Shad stopped. Austin’s voice was flat, almost matter-of-fact.
“We been living on roots and berries.”
“So?”
“That hen ain’t gonna lay no more eggs.”
Shad looked at the hen, then back to the boy.
“No, she ain’t. Thanks to you.”
“Someone,” Austin said, “might just as well eat her.”
“Yeah. Me.”
“What about us?” Austin looked at his brother and sister, then back at the man.
“Roots and berries.”
Shad Parker stepped out of the cold, dark cave into the cold, dark night. He heard the girl’s voice from behind him.
“Good night, mister.”
Chapter 11
Back in his cabin, and now in his bed, Shad Parker did his best not to think about the three children in the cold, dark cave. They were not his concern, primarily because he would not allow them to be his concern, and besides they were in no mortal danger. Even though they were cold and hungry they would survive the night and in the light of day they would find someplace, someone who would provide food and shelter.
He wanted to discourage them and everyone else from intruding on his life—what was left of it. And without Molly and his own children, as far as he was concerned, there was nothing left—nothing worthwhile.
Molly.
To him she was always Molly O.
Ever since that Fourth of July picnic at Fair Oaks Hollow between Cross Keys and Port Republic, where annually several hundred friends and neighbors, all Virginians, all Americans, gathered to eat, drink, play, and celebrate the birth of the United States of America.
Part of the “play” included a wrestling contest. That year Shad Parker had been persuaded by his many friends, and particularly his best friend, Ben Warren, to challenge Tub MacGrudder, who had won the contest six years ago and had since beaten every challenger easily in two out of three falls. In fact, for the last six years there never had been a necessity for the third fall. Tub always had defeated the succession of contenders in the first two falls.
Wrestling, a sporting contest between two unarmed men, involved grappling and gaining body grips in order to secure a fall, which meant pinning the opponent’s shoulders to the floor—or ground. The sport probably went as far back as prehistoric man and was a popular and honored event among several ancient peoples, especially among the Greeks. The pancratium, involving wrestling and boxing, became part of the Olympic Games in 648 B.C.
Later, the Romans changed in some ways the rough-and-tumble Greek style, thus originating the Greco-Roman wrestling. The tournaments were frequently conducted through medieval Europe, gained headway in England, and were then introduced early in the United States. By the mid-nineteenth century a form of wrestling, Americanized into “rassling,” which combined upright and ground action, took root in the American frontier, including the Shenandoah Valley.
Tackling, tripping, slugging, leg holds, and assorted rough features—the rougher, the better—were allowed and encouraged, and this form came to be called “catch-as-catch-can rassling” in the United States, including the Shenandoah Valley.
Everyone at the Fourth of July picnic, men, women, and children, watched as Shad Parker, stripped to the waist, waited and looked across at the taller, heavier, homely Tub MacGrudder, who was also naked to the hips, but coated with what appeared to be some kind of grease. Tub MacGrudder scowled from the other side of the makeshift ring as the referee Goose Dunker, who looked like his name and was rumored but never proved to be a relative of MacGrudder’s, made the announcement.
“Ladies and gents, boys and girls, once again, the annual Fourth of July catch-as-catch-can rasslin’ contest for permanent possession of ten dollars in cash and temporary possession of the champeenship trophy, the Little Green Jug filled with the finest sour mash whiskey in the state of Virginia. The champeen also gets to drink the whiskey and keep the Little Green Jug until next year when the jug goes up for grabs again.
“Over there the challenger this year, who at the present time is upright and conscious, though some say is a damn fool and not in complete possession of his faculties for entering this bout, the young, popular, and foolhardy Shad Parker.”
More than half, closer to two thirds of those present, clapped and cheered their approval and encouragement.
“Over on the other side stands the six-time winner, never defeated, never felled champeen rassler of these parts, that mountain of a man, part-grizzly, part-human, all-powerful Tub MacGrudder.”
Perceptibly fewer cheers and hand claps.
“Just a minute,” Ben Warren hollered out. “I want to talk to you, Goose.”
Goose Dunker strolled toward Ben and Shad.
