They smiled at each other as comrades, the tall old soldier and the tall young boy. Getting out of the truck, they entered the building side by side.
Markum’s main store was crisscrossed with counters and tables in a mazelike pattern, and the volume and variety of goods on display surprised Randy. Shelves against one wall were stacked with brightly labeled canned foods, and shelves against the other offered small hardware and notions. A colored man completed a purchase and walked out past them. The proprietor looked at them and grinned in recognition.
"Hey, Major. What can I do for you?” he asked.
"Mr. Markum, I want you to meet my grandson, Randolph Hunter,” replied the Major, as ceremoniously as though Randy were of mature years and recognized importance. "Randy, this is Mr. C. C. Markum, my good friend.”
Randy took the storekeeper’s hand. Mr. Markum was medium sized and squarely built, with a wide brow, high cheekbones and a pointed chin, the features combining to make his face look like a pentagon. He wore spectacles that flashed good-humoredly, and his apron stretched tight over a plump, round middle.
"Glad to make your acquaintance, son," said Mr. Markum. "You here for long?"
"He’s here to say," replied Major Hunter. "Just now he lacks dungaree pants."
"You came to the right place," said Mr. Markum, and quickly sorted through a pile of blue jeans garments on a table. He held a pair against Randy’s belt line. "You’ll want ’em good sized," he commented, "so they won’t get too tight after being washed and shrunk. Take this pair," and he tossed it across Randy’s arm.
"Two pairs," ordered the Major, and Mr. Markum selected another. "That’ll do my grandson for now. But I want to order some other stuff. Suppose I look around the store a little."
"Do that, Major," said Mr. Markum, and Major Hunter began to limp along a line of counters.
Randy turned toward the door, gazing at the inviting brightness outside. Strolling into the open, he tossed his dungarees upon the back of the truck seat, then walked past the front of the store. He came to another opening, inside of which sounded a soft bustle of motion. Peering in, he saw somebody taking cans from open packing cases and putting them on the floor.
At first glance the stranger seemed to be an exceedingly active old man, inches shorter than Randy himself but sturdily built. Then Randy realized his mistake — it was the hair, naturally pale and bleached by sunlight until it was the color of raw rope. The face below the hair was rectangular, rosy and no older than Randy’s own. After a moment the face glanced up with pale blue eyes.
"Hey,” said the sturdy youth.
"Hello,” said Randy.
"What can I do for you?”
Randy shook his head. "Nothing. I was just watching.”
"I noticed that,” replied the other. "You watch right sharp and careful. See anything green?”
Randy smiled brightly. "I can’t be sure until I know you better.”
The boy with the pale hair and eyes set down an armful of cans, rose and faced Randy. His face was a trifle darker. "You mean, maybe I’m green?”
"People are quick-witted in these parts,” said Randy before he thought how it would sound.
A long, deep sigh from the other boy. "Look, Yankee, I wasn’t doing anything to you. If you want to start trouble, it’s your own starting.”
"I’m no Yankee,” said Randy with some heat. He knew that the word carried a slur in this part of the world, and he remembered his grandfather’s remark on the Hunter family’s long existence in North Carolina. "And I’m not starting any trouble, but I'm not running from any.”
The boy moved out into the open, swiftly and lightly. Randy had only a moment to realize how broad were those shoulders, how sinewy the forearms that projected from rolled-up sleeves. Had this stranger looked less like a fighter, Randy might have said something to relax the tension, but his only thought was that he must not be afraid.
"You don’t scare me a nickel’s worth,” said Randy. Next instant he had to duck quickly, while a doubled fist whizzed past his ear with a force that might have ended the trouble before it had well begun.
FISTS AND FRIENDSHIP
Randy knew how to box a little, from gym classes at school, and he ducked away from that punch almost without thinking. Falling back a couple of paces, he shaped up at once, left foot forward, weight on his toes, left fist out and his right drawn back and cocked — what his physical education teacher had called Boxer’s Position A.
‘'What’s the idea?” he demanded sharply.
The other boy stood with feet wide apart, his square chin sunk on his deep chest, his fists tightly doubled and held low at his waist. The pose was not scientific, but it looked dangerous.
