The Hills Remember

by James Still

  “Rid the rascals,” she shrilled to Dee Buck. “Are ye afraid? Are ye man enough?”

  Godey scoffed, “He’ll huff and he’ll puff—all he ever does. He might as well feed the hound a sup of gas and get traveling.”

  Dee Buck blustered, “I’ve had a bait of you fellers. I’m offering you a chance to leave of your own free will.”

  “Collar and drag ’em off,” Old Liz taunted. “A coward, are ye?”

  “Anybody spoiling to tussle,” Godley challenged, “well, let ’em come humping.”

  Dee Buck flared, “Listen, you devils, I can put a quietus on you and not have to soil my hands. My opinion, you’ll not want to be aboard when I pull into town. I can draw up at the courthouse and fetch the Law in two minutes.”

  “Sic a sheriff on us,” Godey said, “and you’ll wish to your heart you hadn’t. We paid to ride this dog.”

  “Walk off and I’ll return your fares.”

  “Now, no.”

  “I won’t wait all day.”

  “Dynamite couldn’t budge us.”

  Dee Buck swept his cap onto his head. He changed gear, readying to leave. “I’m willing to spare you and you won’t have it.”

  “Drive on, big buddy.”

  The bus started and Old Liz flounced angrily in her seat. She turned her back and didn’t look ’round until we got to Roscoe.

  We crossed two bridges. We passed Hilton and Chunk Jones’s sawmill and Gayheart and Thorne. Beyond Thorne the highway began to rise. We climbed past the bloom of coal veins and tipples of mines hanging the slope; we mounted until we had gained the saddle of the gap and could see Roscoe four miles distant. Godey and Mal cut up the whole way, no longer trying to behave. They hailed newcomers with, “Take a seat and sit like you were at home, where you ought to be,” and sped the departers, “I’ll see you later, when I can talk to you straighter.” The twins left at Cowen and Godey shouted, “Good-bye, dirty ears. Recollect I done you a favor.” We rolled through the high gap and on down the mountain.

  I nursed my hurt and sulked, and eventually Godey growled, “I want to know, did you come along just to pout?”

  “You’ve fixed us,” I accused bitterly, and I openly covered my crippled arm.

  Godey scoffed, “Dee Buck can’t panic me. You watch him turn good-feller by the time we reach town, watch him unload in the square the same as usual. Aye, he knows what suits his hide.” He grabbed loose my arm and his fist shot out.

  It was too much. My face tore up, my lips quivered and tears smeared my cheeks. Godey stared in wonder. His mouth fell open. Mal took my part, rebuking him, “No use to injure a person.”

  “I don’t give knocks I can’t take myself,” Godey said; and he invited, “Pay me double. Hit me a rabbit lick, I don’t care. Make me see lightning.” He leaned forward and bared his neck.

  I wiped the shameful tears, thinking to join no more in Godey’s game.

  “Whap him and even up,” Mal said. “We’re nearly to the bottom of the mountain.”

  “Level up with me,” said Godey, “or you’re no crony of mine. You’ll not run with my bunch.”

  I shook my head.

  “Hurry,” said Mal. “I see town smoking.”

  I wouldn’t.

  Mal advised Godey, “Nettle him. Speak a thing he can’t let pass. Make him mad.”

  Godey said, “Know what I’m in the opinion of? Hadn’t it been for Mal and me you’d let Dee Buck bounce you off the bus and never lifted a finger. You’d have turned chicken.”

  “I’d not,” I gulped.

  “Jolt him,” Mal urged. “What I’d do.”

  “You’re a chicken leg,” Godey said, “and everybody akin to you is a chicken leg, and if you’re yellow enough to take that I’ll call you ‘Chicken Leg’ hereinafter.”

  I couldn’t get around Godey. Smite him I must, and I gripped a fist and struck as hard as I could in close quarters, mauling his shoulder.

  “Is that your best?” he belittled. “Anyhow, didn’t I call for a rabbit lick? Throw one and let me feel it; throw one, else you know your name.” Again he leaned and exposed his neck.

  “He’s begging,” Mal incited.

  I would satisfy him, I resolved, and I half rose to get elbowroom. I swung mightily, the edge of my hand striking the base of his skull. I made his head pitch upward and thump the seat board in front; I made his teeth grate. “That ought to do,” I blurted.

