The Waltons 2 - Trouble on the Mountain

by Robert Weverka

  The

  Waltons

  TROUBLE ON THE MOUNTAIN

  A BRAND-NEW ADVENTURE

  WITH JOHN-BOY AND

  THE WHOLE WALTON CLAN

  School was out for summer.

  John-Boy, starting a career as a magazine writer, had everybody on the mountain rooting for him.

  Then he and Grandpa got caught up in an innocent little secret that got way out of hand.

  One lie led to another.

  And a crisis developed that nearly destroyed the happiest family on Walton’s Mountain.

  JOHN-BOY’S PAINFUL CONFESSION

  “Did you finally get your story all typed up, John-Boy?”

  “Yes’m, I did, but . . .”

  Miss Mamie lifted her hands and brought them together. “Then you’ll be bringing the machine back! John-Boy, we just can’t tell you how happy that’s going to make us.”

  Miss Emily sighed with relief. “John-Boy, we’re going to tell you a little secret. You know that day you and your granddaddy walked out of here with Papa’s machine? Well, I declare, the minute after you were gone, sister and I were just ever so upset about what we had done. But we finally said to each other—that John-Boy Walton is just the very soul of responsibility, and Papa’s typewriting machine will be as safe in his hands as it is in our very own house.”

  “Miss Mamie, Miss Emily,” John Boy said quickly, “I’ve lost the typewriting machine.”

  Bantam Books by Robert Weverka

  GRIFF

  MOONROCK

  SEARCH

  THE STING

  THE WALTONS

  THE WALTONS: TROUBLE ON THE MOUNTAIN

  THE WALTONS: TROUBLE ON THE MOUNTAIN

  A Bantam Book / published August 1975

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1975 by Bantam Books, Inc.

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. For information address: Bantam Books, Inc.

  Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayed of a bantam, is registered in the United States Patent Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, Inc., 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10019.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  THE

  WALTONS

  TROUBLE ON THE MOUNTAIN

  I

  The change from spring to summer that year was barely perceptible in Walton’s Mountain. After the last stray patches of snow had melted and gone, and the bright sunlight brought forth the rich greens and blossoming colors and crisp fragrances of spring, summer followed with a lazy, burgeoning warmth.

  School was out. With a mixture of relief and misgiving, Miss Hunter dismissed her class on the final day, and the twenty-seven children tumbled into the sunshine and laughed and skipped, and teased and chattered. Ahead of them lay two and a half months of barefoot days and unencumbered freedom. Another session of school had passed, and except for Christmas, the best time of the year had come again.

  For the adults of Walton’s Mountain, the time was not so joyous. The prospects of the farmers marketing their crops appeared to be the worst in years. Cotton was selling for less than a nickel a pound. Corn and hogs and cattle were not selling at all. But still there was hope. Things would change. It seemed impossible that they could get any worse, and so long as a man could feed his family and hang on for a bit longer, there was bound to be some kind of improvement. It was a difficult year—perhaps the most trying of all in that turbulent and uneasy period called the Depression—and the personal stresses and strains that came with the daily hardships sometimes revealed themselves in odd and humorous, and sometimes tragic, ways.

  In the Walton family, the first two weeks of summer brought a series of misunderstandings that escalated into what seemed like the most serious crisis they had ever faced. The idea that Grandpa and Grandma might suddenly become stricken with jealous feelings toward each other was inconceivable to the other members of the family. And even more ridiculous was the thought that Grandpa might pack his bags and leave home. But it happened. Grandpa’s efforts to help John-Boy with a problem inevitably were misinterpreted. And for John-Boy, Grandpa’s help also led to a disaster of shattering proportions. But like most misadventures, this one started innocently enough.

  On the last day of school before vacation, John-Boy, along with the twenty-six other students, cleaned out his desk. The textbooks that belonged to the school were piled on the long table at the front of the class, the blackboards were wiped clean, and then, when three o’clock finally came, Miss Hunter smiled and wished them all a pleasant vacation.

