Copper Kettle

by Frederick Ramsay

  “You can’t trust what them Lebruns say.”

  “I told you. She isn’t one of them and besides, I think I’d trust her a whole lot farther than I would Anse McAdoo and his family any day.”

  “Well, I’m just saying.”

  “I hear you. Fairchild Leigh?”

  “Well, I know of him, Jesse. It would be back a spell. Your grandpa would have known him, probably. Yes, he was a figure most folks had a peek at one way or the other.”

  “How?”

  “This would be after the war, you understand. I’m talking about the war we fought against the Yankees.”

  “The Civil War.”

  “The War of Northern Aggression. Come on, Jesse, have you forgot everything you learned in school?”

  “About that war, maybe I have. Go on, tell me about Leigh.”

  “Fairchild Lee, however you spell it, led a band of night riders.”

  “What?”

  “Those were hard times, Jesse. The War, Mister Lincoln’s War, and Reconstruction that came after it, created a hardship for most folks who happened to have chose the losing side. They called them carpetbaggers, only in this part of the world they were more like pickpockets that came down the valley stealing folks’ land and their onlyist belongings. Well, Fairchild put together a group of men, they say there was like to sixty, but your grandpa said it were more like fifteen or twenty. They’d ride up and down the valley and settle with the Yankees who came down here and sucked up land that weren’t theirs that fell to tax default. See, if you can’t work because you were on the losing side, you can’t very well pay your taxes.”

  “Soldiers couldn’t work after the war? Well, some things don’t change.”

  “There you are. Well, you look at poor Bobby Lee. He lost his estate up there in Arlington to them Yankees and the only job he could get was being the head of some dinky little college in Lexington next to Stonewall Jackson’s old school. Anyway, that situation got corrected after a bit, but not before a whole lot of acreage changed hands. Fairchild Leigh, he made it hard on them that took advantage of them folks and chased a good number back to wherever they came from.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Well, sir, nobody knows for a certainty. Story was he bought himself a commission and went off to fight the Bonaparte French in Mexico. They say he never came home from that.”

  “Did he have a wife, a family?”

  “Don’t think so. Not at the end, anyway. Some say his wife and children were killed in one of the raids Sheridan made down this way. I don’t know if that’s true, though. They say that’s why he was so angry at the Yankees who come down here after. He might have had a brother or sister. Wait, that was it. A sister. He had this sister who married and went west, I think.”

  “So there’d be nieces and nephews?”

  “I suppose so. Why do you want to know?”

  “Because one of them owns the Spring House property and I’d like to talk with them about buying the timber rights.”

  “What? What are you doing fooling around with things like that?

  “Trying not to be a stupid hillbilly, Ma. There’s way too much of that going around.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Getting ahead. This land is played out. You know that. Pa knew that. Short of making moonshine and working in the timber business two hours traveling time away, there ain’t a whole lot of opportunities around here. Big timbering is pretty much dead and gone from this mountain, but R.G. Anderson has a specialty wood business. He hired me on and that’s what I got. It’s what I will work with ’til something better comes along. Buying and selling timber rights could make me some real money.”

  “Land, you sound like your Pa, bless his soul. Always talking about a payday, getting off the mountain, building a proper house. Well, that never came about, did it?”

  “Influenza got him, Ma. If it hadn’t, who knows, he might have made it.”

  “Influenza killed a lot more than just folks, I reckon.”

  “It did. You remember a name for this sister of Fairchild Leigh?”

  “Maybe, if I think on it for a while. So, what you going to do with a lot of money?”

  “I told you. I’m getting you one of them iceboxes.”

  “Pshaw. That there is pure foolishness…MacElvaine.”

  “What?”

  “MacElvaine was her married name. Fairchild Leigh’s sister. She married a MacElvaine and went to Cincinnati or someplace out there in Ohio. Or maybe it was Cleveland. There ain’t much difference in places once you get past the mountains, they tell me.”

  “Well, now, that is definitely not true, Ma. Every place has its own personality, like.”

  “Land sakes, you has got to be a know-it-all since you went away. You don’t hear Abel back-talking to me.”

  “It ain’t back talk, Ma. I speak truth in love.”

  “What in all that’s holy does that mean?”

  “It’s what people say after they insult you, your family, everything you believe in, and they think it makes their rudeness okay, I guess.”

  “Horse feathers! I’m off to bed and you should be, too.”

  “In a minute. I need to have a time to think some things through.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The next morning Jesse awoke to find the day had started out with a cold, bone-chilling, misty rain that made it clear that winter had crept closer than he’d figured. Worse, the weather did not match up with anything Jesse had to wear. His stint in the Army and the natural process of growing up had left him with few coats in the chifforobe he could wear now. At least none he could wear without popping a seam. He considered wearing his uniform greatcoat. It was woolen, after all, but decided against it. Too many dark memories that went with that garment. He found an old blanket coat that his father had worn back when he was bigger and it fit reasonably well. While the weather caused him to struggle with what to wear, it suited his dark mood. He only had two days left on Big Tom’s deadline. Except an assurance from Albert Lebrun that none of his clan had pulled the trigger, he had come up with nothing new regarding Solomon’s murder. More importantly, he had “The Feeling.”