"You came here looking for a fight,” he growled, “and you’re going to get one.”
He stepped forward, heavily but swiftly, and swung roundabout at Randy’s face. Again Randy was able to duck clear, then weaved under the swing and quickly threw his own left, straight and hard, to the flushed face. The pale blue eyes blinked, but the head did not snap back nor the feet falter. Randy danced away, then as his opponent moved purposefully after him he jumped forward again, striking hard to head, body and head again, avoiding powerful but clumsy return punches. The two fell apart, glaring.
"Your nose is bloody,” said Randy, feeling a little ashamed.
"So’ll yours be,” promised the other, and charged.
This time Randy was caught off guard and off balance. Sinewy arms locked around his ribs, a heel caught back of his, and he fell heavily, with a fighting weight on top of him. But before his enemy could pin him there, Randy wriggled away, rolled clear and got up, his fists poised.
"You want to wrestle, do you?” snapped Randy. "Well, I want to box.”
His blood was up, and as the other youth sprang up he closed in. The two traded blows swiftly. Randy landed three for one, but that one buffet caught him under the ear with such stunning force that he almost went to his knees. His ears rang and lightning seemed to flash blindingly in his eyes. Momentarily groggy, he fought back furiously, with intent to square accounts. He managed to get home, right and left, in the broad body, and exulted as he heard the wheeze of breath driven out. Return blows stung and staggered him again, but he kept his feet and his head, and unceasingly rained his blows, lighter but swifter, on head and body. At close quarters he planted another jab to the abdomen, pulled away to avoid more of the awkward but punishing swings, and scored to the bloody nose. He heard gusty, gulping pants and blowings — his opponent was winded. No, he was — no, they both were —
"Time!” called a voice, sharp but good-humored, and he fell back from the conflict, glad of the interruption.
At the corner of the store building stood his grandfather and Mr. Markum, watching with interest. They must have been at the ringside, so to speak, almost from the beginning.
"Now, that was a good, hot, even scrap,” said Major Hunter quietly. "So far it’s been a pleasure to see, but if it goes on it might get really unpleasant.”
"I agree with the Major,” added Mr. Markum. "Suppose he and I elect ourselves the referees and say it was a draw.”
"And the two of you shake hands," put in the Major. "Do it right now, Randy. That’s an order."
Surprisingly, Randy felt like shaking hands. His lips were puffy, but he grinned with them and held out his hand. The other boy took it and grinned back, mopping his reddened nose with his other wrist.
"You know how to handle those fists," he said.
"Some slugger yourself," replied Randy. "Say, things have been happening kind of fast. I’ve forgotten what it was about."
The square face below the tumbled tow hair looked abashed. "Me too."
Mr. Markum chuckled. "Then why don’t you leave it that way, for an unsolved mystery, boys? Randy Hunter, that’s my boy Jebs you’re shaking hands with. Jebs, Randy is the Major’s grandson. He’s come down here to live."
The two pumped hands in complete good will. "Glad
to know you, Jebs,” said Randy.
"Give me my full name," urged the other. "It’s Jebs — ' J-E-B-S. I was named James Ewell Brown Stuart Markum, for the Confederate cavalry chief. And everybody shortens it down to Jebs. Want to wash up?"
"There’s a basin right inside the storage shed there," Mr. Markum told them.
The two ex-enemies went in together. Jebs washed his face first, then Randy, and Jebs handed him a towel.
"I think that may have been a fortunate introduction after all, C. C," Randy heard his grandfather saying outside. "They’ll respect each other. Both of them fought hard and clean. They’re good boys."
"And that’s the truth," Mr. Markum agreed heartily. "I remember my own young days. Seems to me that I sort of had a fight with your boy once, this boy’s daddy. And we were friends from then on. Best fighters make best friends.”
Jebs heard, too, and grinned at Randy as he dipped more cold water on to his marred nose.
"Get that, Randy?” he said. "Our folks are fixing it up for us. So let’s forget everything and start over. What are you doing, now you’re living here?”
