters an’ went at it. It was the middle a the afternoon when I finished. That maple was as slick as I could git it, an’ on the right side a the stock, all fancy an’ in curlicues, was a C an’ a B for Clarence Banks inlet inta that wood in brass wire.

  I went to the Sweetwater an’ asked for a cup of strong tea. They fixed it for me, an’ I brung it back to the shop. I spent some time rubbin’ that tea on the stock an’ wipin’ it off ‘til it set in an’ that blond wood stained up some an’ the grain with them figgers an’ curlicues just popped. I give it a light rub with tongue oil, an’ took it up front. That’s when I come to find out that Arliss had been working on the gun. He slicked up that action twice more than Henry done it at the factory, an’ polished up that brass receiver til’ it gleamed. I laid the finished stock on the bench beside him.

  “Hook her up,” I said.

  He picked up that stock by the ends an’ rolled it over, looking at it. “By God, Rube!” he said. “This here is a piece a work, boy. It looks like light is just dancin’ inside that wood! I don’t believe I ever seen a more handsome thing in my life!”

  I was kindly got. “Thank ya, Arliss,” I said. “It was a terrible good piece a wood.”

  “That may be true, son,” he said, “but you turned its heart loose. A thousand dollar fiddle ain’t worth nothin’ if nobody can bow it. You played this gunstock like a violin, an’ that’s the durn truth of it.”

  Real careful like, he put the whole thing together an’ hung it on the wall. I looked out the winda an’ seen Clarence walkin’ down the other side of the street. I whistled him over. When he come in I looked at him an’ said, “it’s done.”

  He looked kindly confused, an’ Arliss pointed to the Henry where it hung on the wall. Clarence spied it an’ walked close to take a better look. He studied it for a minute, then kindly staggered back a step.

  “Oh, my,” he said, his voice sorta whispery. “Oh, my,” he said agin, then looked to me, to Arliss, an’ back to me again. “What you done?” he said.

  He stepped forward an’ studied the rifle some more. “Why, lookee there,” he said. “Them’s my initials, ain’t they?”

  “Yes, they are,” I said.

  He kindly lurched to a chair then, an’ flopped into it. He set there, his elbows on his knees, lookin’ at the floor an’ shakin’ his head. When he lifted his face to us, he had slow tears rollin’ outa his eyes.

  “I’d give a year a my life,” he said, “if my ol’ daddy could see that gun the way it is now.”

  A lump come up in my throat then, an’ Arliss got sudden busy at his bench, arrangin’ things that didn’t need to be arranged. Purty soon, Clarence snorted, wiped his face on his sleeve, an’ walked over to look at the Henry some more.

  “Arliss worked over the innards for ya,” I said. “Give it a try.”

  “I’m almost afraid to touch it,” Clarence said.

  I chuckled at that an’ he grinned at me. He looked at it a little more then eased it down off the rack like it was made outa glass. Purty soon his courage come up an’ he threw the lever a couple a times.

  “Why it don’t feel like there’s nothin’ in there at all,” he said. “It’s so smooth.”

  “Arliss is real good,” I said.

  “Fellers,” he said, “what you two done here is a miracle. It ain’t nothin’ less than a miracle.”

  He swallerd an’ settled down some, then got kindly sheepish.

  “How much does a miracle go for these days?” he asked.

  Arliss looked at me an’ I winked at him. He smiled an’ said, “ten dollars.”

  “Nossir,” Clarence said, “I cain’t give ya no ten dollars. I can give ya all I got right now. I can give ya sixteen dollars.”

  “The price is ten,” Arliss said.

  “I’ll give ya sixteen,�
� Clarence said, “or you are gonna have the best ten dollar rifle there ever was hangin’ on yer wall. I’d give you boys a hunnerd dollars if I had it, but I don’t. I do have sixteen. You’ll take that or you will keep the gun.”

  “Did I say ten?” Arliss asked. “I meant to say sixteen.”

  Clarence paid up and an’ stopped in the door with his rifle. “You fellers is damn good people,” he said. “Don’t think I don’t know that.”

  “Clarence,” I said, “next day or two, you an’ me need to talk. I think I got a proposition for ya.”

  “I’ll git with ya, Ruben,” he said, an’ left.

  I looked at Arliss. “We could use the help,” I said.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The next mornin’ I got to work on my place. I was sawin’ on one a the posts that was gonna be a corner for my porch an’ roof when this voice come up behind me.

