The Waltons 2 - Trouble on the Mountain

by Robert Weverka

  “Amy? Don’t think you ever did, Zeb.”

  “Prettiest little thing ever come down the pike. Black hair. Brown eyes. And a real snappy dancer. Almost married her.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Zebulon looked sadly across the table. “Died of scarlet fever. Right in the prime of life, Corny. And that little girl loved me like nobody’s business. Man can’t help wondering what things’d have turned out like ’cept for fate.”

  Cornelius nodded, then frowned thoughtfully. “That wasn’t old Lafe Kincaid’s daughter, was it? Amy Kincaid?”

  “Yep. That was her. Reckon Lafe Kincaid was about the richest man in Charlottesville. Owned the bank and ’bout half the farms in the county. Man can’t help wondering how things might have turned out if he’d done different fifty years ago.”

  Cornelius shook his head. “Streak of stupidness in that Kincaid family.”

  “How so?”

  “Lafe lost everything he had. Invested it in some kind of steam-engined aeroplane. And them other two daughters of his was about as flighty-brained as he was. Ended up in a loony-house from what I hear. Reckon that youngest one, that Amy, she was lucky she died so young.”

  Zeb straightened and blinked at the old man, not too sure he had heard exactly right. But Cornelius was staring at the table, shaking his head. “Reckon you’re lucky, Zeb, not getting mixed up with them folks. That Amy, I heard she was falling in love with about every young buck in the county. You say you knew her?”

  Zeb ignored the question. He emptied the cup, amazed at how smooth twenty-five-year-old Recipe tasted. It went down like water.

  “No,” Cornelius said, “I reckon about the prettiest girl we ever had around these parts was your Esther. Now she was really something. ‘Sissy,’ they used to call her, didn’t they?”

  “Ummh,” Zeb grunted. “’Course, being a good-looker ain’t everything, Corny.”

  “And couldn’t she dance!” Cornelius smiled. “Why, I remember her and that square dance-calling fella one night; I reckon they must have danced four, five hours without stopping. And everyone watching an’ clapping hands. Just like some kind of tent show revival meeting.” He suddenly looked up. “You remember that fella’s name?”

  “Fred Hansen,” Zeb muttered.

  “Yep, that’s it. I guess he never did get married, did he? Surprising, such a good-looking fella. Ain’t seen him around here lately.”

  Zeb put his hand to his stomach, suddenly feeling a dull ache. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea for Judge Baldwin to put a touch of cinnamon in the Recipe after all. “Well, Cornelius, I reckon I’ll be going off to bed.”

  Cornelius got his trumpet back to his ear. “How’s that?”

  “I’m much obliged for the Recipe. If you’ll show me where my bed is, I reckon I’ll be using it.”

  “Oh. Right over yonder, through that door. You feeling all right, Zeb?”

  “Not too poorly, Cornelius. I reckon it’s just been a long day. Goodnight.”

  Cornelius watched him go to the door. “Zeb?”

  “Uh huh?”

  “You never told me how come you’re sleeping over here.”

  Zeb looked at him for a minute, then scratched his head. “It’s a matter of principle, Cornelius.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, that’s good, Zeb. Glad to hear that. Goodnight to you.”

  “Maybe we could earn some money and buy another typewriting machine,” Jim-Bob suggested.

  “How can we earn enough for a typewriting machine when we can’t even pay for a Super Deluxe Beauty Kit?” Mary Ellen answered.

  The four of them walked slowly along the road, hands in pockets, kicking at rocks, the world heavy on their shoulders.

  “Maybe we could find one in a junk yard.”

  “Or maybe we could work for the Baldwin ladies, the same as Grandpa did,” Elizabeth said.

  Mary Ellen shook her head. “That ain’t no good. Mama’d have a conniption if we went anywhere near the Baldwins’ house. And there’s no way we can earn enough money to buy another typewriting machine. They probably cost over twenty dollars.”

  “Then what’re we gonna do?” Erin asked.

  Mary Ellen shook her head. That was the question, and she had no idea what the answer was.