  “Bye, Miss Hunter!” they called as they rushed happily for the door. “Have a nice summer!” “See you in September!”

  She held the door open, smiling at some of them, giving words of encouragement to others, until only John-Boy was moving toward the door.

  “John-Boy, I hope you hear from Collier’s Magazine very soon. And I hope you write lots more stories this summer.”

  “I’ll try, Miss Hunter. And I hope you have a nice summer too.”

  “It’ll come, John-Boy, and I’m sure it’s going to be good news. And you be sure to let me know when you hear.”

  “I will, Miss Hunter.”

  Except for John-Boy’s brothers and sisters, most of the children bolted directly for home. But Jason and Ben were sitting on a log next to the road while the others stood impatiently.

  “You coming with us, John-Boy?” Mary Ellen asked. “Or you going over to Ike’s?”

  “I reckon I’ll go on over to Ike’s. Tell Mama I’ll be along directly.”

  “I think your story got lost in the mail,” Jason said skeptically. “I don’t think you’re ever going to hear from that magazine.”

  “I’ll bet it’s there right now,” Erin countered. “I’ll bet Ike’s got it, and I’ll bet he’s waiting out on his front steps for John-Boy to come.”

  “How much you want to bet?”

  “Mama’s waiting for you. You kids get on home now,” John-Boy said, and headed off toward Ike’s.

  John-Boy couldn’t blame Jason for his cynicism. In the past two weeks he too had seriously considered the possibility of the story having been lost in the mail. He had also considered the possibility of a train wreck, or a fire at the New York City post office, or maybe even someone at Collier’s Magazine having inadvertantly dropped the manuscript into a wastebasket. There was even the possibility they didn’t like the story at all and had simply thrown it away.

  But each day John-Boy’s hopes had risen as he walked down to Ike’s. Sooner or later something had to come, and maybe this was the day. But each time Ike had searched through the mail again, and each time he had shaken his head. “Sorry, John-Boy. Maybe tomorrow.”

  So John-Boy had finally resigned himself to the realities. And like today, he had cautioned himself against any undue optimism.

  “It’ll come, John-Boy, and I’m sure it’s going to be good news.”

  John-Boy smiled as he reflected on Miss Hunter’s encouraging words. If it hadn’t been for her, the manuscript would probably be buried somewhere in his desk drawer at home.

  “It’s a superb story, John-Boy,” she said when he showed it to her three weeks ago. “It’s beautifully written, and very moving. I wouldn’t change a word of it.”

  He had been amazed by her reaction. Until then his writing had been limited to brief notes and anecdotes about the family that he had put into his journal with no particular eff
ort at organization. When he tried to put some of them into the form of a story, he had expected her to suggest all kinds of changes.

  “What are you going to do with it?” she asked.

  That question had been even more surprising. “I don’t know. Put it away in a drawer, I guess.”

  “What in the world for? Who’s ever going to enjoy it there? I think you should submit it to a magazine—try to get it published.”

  John-Boy had broken some kind of a speed record getting home from school that day. And when he told the whole family what Miss Hunter said, the reaction was as if they had won the Irish Sweepstakes.

  “You mean she thinks they’ll print it?” his father asked, “and they’ll pay you money for it?”

  “That’s what she said, Daddy.”

  “With your name right on it?” Grandpa asked.

  “You’ll be famous, John-Boy!” Jim-Bob exclaimed. “We’ll all be famous!”

  And so the next day, after John-Boy had laboriously copied over the story to make every word neat and clear, all of his brothers and sisters had marched down to Ike Godsey’s store with him. The manuscript and its envelope had been carefully weighed, Ike had affixed twelve cents’ worth of stamps, and then it was placed in the canvas bag bound for Richmond.