  “By God, it’s true,” it said.

  It was Homer. I’d a knowed that voice anywhere. “What’s true?” I said, not botherin’ to turn around.

  “That there was a shavetail out here playin’ with dangerous instruments.”

  “I heer’d that they was a dangerous instrument just come to town,” I said. “One by the name a Homer Poteet.”

  “You heerd right, young’un,” he growled.

  I turned around an’ grinned at him. “Oh,” I said, “it’s only you.”

  He laughed, grabbed me by the shoulders, an’ shook me a little bit. “I leave you alone for a spell, an’ they tell me you run off an’ killed a couple a fellers. You gittin’ to be a hard man, are ya Rube?”

  “Mean as a snake,” I said.

  “It’s a mean world,” Homer said. “I also heer’d that you got me a job a work that don’t pay nothin’, but that I don’t havta work too hard at, neither.”

  “Yessir,” I said. “Over at the livery. Fella named Verlon Clarke is the smith. I believe he is a good man.”

  “Arliss mentioned that he had a daughter too. Zat right?”

  “He does,” I said.

  Homer grinned. “I felt the hickory come up in ya there, Rube,” he said. “That’s good. Feller oughta be some protectful of his woman.”

  My ears got hot. “She ain’t my woman exactly,” I said.

  “Well then,” Homer said, “mebbe I should give her a invite for a little evenin’ walk down by the riverside.”

  “Well,” I said, “if she wanted to go with ya, I reckon she would.”

  “Settle down, honey,” Homer said. “I’m just funnin’ ya. I ain’t in the habit a takin’ a run at no woman that’s spoke for, special by a feller I consider to be my friend. She purty, is she?”

  “Dammit, Homer!” I said, an’ then had to laugh.

  “Good to see ya,” Rube,” Homer said. “Damn shore is. Why doan you head on over to the livery. I’ll be along shortly.”

  I put up my saw, got back into my shirt, an’ strapped on the Schofield. “See ya over there,” I said.

  I’d gone about ten steps when Homer spoke up. “Nice hat ya got there, Rube,” he said.

  When I got to the livery, Verlon was on the forge an’ Miss Harmony was on the bellows. Verlon kept firin’ some strap iron for a minute, then took it out the coals an’ over to the anvil an’ commenced to hammerin’ on it. Miss Harmony motioned me outside so we could hear ourselves think. She smiled at me.

  “You got dirt on your nose, Ruben,” she said.

  I wiped at it. “It’s gone,” she said. “Now you’re perfect.”

  I couldn’t think a nothin’ to say, so I just grinned. She laughed.

  “Speckled pup under a red wagon,” she said. “What brings you by?”

  “Homer Poteet is in town. He’ll be here in a little bit.”

  “I see,” she said.

  “He’s a tough cob,” I said. “Ain’t no fear in him. But he’s a awful good feller, an’ he’s my friend.”

  “Point taken,” Miss Harmony said. “I imagine he’d say the same about you. I know I would, Ruben.”

  I was tryin’ to put together what she just said, when Homer come up the lane. He was on a dapple gray with the top a one ear missin’. He seen us an’ come our way, stopped the gray, got down, an’ stepped to us.

  “Miss,” he said, brimmin’ his hat real firm, “you’d be Harmony Clark, I reckon. Rube here speaks real high of you. That there is good enough for me. I’m Homer Poteet. My pleasure to make yer acquaintance.”

  “He also speaks very well of you, Mister Poteet,” Miss Harmony said. “And that is good enough for me.”

  “We keep talkin’ like this where he can hear us,” Homer said, “he ain’t gonna be able to git that good lookin’ hat on.”

  Miss Harmony laughed. “If you’ll come with me, Mister Poteet,” she said, “I will introduce you to my father.”

  They walked off toward the forge. I collected Homer’s horse an’ follerd along.

  I didn’t stay much but went on to the shop and got back to work on the porch. Arliss come out.

  “Marion come by while you was gone,” he said. “We got a meetin’ tonight.”

  He walked off then, an’ I tried to keep my mind on my work, but it took some effort.

  We was ridin’ out to Marion’s camp after dark when Homer slid back beside me. “That Harmony gal,” he said, “how old would she be?”

  “Must be this path,” I said. “Arliss asked me the same thing last time I rode out this way.”

  I could hear Homer’s grin. “What’d you tell him, Rube,” he said.