  She had felt terrible when John-Boy told them the Baldwins’ typewriter was in one of the boxes they’d sold. But when John-Boy refused to take the dollar she felt even worse. Now, John-Boy would have to go out and tell the Baldwin ladies what had happened, and it really wasn’t even his fault.

  After breakfast this morning Mary Ellen suggested to her mother that maybe she and Erin should go out and explain everything to the Baldwin ladies. But Olivia said absolutely not—John-Boy was the one who’d borrowed the typewriting machine in the first place, and it was John-Boy who would take the consequences. Now that the electricity was back on, Olivia suggested Mary Ellen spend her time ironing her dress.

  But Mary Ellen had lost interest in the dress. She didn’t see how she could go to a dance and have any fun after what had happened. She had gone up to her room for a while. And then she’d come down and gone out the back door and headed aimlessly for the road.

  “Where you going, Mary Ellen?” Erin had called from the porch. She and Jim-Bob and Elizabeth were sitting on the steps, apparently as downcast and miserable as she was.

  “No place.”

  “Can we come along?”

  “Don’t matter to me.”

  So they had come along.

  “I don’t know what we’re going to do,” Mary Ellen said now. “All I know is I sure ain’t going to buy that Super Deluxe Beauty Kit.” The words came out almost before she realized what she was saying. But they were true. As much as she wanted the beauty kit, and as often as she had lain in bed the past week imagining how glamorous she would look with shadowy eyes and “soft, alluring” skin, she could never wear it without thinking how much it had cost John-Boy. Mary Ellen turned suddenly and sat down on the grassy shoulder of the road.

  The others stared at her for a minute and then dropped to the grass beside her. There was no need to ask her what the matter was.

  Sheriff Ep Bridges drove along the old dirt road at a leisurely pace. At times the Ford would slow down until it started bucking a little, and Ep had to shove it into second gear for a while. But he was in no hurry. In fact, if the truth were known, he would rather not get to where he was going at all.

  But Ep had sworn to uphold the law. And the law said it was illegal and punishable by a heavy fine for anyone to be shooting deer at this time of the year. Ep knew very well who was shooting deer. It was old Charlie Sneed. And he knew very well what Charlie was doing with the deer. He was taking a little of the meat for himself, and he was giving the rest of it to people around Walton’s Mountain who didn’t have enough to eat. Or else he was trading it for some of the things he needed himself, which often included a little bootleg whiskey to keep him warm when he started out early in the morning to get the deer.

  Ep Bridges chose to think of Charlie Sneed as a modern-day Robin Hood. As long as there was plenty of game in the mountains and there were people around who needed food, and as long as Charlie didn’t overdo it, Ep figured that there was no harm done. But Mrs. Elvira Bascombe had different ideas.

  Elvira had a cow and a couple of steers, and plenty of chickens, and her husband still had his job and a steady paycheck coming in from the mills down in Charlottesville. So Elvira, being well fed and not pressed with a lot of other things to do to survive, used her spare time to see that the laws of Jefferson County were strictly enforced.

  “You’re just sitting around here twiddling your thumbs,” she said when she found Ep in Ike’s store, “while that disgusting Sneed person is destroying the entire wild life of Walton’s Mountain!”

  “I ain’t exactly twiddling my thumbs, Elvira. Matter of fact, right now I’m playing pool.”

  “Don’t get smart with me, Ep Bridges! Don’t you forget
I knew you when you was begging for a job cleaning pigpens. And don’t you forget, we’ve got elections around here, and I’m not without influence among the voters of Walton’s Mountain.”

  If it got right down to it, Ep guessed that the people Charlie Sneed was helping out would count for a lot more votes than Elvira could influence. On the other hand, if it could be helped, there was no point in ruffling Elvira’s feathers.

  “You actually see Charlie Sneed out there shooting deer, Elvira?”

  “I don’t need to see him. It’s common knowledge he’s sneaking out there and killing those poor animals.”

  “Well, Elvira, it sure enough surprises me that Charlie would do a thing like that. And you can bet I’ll look into it. That is, if I’m not too busy with my other official duties.”

  “Your official duties certainly don’t include playing pool, Ep Bridges, and I would suggest you look into it immediately.”

  “You mean right now?”