"Nothing so far,” confessed Randy. "I just got off the train this morning. I’m looking for something to do.”
Jebs goggled a little, as in amazement. "On that big place of your granddaddy’s? All those woods and fields, and you can’t find anything to do. Boy, if it wasn’t posted, I’d be over there plenty.”
"My grandfather doesn’t allow hunting there,” Randy warned him.
"I don’t mean hunting with a gun. I just like to study things when they’re alive and scouring around in the wilds.” Randy was tenderly wiping his face. "Uncle Henry, my grandfather’s man on the place, says the woods are full of deer and raccoons and ’possums and birds.”
"And beaver,” added Jebs, his light blue eyes shining at the thought.
"Beaver?” echoed Randy in amazement. "Here in North Carolina? I thought they were all trapped out and exterminated long ago, about the time of Daniel Boone.”
"Maybe they were, but they’re back again. The government put them in here, and they’ve increased and flourished. Come on out and ask my dad to tell you.”
They emerged and joined Mr. Markum, who was putting a variety of supplies into the rear of the truck.
"Randy’s interested in beavers,” said Jebs, and his father smiled.
"That makes two nuts on the subject in this country, then,” he said. "Randy, when the government shipped in those first beaver settlers here, about ten or twelve years ago,
Jebs went pure crazy over them. He’s always prowling and spying on them.”
"Is that so, C. C.?” asked the Major from the other side of the truck. ”1 didn’t know Jebs had that interest. Uncle Henry tells me we have beaver back in the swamp on my place. I’m surprised Jebs hasn’t been around to check up on them.”
"You never said I could come, sir,”- Jebs told him. # "I didn’t know you wanted to come. But consider yourself invited, as long as you only look and don’t try to trap or kill any.”
Jebs grinned happily. "It’s a deal, Major Hunter. I’d like that a right smart. Now that school’s out, I’ve got to work the rest of the morning, unpacking and arranging, but maybe after dinner—”
"Why don’t you come over then?” interrupted Randy hospitably. "Can you find a ride over?”
"Ride?” echoed Jebs with scorn. "Shoo, it’s only a couple of miles. I’ll walk it in half an hour, on the short cuts through the brush. So long, Randy. See you this evening.” "I thought he was coming over after dinner,” Randy said to his grandfather as they drove away. "That means noon dinner, doesn’t it? But now it’s going to be evening. He must plan on eating a pretty heavy meal.”
"You’ll have to get used to this Carolina talk, Randy,” said the major, a smile twitching his gray moustache. "Any time after noontime is evening. Likewise a creek is apt to be a branch, you chop weeds instead of hoeing them, and a cabin like that one,” he pointed as they drove past it, "is sometimes called a desrick, though that’s a mountain word.” Back at Laurels, Randy lounged out to the back yard. He learned from Uncle Henry the mysteries of blending feed for the hogs, helped to clean the stall of Dix the mule, and committed to memory the names of half a dozen birds that fluttered and chirped around the yard. He had never expected to be hungry again after his two breakfasts, but by noon he was ready to eat. He finished and carried the dishes out to the kitchen for Uncle Henry, then returned to his room to finish unpacking and arranging his possessions. He had barely completed this when his grandfather called to say that Jebs had arrived.
Eagerly Randy emerged to greet his new friend in the yard. The two conferred briefly with Uncle Henry.
"If you all really wants to find beaver, you’s got to head down to the swamp place,” said the old Negro. "Best way you do that is, push straight ahead through them pines yonder till you comes to a little path runnin’ acrossways in front of your direction. Follow it leftwards, and keep followin’ it. That takes you to the swamp, and roundabouts there is a stream the beavers fix they seifs up to live in.”
"You mean they dammed it?” asked Randy. "Made a pond, and houses.”
"They done jus’ that, Mist’ Randy. You and Mist’ Jebs go take a look for yourselfs.” They struck off among the trees.
"What are you going to do when you get out of school?” Jebs asked Randy. "Think you’ll go into the army, like your father and granddaddy?”