“I’m lodging a formal protest . . .”
“What about? Your man hasn’t lost . . . yet.” Goose almost doubled over at his own wit.
“That big son of a bitch . . .” Ben pointed toward Tub.
“I heard that!” Tub roared from across the ring.
“I said it so’s you’d hear, you son of . . .”
“Watch your language, there’s women and youngsters in earshot.” Goose pointed a crooked finger at Ben.
“I’ll get you later, you squirt!” Tub hollered, and smacked a huge fist into his palm. “I’ll break both your legs.”
Tub MacGrudder was notorious in the leg-and-arm-breaking business both in rassling contests and in barroom fights, which he initiated with frequency. A mean, angry man, sober or drunk, his anger was tempered by the sound and feel of somebody else’s bone snapping. Two years ago he had broken a man’s back. Jim Riggins hadn’t walked since. Riggins’s wife, Loretta, took a shot at MacGrudder a year ago. Loretta was a good shot with a rifle, but it was getting dark and she missed. Most people thought, and hoped, she’d try again in broad daylight.
“Never mind, Tub, I’ll handle this. Speak your piece,” Goose said to Ben.
“That big son of a bitch is coated with bear grease, makin’ him slippery. Not fair! I protest!”
“Protest denied!” Goose exclaimed.
“Like hell, I . . .”
“Forget it, Ben,” Shad said. “It’s all right.”
“Like hell . . .”
“One more word and you’re banned from these proceedings. Two out of three falls! This here contest is gonna get started when I count to three! One! Two!”
Unfortunately, that was when Shad Parker first caught sight of her. She stood next to another young girl across the ring.
The other girl was comely.
She was beautiful.
Tall, perfectly proportioned. Nineteen or twenty. Even from this distance her green eyes sparkled, her flowing red hair blazed in the sunlight, her full crimson lips turned downward with a touch of terror at what was about to take place. In that moment Shad Parker was stunned by the sight of what he instantly perceived to be the most beautiful creature he had ever seen on the face of God’s earth.
“Three!” Goose Dunker hollered.
Shad stood paralyzed as Tub MacGrudder sprang, shrinking the distance between them.
Ben Warren, with all his strength, pushed Shad forward, nearly knocking him down, but instead, directly into the big, bonding arms of Tub MacGrudder. Tub grunted, grasped Shad, lifted him off the ground by the throat and belt, then above his head, whirled three times, and slammed Shad onto the ground. The ground seemed to shudder. There was no question that Shad did. His back and head hit the hard surface with a sickening impact.
If Shad was not unconscious, he was skin close to it. Without hesitation, or mercy, Tub leaped on the smaller man, swung an elbow into Shad’s face, and pinned both Shad’s shoulders flat against the ground.
Not ten seconds had elapsed.
“One, two, three!” Goose counted, slapping the palm of his hand against the earth. “Fall! First fall!” he proclaimed.
Some cheers, but mostly gasps, misgivings, and dread from the spectators.
Ben
rushed out and dragged Shad toward the sideline. Most people doubted that Shad could recover, at least until sundown.
“One minute between falls!” Goose announced. “If your man can continue. Or do you care to concede the contest?” he addressed both Ben and the barely conscious challenger.
“Shad?!” Ben slapped at Shad’s bruised face. “Can you go on? Or do we give up?!”
“N . . . no,” Shad stammered.
“No?! What does ‘no’ mean? Fight? Or give up?”
“F . . . fight!”
“We fight!” Ben yelled at Goose.
The crowd roared.
Tub grinned.
“You got thirty seconds till we start the second fall.” Goose also grinned.
“Who . . . who is she?” Shad muttered.
“Who’s who?!” Ben growled.
Shad managed to point across toward the beautiful, green-eyed, red-haired girl who had most of her face hidden in revulsion with the palm of her hand.
“You know her, Ben?”
“I sure do.”
“Start at the count of three!” Goose yelled.
“Who . . . who is she?”
“One! Two . . .” Goose was counting again.
“If you don’t beat that son of a bitch,” Ben said, “you’ll never find out!”