  “This very minute.”

  There was no point in arguing. And standing there with a pool cue in his hand made it hard for him to claim he was hard pressed by other official duties. So Ep had agreed with her wholeheartedly that the matter did, after all, seem to be urgent. But once he got into his car and was out of sight of Elvira, he had let the Ford slow down to a crawl.

  It was only a little after eleven o’clock in the morning right now. Getting up so early, Charlie Sneed never tired himself by doing any hunting after twelve. So if Ep took it real slow, and maybe made a couple of stops on the way, there was a good chance that no matter how conscientious he was, and no matter how much he agreed with Elvira that the matter was of the utmost concern, it was very possible that even an officer of his skill and experience might not be able to perform his duty. The only thing Ep feared was that today—just maybe—old Charlie Sneed just might be late, and he just might meet him coming down this road with a dead deer slung over the hood of his truck. In that case, Ep would have no choice but to arrest him.

  With an arm resting on the door and the other hand casually guiding the car over the ruts and potholes, Ep thought about all this and smiled grimly to himself. There was a lot more to sheriffing than people like Elvira Bascombe could ever really know. Sometimes a man had to put himself in another man’s place. And that often required Ep Bridges not only to be an officer of the law but a judge, jury and about four kinds of social worker as well. Sometimes doing all that wasn’t so easy. Ep nodded, agreeing with that conclusion, and then peered sharply at the road up ahead.

  Was that some of the Walton kids sitting there beside the road? Yes, it was—the three girls, and the youngest boy, Jim-Bob. Ep gave the throttle a little spurt and then let the car coast to a stop beside them.

  “Hey, Waltons. How’s it going?”

  They were about the saddest looking group Ep could remember seeing. They murmured greetings, but there wasn’t much life in them.

  “The world coming to an end or something?” he asked.

  “It might as well,” Mary Ellen said.

  “We sold the Baldwins’ typewriting machine by mistake,” Elizabeth added.

  “Yeah, your daddy was telling me about that. He never found Jake Levy, huh?”

  “He found him all right. But Mr. Levy sold the machine to some other junk man, and he took it to Pennsylvania or somewhere in Florida.”

  “That a fact?”

  Ep understood the problem. He knew about as well as anyone what those two old ladies thought about their papa’s possessions.

  “Sheriff Bridges,” Jim-Bob suddenly asked, “are you a detective?”

  Ep smiled. “Well, now, sometimes I got to act like a detective. I guess being the only law officer around I got to do about everything.”

  “We need a detective to find that typewriting machine.”

  The other children looked anxiously at him.

  “Well, now, I don’t know,” Ep said. “I’m not too sure that’s in my jurisdiction. I mean, inasmuch Jake lives down in Charlottesville, and you don’t know exactly where the typewriting machine is right now.”

  Mary Ellen jumped to her feet. “Could you help us, Sheriff? That typewriting machine’s got to be somewhere, and we just got to find it.”

  Ep looked down the road and considered the question. Maybe stretching it just a little bit, a person could call something like this official business. After all, a very valuable piece of property was missing, and he had sworn to protect life and property. Even Elvira Bascombe should be able to understand that. He smiled. “Sure. I reckon we could give it a try. Why don’t you kids hop on in the car here and we’ll see what we can do.”

  Mary Ellen had never been in a real police station. In Charlottesville, after they parked the car, she followed Ep Bridges through the door, and the other children edged in close behind her. Just inside, there was a uniformed officer sitting at a desk, but her eyes immediately darted to the far corner where an unshaven man sat on a wooden bench wearing handcuffs. He was a big ferocious-looking man, and he was glaring directly back at her. A murderer? A kidnapper? Mary Ellen stayed cautiously behind Ep Bridges so the man couldn’t get a clear view of her.

  “Hey, Ep,” the officer at the desk grinned, “you round up a bunch of criminals there? That’s a pretty tough-looking mob.” He was a white-haired man with friendly blue eyes.

  “Hey, Sam. Nope. These are some of the Waltons.”

  “The Daltons! You captured the Dalton gang? Say, we been looking for you desperadoes for a long time.”