"Just now, I’m not so sure,” replied Randy soberly. "Dad was West Point and spent his life in the army, but almost the last letter he wrote to me from overseas made a big impression on me. Dad said that he hoped there’d be no more wars, and no more reason for them, but if there was to be a war, an American’s business was to be a soldier then, and a citizen in times of peace. As I say, it made me think. I’m not sure what I’m going to do. Once or twice I’ve thought about going into the newspaper business.”
"I decided long ago," said Jebs, "and beavers helped make up my mind for me. I want to be an engineer. Wait till you see the kind of dam a beaver makes, Randy. Maybe you’ll decide on engineering, too, and we’ll wind up partners.
"Maybe I’ll be a naturalist,” suggested Randy. "I liked nature study when I was in the Boy Scouts up north. Here, isn’t this our path?”
They had come upon a way, narrow and winding but plainly marked, among the trees. They turned left on it as Uncle Henry had advised.
"Boy Scouts,” Jebs echoed Randy. "This is kind of thin settled country, and I’m the only fellow my age for several miles around, until you came along. What’s Scouting like?”
"It used to be fun, and sometimes it was exciting,” Randy told him. "I was sorry to leave the troop when I came down here, but maybe I can get in with the Scouts down here. Aren’t we getting near the swamp?”
"We’re approaching it,” said Jebs. "Look how the land slopes down there ahead of us.”
The woods around them were full of life. Birds flew and dipped overhead. A squirrel watched them from a tree, cautiously circling the trunk to keep it between himself and the two human beings. Once a rabbit leaped up from under their very feet and scurried away into some shrubbery. The path led them down slope, to where they were forced to skirt the first thick tangle of brush that showed the outer fringe of the swamp. After half a mile or so of this exploration, they came to the brink of a small stream. Jebs studied it.
"This must be below the beaver dam,” he said. "Head upstream.”
"Hadn’t we better be quiet about it?” suggested Randy.
"We won’t see any beavers by daylight,” Jebs told his friend. "Night work’s their style. Come on.”
He led the way, gazing intently ahead. Finally he motioned for Randy to pull away from the waterside and follow him up the bank to a small knoll among the trees. Jebs paused, one thick hand on each of two pines, and gazed with rapt delight into open space beyond.
The little stream here bulged into a breadth of water that was virtually a lak
e. Its brown surface was quiet save for the slightest of current ripples. Here and there thrust up the trunks of water-killed trees and bits of dry, leafless brush. At the lower end, nearest the boys, was a sturdy, grass- grown ridge of earth that held back the volume of water.
"Beaver dam," pronounced Jebs with relish, pointing to the ridge. "And you can see their houses. One, two, three—"
A trio of dome-shaped islets, also shaggy with vegetation, were visible on the water’s surface. Jebs turned, peered, and pointed again.
"A tree they’ve been chewing down," he announced. "Didn’t I say beavers were something? Almost human in their ways, except where their ways are smarter than human. Dam, houses, tree-cutting, and look yonder — it’s a canal!"
He spoke so exultantly that Randy felt his own heart skip a beat. Jebs’ beaver enthusiasm was highly contagious. He looked at the little muddy watercourse that ran down to the lake. "Why do they dig canals, Jebs?"
"To float down the logs they use for building or food." Jebs sat down, his back to one of the pine trunks. "We’ve got to name this thing, Randy. Let’s call it Beaver Lake. And, since your grandfather lets us come here and keeps almost everybody else out, let’s come here a lot and study things. Nobody I ever heard of had such an opportunity."
"You mean, let’s have you teach me,” corrected Randy. He, too, sat down. "Tell me about beavers, from the beginning, the beaver Garden of Eden.”
NATURE’S CHIEF ENGINEER
Jebs had his eyes on the bright brown water, as though by simple concentrated staring he could make one of his beloved beavers come to the surface and greet him. He soaked in the atmosphere of the beaver lake, as a cat soaks in sunlight. Randy’s request seemed to trickle slowly into his ears and brain. After some seconds he looked up with such eager friendliness that it was hard for Randy to believe that this towheaded youth had been swapping blows with him only short hours before. Then Jebs smiled and shook his head.
Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1953 Page 2