  Godey walled his eyes and clenched his jaws. He began to gasp and strain and flounder. His arms lifted, clawing the air. Tight as we were wedged the seat would barely hold him. Mal was ready to back up a sham and he chortled, “Look, you good people, if you want to see a feller croak.” None bothered to glance.

  Then Mal and me noticed the odd twist of Godey’s neck. We saw his lips whiten, his ears turn tallow. His tongue waggled to speak and could not. And of a sudden we knew and sat frozen. We sat like posts while he heaved and pitched and his soles rattled the floor and his knees banged the forward seat. He bucked liked a spoiled nag. . . . He quieted presently. His arms fell, his hands crumpled. He slumped and his gullet rattled.

  We rode on. The mountain fell aside and the curves straightened. The highway ran a beeline. We crossed the last bridge and drew into Roscoe, halting in the square. Dee Buck stood at the door while the passengers alighted, and all hastened except Old Liz and us. Old Liz ordered over her shoulder, “Go on ahead. I’ll not trust a set of jaspers coming behind me.” We didn’t move. She whirled and her eyes lit on Godey. She sputtered “What’s the matter with him?”

  Mal opened his mouth numbly. “He’s doing no good,” he said.

  The Fun Fox

  The day I opened the Keg Branch School I rolled my sleeves to display my muscles, and I kept a pointing-stick handy.

  Keg Branch was in the upper part of the county—“the jumping-off-place,” some folk call it. The highway played out miles this side, and the creek bed served as the road. The behavior at the school was notorious; but I was eighteen, anxious to undertake my first teaching job, and the Keg Branch position was the only one open.

  The superintendent of county schools had given me ample warning. “All sorts of chicanery will be attempted,” he had said, “even to riding you on a rail. Yet my rule is: a rail ride is a discharge, for a teacher must stay master. And an old citizen may plague this term—one I angered by my refusal to authorize a new schoolhouse. The building is in bad condition, I’m bound to admit. Still, I’ll not sanction another until the children mend their ways. He swore he’d bring a fool’s look to somebody’s face.”

  “The children won’t wrap me around their thumbs,” I had boasted, “and I’ll get at the root of the trouble. I’ll stand shy of the old fellow.”

  “They’ve run off even experienced teachers,” the superintendent had explained, “but I feel I should give you a trial, in spite of my doubt you can last. Prove me wrong if you can, and hang on at least until I find a substitute.”

  The surprise that greeted me when I arrived on Keg Branch took me aback. The schoolhouse was brand-new! It sat on the foundation of the old one, upon a wedge of land between a cliff and a swamp and the creek, with scarcely space, as the saying goes, to swing a hungry cat. My surprise was so great that the lack of a playground didn’t strike me at once. At Argus Bagley’s, where the teacher customarily lodged, I expressed my astonishment over the building.

  Argus explained, “Up until a few sessions ago, the discipline of the scholars was fair, but for some reason it worsened. They’ve turned the school into a hurrah’s nest. We rebuilt in the expectation it might improve matters.”

  I inquired, “Why was it done without the county’s support and knowledge?”

  Argus chuckled. “Ever hear of Mace Crownover?”

  I shook my head, wondering.

  “Well, you’re in his territory,” Argus said. “The new building was his notion, and when the superintendent refused to help, the community humored Mace by providing lumber and labor.
What Mace wants he usually gets.”

  Then I knew. “I’ve heard mention of Crownover,” I said. “He’s got the superintendent fooled, certainly.”

  “Confounding folks is Old Mace’s trade,” Argus said. “What that fun fox will do is beyond guessing. Still, he’s not so feisty as he used to be, not so ready with pranking and telling tales. Declares his wife is beginning to draw a tight rein and that he’s on the borders of swearing off tricks and tales for life. No matter. If ever you cross his path, keep your eyes skinned.”

  “I understand he’s apt to make my job the harder,” I said.

  “Oh I reckon not,” Argus said. “Yet I doubt he’d let pass a chance to hocus any person. Always up to mischief, that’s his history. Why, right now he has a forty-dollar collect package in the post office and he vows he’ll clear it. He’ll clear it, says he, and I’d swear he hasn’t a cent to his pocket. A trick, I’d bet my ears.”