  In the trenches, men would become morose, or frightened, or panicked. There did not seem to be any cause, any reason, any sense to it, beyond a conviction in impending doom. “The Feeling” had to do with the certainty that they would be dead by nightfall. Everyone who slogged across France and sat in a trench took it as a matter of fact that they would not go home alive, that their destiny was to spend eternity under six feet of French dirt. For them, it wasn’t a matter of if, but when. So, the day you got “The Feeling,” you knew that it would be your last day on Earth. Whether that led to carelessness, or recklessness on their part, or some other cosmic force came into play, no one knew, but many of those who experienced it did, indeed, die within the ensuing twenty-four hours. And so, on this rainy, cold morning, Jesse knew for an absolute certainty that something bad would happen before the sun dropped over the mountain to the west. He shivered and the chill in the air played only a small part in that. He stepped out into the icy drizzle and cranked his Model T. Good day or bad, he had a job to do.

  He arrived before his gang showed up to start the big saw blades whirring. He took the opportunity to step into the office in hopes of finding Serena. He wanted to tell her what he’d learned about Fairchild Leigh. Before he could say anything, she held up her hand, palm forward.

  “Jesse, did you have anything to do with Albert Lebrun last night?”

  “Last night? No. Why?”

  “He’s missing and he told his Pa he might be meeting up with one of the McAdoos. The only McAddo I could think of who that could be, was you. So, no Albert?”

  Jesse considered taking Serena into his confidence. After all, she had been party to what he hope
d to accomplish from the very beginning. But, he’d promised Albert he wouldn’t say anything and for the moment he would keep that promise.

  “Nope. Now let me tell you what I found out about Leigh.”

  “You can tell me at lunch. It’s time you blew the whistle.”

  Jesse checked his watch. It was. He hurried out to the yard and, noting there was enough steam in the large rig, yanked the lanyard. The whistle sounded, a sliver of sun fought its way through the clouds, and the day began.

  ***

  The noon whistle blew and the men relaxed from their work. The pulleys were disengaged and the belts that drove the equipment lurched to a halt. Jesse pulled off his work gloves and slapped them against his knee. He dusted his hat and picked up his coat which he had removed as he warmed to the work. R.G. stepped out of the office and waved to him. Jesse nodded and started toward the office. He thought he saw Serena in a window gesticulating. The expression on her face was anything but happy. He paused and tried to read her lips. Was she saying “run”?

  He rounded the corner of the building and felt someone grab his wrist and try to force him face-forward against the wall. He didn’t think. He seized the wrist that held him twisted it backwards and yanked. Sheriff Dalton P. Franklin dropped to his knees with a howl and tried, unsuccessfully, to draw his service revolver.

  “By goddamn I got you for resisting arrest, you stump-jumper. Suspicion of murder and resisting arrest. You’re cooked, boy.”

  Jesse pushed the sheriff off, but took three steps back and shifted his weight forward. “I don’t know a whole lot about the law, Sheriff, but I think you have to announce that you plan to arrest someone before you can say he was resisting it. All I know is you ambushed me. You didn’t say anything about arresting me or anybody else.”

  Dalton Franklin struggled to get his bulk upright, the effort made more difficult because he tried to undo the snap on his holster at the same time. “I did. You’re just thick in the head like all you people, and the judge is going to hear that.”

  “You pull the pistol out one inch and I will personally break your arm, Sheriff. You want to arrest me, you go ahead, but you be thinking careful how you go about it. This time say the words.”

  “Listen, boy, you ain’t in no position to threaten me. If I say I said it, I did and that’s the official version.”

  R.G. Anderson appeared at the sheriff’s shoulder. “No you didn’t, Dalton. Jesse’s right. You jumped him before he could even see you. I am a witness to that. I can also swear there ain’t a mark on this boy so at this moment, if he shows up at his arraignment with so much as a broke fingernail, I’ll have you for lunch. Now, who was murdered and why is Jesse a suspect?”

  “That, as you very well know, Anderson, is strictly police business and I am not at liberty to say.”

  “Well, Sheriff, if you are planning on putting my foreman in handcuffs, you have to say why and that would include the name of the alleged victim, ain’t that right?”

  “Sum bitch, when did you get to be a lawyer? I don’t have to do any such a thing.”

  “Trust me when I tell you, yes you do. Shall I call Judge Watkins and ask for a legal opinion?”

  The sheriff fumed and rubbed his wrist. He glared at R.G. and then at Jesse. He did not like being told how to do his job. He stuck out his chest and hitched up his pants. To his apparent dismay, all the glaring and puffing changed nothing. R.G. did not back down.

  “Okay, then. Jesse Sutherlin, I am arresting you on a charge of suspicion of murder in that you stabbed Albert Lebrun to death sometime last night. Before you say anything, I have a witness that puts the two of you together up on the mountain at a place referred to as ‘The Spring House.’ Now, turn around and gimme your wrists.”

  “That witness wouldn’t be named Hansel again, would it? No, this time it’s Gretel. As much as you want me to be the murderer, you got the wrong man, Sheriff.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. You thought you were being so smart yesterday. Well, who’s the smart one now?”