  The others smiled, but Elizabeth didn’t appreciate the joke.“Waltons!” she said fiercely. “It starts with a W.”

  “Oh, the Walton gang. Well, that’s different. How you doing, kids?”

  Mary Ellen couldn’t help liking the man. He reached over the desk and shook hands with all of them, asking each his name and age. But the handcuffed man in the far corner still disturbed her. He had shifted on the bench so he was facing them directly, and he was crouched forward as if he were ready to leap across the room.

  “Hey, Sam,” Sheriff Bridges asked, “you know a junk man who comes through town here sometimes? Name’s Davidson?”

  “Joe Davidson? Sure. What about him?”

  Ep told the whole story, but the man only frowned and shook his head. Then, after he thought about it for a minute he leaned over where he could see through an open door. “Hey, Les?”

  A younger officer came out to the reception room. He grinned when he saw Sheriff Bridges. “Hey, Ep, how’s it going? Ain’t seen you for a long time.”

  They shook hands, and the officer behind the desk asked, “Hey, Les, didn’t you stop old Joe Davidson when he was going through town the other day?”

  “Sure did. He had so much junk piled on that truck of his it was dropping off on the road.”

  “Did you see the Baldwin sisters’ typewriting machine?” Elizabeth blurted out.

  Ep Bridges explained the problem and the officer nodded. “You know, I got up there in the truck with Joe—to help him tighten up that load—and you know, there was a couple of wooden boxes at the back. I remember Joe was gonna move them but then he stopped for a minute, staring at one of them. He said, ‘Look at that—some of the things folks throw away these days.’ It was a typewriter. A real old one.”

  Mary Ellen’s hopes rose. “What’d he do with it?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, he took it up front in the cab with him.”

  “Was he leaving town when you stopped him?” Ep asked.

  “No, he was coming in from Jake’s place. But I reckon he could have gone right on through after I stopped him.”

  Mary Ellen and the others watched Sheriff Bridges, hoping this information was giving him some kind of clue. But Ep only frowned and rubbed his chin.

  “You know something,” the man behind the desk said, “it would seem to me that if a man found himself with a typewriter he couldn’t use, and he wanted to make a little money on it instead of hauling it all over the cou
ntry, I think he’d just sell it as fast as possible.”

  “Makes sense,” Ep said. “But who to?”

  “Well, maybe a place that repairs typewriters. Or maybe a place that uses a lot of typewriters.”

  “Harvey Foreman,” the other officer said. “He’s the only one I know that sells used typewriters and does a big repair business.”

  The officer behind the desk was already dialing his phone. But it was no good. The man hadn’t bought any typewriters for weeks.

  “How about Lyle Arnold?” he said when he hung up. “He’s got a lot of girls typing over there at his print shop.”

  “Worth a try.”

  The officer dialed and asked the same questions again. Suddenly he grinned. “You did? From Joe Davidson? Have you got it there now?” The grin faded as quickly as it had come. “Oh. Yeah, I see. Could you give me his number?” He listened for a minute and wrote some numbers on a pad. “Okay, thanks, Lyle.”

  “They had it, all right,” he said when he hung up. “The office manager bought it from Davidson. But Lyle said it was so old it wasn’t much good to them. He gave it to the night janitor.”

  “Can we call him?” Mary Ellen asked.

  The officer tore the sheet off his pad.

  “The man ain’t got a phone, but here’s his address.”

  Mary Ellen could hardly believe it. While Sheriff Bridges drove, she held the slip with the address, trying to control her excitement. She could imagine the look on John-Boy’s face when they came driving up to the house with the Sheriff—and got out of the car with the typewriter. And probably the happiest of all would be her mother.

  “This must be it,” Ep finally said. He pulled over to the curb in front of an old wooden house. They all tumbled out and hurried up the walk.

  The woman who answered didn’t open the screen door. She stood behind it listening to Sheriff Bridges’ story with a bored look on her face.

  “Yes, I had that old typewriter,” she finally said. “I had it for about ten minutes—just long enough until I heard the junk man coming by. Alex gave it to me for a birthday present. Now, what kind of a birthday present is an old thing like that? At least I got two dollars for it.”