  “I tolt him I didn’t know an’ it warn’t none a my business!”

  “She seems to me like a thirty-year-old woman stuck inside a eighteen-year-old girl,” he said. “She’s steady, boy. Planted firm in her mind. That’s real rare for a young’un like she is.”

  “She ain’t much flighty,” I said. “She goes an’ gits feed in the wagon, she works the bellows for the forge, she can set a full saddle on a chin high rail, too.”

  “She thinks a passel a you, Rube.”

  “She does?” I said.

  “She shore does, boy,” Homer said. “She got me a tarp to lay down on some straw to pitch my bedroll an’ we jawed a mite. She talked some about you.”

  “What’d she say?” I asked.

  “I didn’t memorize her words, Rube. It wadden what she said as much as it was the way she said it. Women doan talk straight, boy. She’s better’n most, I’ll give ya that, but when yer talkin’ with a woman, you got to pay attention to how they say what they say more than ya do just what they say. If ya don’t, you’ll always be ridin’ drag in their dust. It’s ruint more’n one good man.”

  I thought about that quite a bit while we rode on. I don’t think I ever quite caught up to it, but I was glad Homer run it by me.

  “Try to git a little peace an’ quiet,” Marion griped after we come up on him, “an’ injuns find yer durn camp, anyways.”

  “You got a sour stomach or somethin’?” Homer asked.

  “I do now,” Marion said.

  “Maybe it’s the epizootic,” Homer said. “Maybe yer gonner die.”

  “Where is thy sting?” Marion said, an’ started to chuckle. “Well boys,” he went on, “I got your commissions an’ badges. I’ll give ‘em to ya before ya leave.”

  “You got any extras?” I asked.

  “I do,” he said. “I have two. How many you need?”

  “Maybe one,” I said. “I got my eye on a fella. One a Arberry Yont’s deputies.”

  “The hell ya say.”

  “Yessir,” I said.

  “Doan git in no hurry with him,” Marion said. “We got time. Vet him out real good.”

  “Me an’ Rube done some work for him on his daddy’s ol’ Henry,” Arliss said. “The fella said he’d give up a year a his life if his daddy could see that rifle. Had tears in his eyes. It struck me, boys, an’ that’s the truth. We’ll watch him.”

  “Be good if’n we had one a them deputies o
n our side,” Homer said.

  “Speakin’ a that,” I said, “you was a sheriff, wasn’t ya?”

  “I still am,” Homer said.

  “How long was yer term?”

  “Didn’t have no term,” he said. “I was hired by the city council, not elected.”

  “What if a fella was a elected sheriff an’ somebody run agin’ him an’ it looked like the sheriff was gonna lose. Could he go to the mayor or somethin’ an’ git his job switched over from elected to hired so he could keep workin’?”

  “He could,” Homer said, “but not unless he was more than six months away from the comin’ election. All of them kinda things is registered with the state an’ subject to state statutes.”

  “What you got goin’ on in your mind, Ruben?” Marion asked me.

  “You said once,” I said, “that it might be good if’n we figgerd a way to light a fire under Sheriff Yont. He’s stealin from the town. Everbody knows it an’ doan nobody like it none. I stopped a rape an’ two murders when I shot them fellers. It has become known that I was in on the raid on them Duncans an’ their bunch. Folks around town is very nice an’ respectful to me. We got a city celebration comin’ up for the Forth of July. What if, durin’ that celebration when a lot of the town was on hand, I was to announce that I was runnin’ for Deer Run City Sheriff?”

  “Jesus God O’mighty!” Homer said.

  “You wanna do what?” Arliss said.

  “Word has spread that I already come up agin’ Yont at the Sweetwater that night an’ backed him down a mite,” I said.

  “Boy,” Arliss said, “he’d already just as soon shoot you as eat a ham sandwich! You pull a stunt like that, an’ he’ll be on you like ugly on a Flathead!”

  “I ain’t afraid a him,” I said.

  “That there is just one a your problems,” Arliss said. “You damn sure do need to be afraid a him!”

  “Folks in Deer Run is lookin’ for relief,” I said. “Relief from him, relief from his herd a deputies, relief from his taxes an’ dues. I go in there an’ tell folks that them bluevests’ll be gone, that ever person or business will pay a tenth of what they are payin’ now to fund the Sheriff’s Department, an’ Yont’ll be out the door an’ they’ll elect me!”

  “Can’t elect no corpse,” Arliss said.