“Three!”
Ben pushed Shad into the ring again.
Shad wanted to find out. He never wanted anything more in his life. And this time he was ready. But Tub MacGrudder didn’t know that. Tub rushed at Shad to repeat his earlier maneuver. This time Shad sidestepped and this time the grease worked against Tub. His slippery arms slid past his opponent.
Shad’s fist pounded into Tub’s kidney, and he tripped the big man, who stumbled and fell to his knees.
Shad’s fist broke Tub’s nose and spirit.
The next minute concluded with the decline and fall of Tub MacGrudder. In less than sixty seconds Shad Parker visited revenge upon the brute on behalf of all those in the valley who had suffered abuse and broken bones. Jim and Loretta Riggins led the cheering, and unknowingly, Shad by thus beating MacGrudder, probably saved the giant from subsequently being shot in broad daylight by Loretta Riggins.
The broken hulk declined to continue combat. Goose Dunker had no choice but to proclaim Shad Parker “champeen”—permanent possessor of the ten-dollar prize and temporary possessor—at least until next Fourth of July—of the Little Green Jug.
But Shad Parker wasn’t thinking about the ten-dollar prize money, or the Little Green Jug, or the whiskey in it, or the title of champeen. He was thinking only of that sublime face, those lustrous green eyes, and the blazing red hair. As soon as it was over, he turned and looked for her, but her face was hidden, now behind both hands, and it appeared that she had seen little, maybe nothing of Shad Parker’s astounding recovery and triumph.
After being duly congratulated, cleaning himself up, and putting on his shirt, Shad grabbed hold of his best friend and didn’t let go until Ben Warren told him everything he knew about a certain spectator.
Ben knew her name was Molly O’Connell. She and her sister Esmeralda recently had arrived from Ireland, and their uncle Patrick Vincent had procured them positions as teachers at the school in Cross Keys where he was an alderman. Ben happened to meet the ladies a couple of days ago while doing some business with Alderman Vincent in Cross Keys. Also Ben had happened to take a fancy to one of the ladies. Happily for all concerned, Ben’s fancy fell upon Esmeralda, who was two years older than her sister, a bit taller, and a bit thinner. Esmeralda’s eyes were more blue than green, her hair more brown than yellow, and her eyebrows glided straight across instead of arching as did Molly’s. She was less fiery in appearance and in temperament, but undeniably a comely young lady. Ben led Shad, who had the Little Green Jug in hand, toward the sisters. After properly greeting Esmeralda, he introduced his best friend to his fancy’s sister.
“Miss Molly O’Connell, may I present my friend, Shad Parker.”
“Mr. Parker.” Even with just the two words there was a trace of that Irish cadence, and the lilt in her voice was the perfect complement to that perfect face.
“Molly O.” That was as much as Shad Parker could vocalize. He said nothing more. He just stood and stared into those pastoral Irish green eyes and said nothing more.
Ben Warren broke the silence by pointing to the Little Green Jug in Shad’s hand.
“Miss Molly, did you enjoy the rasslin’ contest?”
“No,” she replied quickly and honestly.
“Why not?” Ben asked just as quickly. “Surely you weren’t rootin’ for that son of . . . for that no-good MacGrudder.”
“I wasn’t rooting for anybody.”
“Well, then, what is it?”
“It’s just that I’ve seen enough of violence and brutality in the old country, and I sure as hell didn’t come all this way to see more.”
Shad Parker had never seen nor heard a woman with such beauty and spirit and honesty. Somehow his grip on the Little Green Jug loosened, it fell, hit a rock, and smashed to pieces, releasing the sour mash.
It was the best thing that could have happened. Molly O laughed as only the Irish can laugh, even though some of the whiskey splashed onto her skirt and shoes. Then Esmeralda laughed, and Ben and finally Shad.
That was the beginning of a summer of laughter and a lifetime of love. But they were not long, the summers of laughter. And Molly O’s lifetime was much too short.