  “What does the package contain?” I inquired, mildly curious.

  Argus grinned. “He says it’s for him to know and for us to find out.”

  Forty-eight children, raging in age from six to sixteen, from tads in the primer to overgrown eighth-graders, attended school the first day, and they came with eyes gleaming. They acted as I’d been told to expect. Spitballs rained, erasers zoomed, tricks were rife. Antics were pulled under my very nose, though catch a body I could not. Unwittingly I wore a sign on my back: “Hello the rabbit!” They laughed when I flexed my arms, when I whistled the pointing-stick, when I threatened or scolded. A good thing Mace Crownover didn’t show up, for I already had my hands full.

  The next day, I learned I was truly in for a bug race. A chair collapsed under me, soot blackened my fingers when I reached into a crayon box, the pointing-stick broke when I lifted it. Wasps in my lunch basket stung me, and the water in the well turned inky.

  Again I caught nobody at mischief—none save a primer child sewing together the pockets of a coat I’d hung on a peg. Bad deportment to the contrary, the children were eager and bright at their studies, and they were respectful toward the new building, neither marking nor scarring it. At recess and at noon they jostled in the small area before the door. There was no room for even marble games or hopscotch, and I gazed covetously at Argus Bagley’s posted land across the creek. Argus was the principal landowner in the section.

  They kept me walking on pencils the week long, and such was my torment I almost forgot about Mace Crownover. Thorns were in my chair, cockleburs in my pockets, a fresh bouquet of sneezeweeds atop my desk daily. My hat was regularly glued to the wall, and a greased plank sprawled me twice. Yet the scamps were cunning enough to escape detection.

  However, on Thursday afternoon I found a clue to their misbehavior. A student read a theme, which began: “A man bought a horse off Mace Crownover. The critter was blue or green or purple. You couldn’t tell which. You couldn’t learn till rain washed away the pokeberry and madder dye. The beast was gray. Gray as teeth.”

  The children listened, eyes round and mouths ajar. At the completion one said, “Old Mace’s tricks are the best a-going.”

  And another chirruped, “Ought to hear him tale-tell. He can spin them from now till Sunday, and every word the truth.”

  I thought, Ah-ha, so it’s Crownover’s example they’re following. I hushed them abruptly and would permit no further mention of him. The children took it ill. They batted their eyes at each other and closed their textbooks with a snap. They acted as though the final day of the term had come.

  And Friday morning, on opening the door, I discovered a fence rail leaning in a corner.

  I knew by now I couldn’t fend off four-dozen children. The eighth-graders alone could handle me. But come what may, I’d not surrender without a tussle. I’d stick till the last pea hopped out of the pod. I ignored the rail, feigning not to see it, and I schemed to delay the reckoning. I conducted a three-hour spelling bee—spelling was their delight. I skipped recess and held the lunch period indoors, in the meantime reading to them from Tom Sawyer. I read all afternoon, and they could not tear their ears away. Thus I squeezed through till closing.

  In the evening, while I was cudgeling my mind to decide what to do Monday, Argus brought a message. He reported: “Old Mace announces he’ll clear the package at the post office tomorrow, and he’s inviting the doubters to come witness it. Says he wants the schoolteacher there in particular.”

  I replied bitterly, “He’s setting the stage for a hoax.”

  Argus chuckled, “That fox would saw off a toe for a laugh. He’s the cat’s beard.”

  “In my opinion,” I blurted, “he’s the downfall of the Keg Branch School.”

  Argus jerked his chin, surprised at my accusation, and he defended Crownover. “Had it not been for him, you’d be teaching in a shack,” he said. “Squirrels used to steal the lunches through the cracks. Come a high wind, shingles scattered like leaves. Walk the floor, you made a noise like a nest of crickets.”

  To argue would serve no purpose, I decided. I smothered my rancor and said, “The package doesn’t concern me.”

  “A trick, naturally,” Argus said, “and he may pull it on you. Nevertheless, be on hand and show you’re not bluffed out. Remember that courage goes a long way in this community.”

  Though tempted, I said, “I’ve borne enough misdoings for one week.”

  “Humor the old gent,” Argus advised. “I’ll go along and start him talking so he won’t rack you too heavy. Go, and count it a part of your education.”