  Once it was picked up from Ike’s store, mail took only one day to get to Richmond. From there, assuming it was handled promptly, it was only an overnight train trip to New York City. It was conceivable that John-Boy’s manuscript could have been delivered to Collier’s Magazine within twenty-four hours from the time it was mailed. Then, allowing a full day for an editor to read it, it was conceivable that a reply could be in the mail and back at Ike’s only two days later—a total elapsed time of only four or five days. John-Boy had made his first visit to Ike’s on the third day. He experienced no great disappointment then, nor on the following two days. But after a week, and then another week, his hopes had sagged considerably.

  Someday a letter would come, he had decided. But just as during the first week when every day he had been certain it would be waiting for him, he was just as certain now that it wouldn’t be there.

  The worst part of it, John-Boy reflected now as he walked along the shoulder of the dirt road, was that he found it impossible to write anything more while he was waiting for a reply. As quickly as he got out his notepad and pen each night, instead of thinking about things that might have happened during the day and might be worthwhile recording, his thoughts inevitably drifted off to the imaginary offices of Collier’s Magazine, where his manuscript might be resting at that very moment. Or he thought about the ways he might have improved the story—a different word here, and maybe a different ordering of the events. In the end he always returned the pad to his desk without having written anything.

  Now, John-Boy smiled ruefully to himself and wondered if all writers went through such confusing and frustrating agonies. Or to be successful did a writer need a stronger temperament than he possessed? Whatever the answer, John-Boy wasn’t too sure he could stand this kind of torment every time he finished a story.

  He smiled again when he came in sight of Ike Godsey’s store. If Erin had made the bet with Jason, she would have lost. Ike was not out on his front porch waiting for John-Boy to come. Sheriff Bridges’ patrol car was parked over at the side of the building, but there was not a soul in sight. Under the warm afternoon sun, Ike’s store looked as sleepy and silent as ever.

  John-Boy always liked the smell of leather and pickles and oil and sawdust inside the store. And the cool temperature was a pleasant change from the blazing sun outside.

  “Hey, John-Boy,” Ike said, “how you getting along?”

  John-Boy had expected Ike and Ep Bridges to be playing pool in the back. But apparently they were just shooting the breeze; Ike behind the counter and Ep Bridges leaning on a display of pocketknives.

  John-Boy smiled. “Ike. Sheriff.”

  “Glad to see I got a customer,” Ike smiled. “Business’s been pretty slow today. What can I do for you?”

  John-Boy shoved his hands in his back pockets and shrugged. “Well, I guess I’m not really a customer, Ike. Just thought I’d drop by and see if there’s any mail.”

  Sheriff Bridges smiled. “You know what you ought to do, Ike, is make people buy something before you check their mail.”

  “Sounds like a good idea to me. But I reckon Uncle Sam wouldn’t go for it much.” Ike made no move toward the caged room that represented the post office. “Sure you don’t want to buy something, John-Boy? I just got some nice flowery dress material in from Raleigh. Your mother might like that.”

  “No thanks, Ike.”

  Ike nodded and moved slowly away from the cash register. “Well, I guess it’s my bounden duty as postmaster to take a look here.” He brought out a packet of letters and went slowly through them. “Well now, here’s a letter for Jake Cruikshank from the Fidelity Accident and Insurance Company up in Philadelphia. I don’t guess you’ll be going past Jake’s house on your way home, will you, John-Boy?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad. Well, let’s see here.” He held another letter up and squinted at the address. “No, that’s not for you. Looks like Eunice Brooks’ cousin’s handwriting.” He thumbed through the rest of the letters. “Nope . . . nope . . . nope, none of them is addressed to you, John-Boy.”

  John-Boy nodded and watched him return the packet to the cage. “Well, thanks, Ike.”

  “That’s all right, John-Boy. I’m sorry, but that’s all the regular-sized letters I got in today.”

  John-Boy started to turn away but then turned sharply back. “Regular-sized letters?” Both Ike and Ep Bridges were grinning from ear to ear as if they had just pulled off the biggest practical joke of the year. John-Boy’s heart leaped with sudden hope. “It came, didn’t it, Ike!”