And while it lasted there was no question of the depth and unity of their love. Shad was a good man, but he became even better. And because of him, much of the sorrow and tragedy Molly O had borne in the old country was abraded.
Shad, Molly O, Ben, and Esmeralda were together as much as it was possible . . . and respectable. Rides, picnics, and dances. For almost a year while Shad worked his land and improved the house near Port Republic, Molly O taught school in Cross Keys.
It was on Christmas Eve that he had asked her.
“Molly O, will you marry me?”
“Shad, you know I love you, but there’s something that separates us.”
“Nothing can separate us, not while we’re alive.”
“Well, then, it’s something that we have to live with, and I don’t know if we can, if you can.”
“I can live with anything so long as it’s with you . . .”
“But, Shad, I’m Catholic and you’re not.”
“Molly O, Molly O, you’re you. That’s all I care about . . .”
“The children . . .”
“The children will be ours, and if they turn out like you, that’s good enough for me and better than I deserve. Molly O, will you marry me?”
“I will.”
And she did.
As a wedding present, besides promising never to wrestle again, Shad gave her the most beautiful young mare in the valley, with a coat as scarlet as Molly O’s own hair. They named her Ruby, and Molly O rode her like a flaming lance across the countryside. Shad and Molly O rode together and he taught her how to swim, which was one of the few things she couldn’t do when they first met. Life in the Shenandoah Valley was paradise and so was their marriage bed. Molly O had come to him in innocence, but quickly there flared within her a passion and a need to please and be pleased, to gratify and to be gratified, to love and be loved.
And now as he lay there in his bunk that cold December night staring at the dark corner of the ceiling, Shad Parker tried not to think of that marriage bed and their children . . . and of the three children in the cold hollow of the hillside cave.
Austin, Peg, and Davy lay bundled together in the darkness. After Shad left them they relit the fire and it burned for a time while they slept and tried to keep warm. Then the fire darkled and died.
Chapter 12
Deputy Homer Keeler finished up a hearty breakfast at the New Heidelberg. While he was washing it down with his fourth cup of strong black coffee, young Ralph Sweissgood returned from th
e jail, where he had delivered a not-so-hearty breakfast for the two prisoners who were waiting to be delivered to the federal marshal. As he entered, Ralph held the door open for the three Keeshaw brothers, who were coming in right behind him.
“Morning, Deputy,” Deek greeted Homer.
“Morning, gentlemen.”
“Where’s the sheriff?” Deek inquired.
“’Cross the street in the office with the prisoners. Why? Is there anything you fellas need?”
“Just breakfast.” Deek grinned and pointed to Homer’s empty plate. “What do you recommend?”
“Ham, eggs, potatoes, muffins, and coffee is what I had.”
“Sounds good.” Deek looked toward the kitchen. “Smells good, too. My brothers and me have got some travelin’ to do today, so we might as well load up our innards.”
“Uh-huh.” Homer headed for the door.
“Deputy.”
“Yeah.”
“Give our regards to the sheriff.”
“I’ll do that.” Homer walked out the door and closed it behind him.
Lately Homer Keeler had been giving more thought to his future. He was torn between continuing his career as a lawman, like the man he admired most in the world, Sheriff Elwood Hinge, or spending all his savings and plunging into a mortgage for a spread not far from Gilead and settling down with Kathy Lewis, whom he had been sparking for a few months, and go to raising a family. He and Kathy made plenty of sparks, all right, but she wasn’t keen on marrying a star packer. She said she preferred a quiet life, except in bed. Kathy’s father and mother were becoming somewhat suspicious of Homer’s intentions. Homer knew that they knew what was going on between their daughter and him, but looked the other way in hopes of marrying her off. There was a noticeable shortage of male eligibles due to the ravages of the recent war. But Homer also knew that they weren’t going to look the other way much longer, particularly if Kathy showed signs of motherhood without benefit of a certain ceremony.
Besides, so long as Elwood Hinge remained sheriff there was no prospect of promotion for Homer unless he got an offer from another town. That wasn’t likely. He knew that there were a lot more efficient and experienced lawmen available than young deputy Homer Keeler.
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