  The post office occupied a corner of the general store just above the schoolhouse. Saturday morning early, when Argus and I arrived, the counters and feedbags and barrels were covered with men, and the crowd overflowed onto the porch. Argus found a seat on a sack of salt, and Zack Tate, postmaster and merchant, furnished a crate for me to sit on. A stool stood bare, awaiting Mace.

  Argus proposed to Zack, “Let’s try loosening Mace’s tongue. Before he locks his lips absolutely, we ought to hear him relate one more tale.”

  Zack agreed. “Say we do. We’ll try, though it seems nowadays his wife has him twisted down tighter’n a nut on a bolt.”

  The crowd smiled expectantly.

  “You believe he’ll have money enough to free the package?” someone asked.

  Zack said, “He’s just wagging you fellers. Haven’t you learned that?”

  “I know him well enough not to read him off too quick,” came the reply.

  A man inquired, “Anybody made a reasonable guess what’s in the bundle?”

  “Maybe the devil’s eyeteeth,” a joker said.

  Time passed. Eight o’clock came without a glimpse of Mace. At eight-thirty, the mail rider reported he’d seen nobody along the creek road. By nine, the men had become restless.

  To hold them, Argus said, “Mace is giving the crowd a while to swarm and will appear right shortly.”

  Right as a rabbit’s foot! It wasn’t long before a cry arose outside. “Yonder comes Old Scratch!” And presently Mace was standing in the doorway. The walk had winded him, and he was panting. He was about sixty-five years of age, wide-faced and bushy-browed. His eyes were as blue as a marsh wren’s eggs in a ball of grass.

  Argus shoved the post office stool forward, greeting, “You’re late, old buddy. Sit and rest and give an account of yourself.”

  “I promised my wife I’d do my duty and hurry home,” Mace answered. He scanned the crowd, his gaze settling on me.

  “What antic delayed you?” Argus baited. “Confess up.”

  “Why, I’m a changed character,” Mace snorted. He accepted the offered seat, still looking in my direction. When he’d regained his breath he addressed me, “I figure you’re the new teacher.”

  I nodded coldly.

  “I’m hoping to thresh out and settle a matter today,” he spoke gravely.

  Zack Tate broke in, “The package is ready any time you are, Mace.”

  “It’ll preserve an extra minute,” Mace
replied.

  Argus caught his chance. “Tell us a big one while you rest. Tell of the occasion you turned the tables on the town barber after he’d short-shaved you.”

  Mace jerked his head as if slapped. “Never in life has a razor touched my jaws.”

  “You singe them off, aye?”

  “Now, no,” Mace said. “I climb a tree, tie my whiskers to a limb, and jump out.” While the crowd guffawed, he pinned me with a stern glare and said, “The word comes the scholars are running you bowlegged. Still, their behavior has improved mightily over last session. Not a window broken, not a desk whittled, not a peephole drilled through the walls.”

  Argus spoke quickly to draw Mace’s attention. “Come on and relate some rusty you’ve pulled and we’ll not bother you more. You be the chooser. Anything.”

  Mace’s eyes sparkled despite himself. “Let me name the word ‘rusty’ and my woman will wring my neck. And remember, I’m trying to conquer my trifling.”

  The men batted eyes at each other. Mace was a slick hand at double talk.

  “Ah, quit stalling,” Argus begged. “Tell of the foot logs you doctored to snap in two under people, the gallus straps cut during election rallies, the ‘dumb-bulls’ you fashioned to stampede cattle. Or tell of you dying—playing stone dead purely to hear your kin hallo and bawl.”

  But Mace would not. He went on talking to me. “I decided last spring, if matters rode unhindered, the Keg Branch children would grow into bad citizens.”

  “Hark! Hark!” Zack Tate cried.

  “Somebody had to take hold of the problem,” Mace said, “and I did. I took to spying on other schools to learn why ours didn’t prosper. It boiled down to a couple of needs: a new schoolhouse, and a collection of stuff. The schoolhouse is built. Lastly, the stuff’s here.”

  The crowd smirked.

  Mace rose, hat in hand. “You know me, my friends, and surely you don’t want your young ’uns marching in my tracks. You have a chance to straighten them out, so unknot your money sacks and give till it pinches.” He held his hat brim up, dug a half-dollar from his pocket, and dropped it in. At sight of the coin, both Zack and Argus gasped.