  “What came?”

  “My letter! Come on, Ike!”

  “Well, now, John-Boy, let’s see here. I did get something that might be for you. But I don’t know as I’d exactly call it a letter. It’s in this big brown envelope.” He reached under the counter and brought it out.

  “Give me it, Ike!”

  Ike stepped back. “Now, wait just a minute, John-Boy. I’m postmaster here, and it’s my solemn duty to be sure everything is delivered to the right and proper person.”

  “Aw, come on, Ike.” John-Boy tried to look angry, but his heart was pounding wildly, and inside he was too happy and excited to be convincing.

  “Now here in the corner,” Ike said, holding up the envelope, “it says Col-ee-yers Magazine. Now from that it’s hard to tell what’s inside, ain’t it? Most likely a magazine, I reckon.”

  “That’d be my guess,” Ep Bridges nodded.

  “And it’s addressed to Mr. John Walton, Jr., care of Rural Delivery, Walton’s Mountain, Virginia. Now, John-Boy, have you got any identification to prove you’re John Walton, Jr.?”

  “Ike, I swear I’m going to jump across this counter in a minute.”

  Ike held up a hand. “Now, there’s no need for that, John-Boy. Sheriff, do you know for sure if this young fella is John Walton, Jr.?”

  John-Boy knew there was no point in fighting it. They would carry on with the game until it got boring. But he ached to get his hands on that envelope. It had come! It had honest to God come!

  “Well,” Ep said, “he certainly looks like John Walton, Jr. But, of course, I’ve found that all them famous writers look pretty much alike.”

  “Shall we give it to him?” Ike asked.

  Ep smiled. “Well, Ike, I think maybe we’d better. Otherwise I kind of suspect I’m going to be arresting John-Boy here for homicide in a minute.”

  Ike grinned and handed it over. “There you are, John-Boy. Come in about eleven this morning.”

  John-Boy just held it for a minute, feeling it, looking from the printed return address to his name typed across the middle, and then back to the return address. Whatever was inside was thick and b
ulky. Contracts maybe? Miss Hunter said that before they sent a check all kinds of contracts had to be signed.

  “Well,” Ike smiled, “ain’t you going to open it?”

  John-Boy was tempted. More than anything else in the world he wanted to know what was inside that envelope. But Jason and Jim-Bob and Mary Ellen and Erin and Ben and Elizabeth had all come with him to mail the story off. And he suspected his mother and father and Grandpa and Grandma would have come too if they hadn’t felt silly doing it.

  John-Boy shook his head. “No, I think I’ll take it home.”

  Their smiles faded, but Ike quickly recovered. “Well, John-Boy, I reckon you’re right. Your family ought to be the first to hear the good news.”

  “John-Boy,” Ep smiled, following him to the door. “You be sure to let us know. We got a famous writer here in Walton’s Mountain, we got a right to know about it.”

  Jim-Bob and Elizabeth were the first to see John-Boy coming. From the porch they saw him round the bend. And then, suddenly, he was grinning, waving the big envelope in the air as he broke into a run. Within half a minute they had spread the news, and from the sawmill, the kitchen and the upstairs bedrooms there were squeals and shouts, and everybody was converging on the front porch.

  “What’s it say, John-Boy?!”

  “Did they send a check?!”

  “Let’s see it!”

  John-Boy held the envelope over his head and made his way through the crowd. “I haven’t opened it yet.”

  “Open it, John-Boy, open it!”

  “Hurry!”

  “Okay,” John-Boy’s father shouted over the chaos. “Let’s all go into the living room and sit down!”

  It took several minutes for everyone to get settled. Olivia and Grandma and the three girls crowded onto the sofa. The others found chairs or flopped on the floor close to John-Boy. When there was finally silence, his father surveyed the crowd and grinned. “Okay, John-Boy.”

  “When did it come, John-Boy?” Erin asked.

  “About eleven o’clock this morning, Ike said.”