  Franklin shoved Jesse in the general direction of his automobile.

  “Don’t you worry about a thing, Jesse,” R.G. said. “I’ll be down this afternoon with the best lawyer in the county.” He spun on his heel and headed for the office. “Don’t forget what I said, Dalton—not even a broken nail.”

  Franklin pretended not to hear and shoved Jesse to his car. “One peep out of you, bucko, and your employer looking out for you or not, I will introduce you to Billy.” He tapped the baton in his belt.

  “That would be a very bad idea, Sheriff.”

  “That’s the ticket. You just keep on running your mouth, sonny-boy. It’s what just makes tossing saps like you in the pokey so much fun. Now shut your trap and get in the car.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “On your feet, mountain boy. Your lawyer’s here.”

  Jesse struggled to right himself. He’d been stretched out on the cell cot, nursing his eye and aching head. His breakfast of cornmeal mush in its cracked bowl remained on the floor. Mice had eaten about half before Jesse even knew it had been shoved through the slot in the door. The jailer slid in a key and the door clanked open. A man in a shiny suit and red necktie stepped in.

  “Nicholas Bradford, Esquire,” he said. “Your employer, R.G. Anderson, has engaged me to represent you. I have petitioned Judge Watkins to move quickly on this because I am convinced the sheriff has no case beyond hearsay. On the other hand, R.G. believes if you are kept here long enough he, that is to say the sheriff, will find the means, or more accurately, will find a stooge, to build a more substantial one. That could be very bad for you. Now, tell me exactly what in Billy Blue Blazes is going on here.”

  Jesse filled him in on Solomon’s death, his attempts to solve the murder or at least defuse the tension between the rival families on the mountain. He recounted the conversation he’d had with Albert Lebrun and what he’d told him. Bradford sat on the edge of the cot and jotted notes in a small leatherbound book with a filigreed gold mechanical pencil. He asked questions and made Jesse clarify a few points.

  “So, to review, you met this Albert Lebrun two nights ago. You had a conversation regarding the shooting of a cousin of yours, Solomon McAdoo. Albert told you in no uncertain terms that no one of his acquaintance, that is to say his immediate or extended family, had anything to do with the shooting. Is that about it?”

  Jesse frowned, which made his eye hurt which, in turn, caused him to wince.

  “Hmmm. What happened to your eye?”

  “I tripped and fell on the sheriff’s fist.”

  “I see. Did he also introduce you to his encyclopedia?”

  “Pardon?”

  “The sheriff is known for helping his interrogations along by putting a book, usually a volume of the Britannica, on a prisoner’s head and whacking the book with his truncheon. Were you entertained in that manner?”

  Jesse grinned. “Well, yes. He put that book right on my head and tried to pound some knowledge into me. It was very educational.”

  “It was? In what way?”

  “I learned a trick or two about holding a conversation with Sheriff Franklin and propose to return the favor the next time he drops in for a visit.”

  “That I would like to see. So, back to the narrative. Have I got the essentials?”

  “All except the part about the three men who followed Albert after he left me.”

  “Three men?”

  “Well, before I walked down the path, see, I chucked some stones down it first. If anyone were listening in the dark, they’d figure I was off and away. A minute later three men stepped out of the woods and sort of had a pow-wow and then disappeared in the same direction Albert took. I’m pretty sure those three men were following him.”

  “But you can’t say with certitude they did?”

  “If that m
eans did I know for sure they did, no, sir. Why is that important?”

  “It’s important, Jesse, because if you said you knew absolutely, it begs the question, ‘How do you know?’ It means you had to have followed them, and the prosecutor, if we get that far, which I aim to see we don’t, could speculate you were in position to stab Albert after all, you see?”

  “I’ll need to ponder that one, Mister Bradford. Is there anything else?”

  Tell me about the war, your war.”

  “The war? I can’t see what that has to do with this.”

  “Trust me.”

  “Well, shoot, there ain’t much to tell, Counselor. It was long days of sitting in the mud scratching lice and being bored to death followed by short days of noise, being scared out of your wits, shooting, fighting, blood, people next to you dying, and not knowing what was going on. Then, back to scratching and being bored. That’s pretty much it.”

  “That’s not what I hear. You received a medal, right? Okay, what about your cousin who was killed?”

  “Solomon? Most folks would say he wasn’t anything special. Me and him served together in the war. Solomon didn’t fare too well, though. Shell shock got him.”

  “That happened to a lot of men, didn’t it?”

  “I hear so, yes. In my company, which is all I know about, we had near a dozen go that way. We were hit pretty hard out there, with the shelling and all. Other units got off a little easier, I guess, and didn’t have the problem so bad.”

  “But Solomon, he made it home and was functioning?”

  “Functioning? Sorry…?”

  “Able to work, eat, you know, fit in.”

  “I don’t know about fitting in. He did his chores and pitched in alright, but he got harassed a whole lot by the young folk and some of the meaner older ones who’d make a loud noise when he weren’t looking—you know, like bang a stick on the table or maybe shoot off their gun, and he go to pieces. Some thought that were funny.”