Colter's Path (9781101604830) (36 page)

“Sure you don't want a swallow of this corn?” John sloshed the jug.

“Thank you, no.”

“You headed to Greeneville?”

“Just a stop for the night. I'm going from there to White's Fort.”

“You got some miles before you, then, son. And you ain't going to find much in Greeneville. The town is just now getting laid out. Empty lots and such is what you'll mostly see. A few cabins and houses. Give it a year or two and there'll be plenty more.”

“As long as I can find a place to lay my head, that's all I need.”

“There's always the good earth to make your bed,” John said, drinking again. Potts suspected this man had spent many nights on the “good earth,” sleeping the hard sleep of the drunken. “You'd be welcome to stay the night at my cabin yonder, but it's crowded, and with the new baby there, I don't know the missus would want company.”

“I appreciate your thoughtfulness. I'll just keep on traveling.”

“What takes you to White's?” John asked.

“I'm just passing by there, too, actually,” Potts replied. “I'll go on beyond to Fort Edohi.”

“Crawford Fain's station?”

“That's right.”

“I met Fain once. Two years back.”

“I know him, too,” said Potts. “Through his son, Titus, who's the very image of his father, and nigh as skilled a woodsman.”

John tried again to come to his feet, and to Potts's surprise, succeeded. He wobbled a moment, then stepped clumsily forward, drawing nearer to Potts with the look of a man intent on sharing important information.

“Let me tell you what to do, son,” he said in alcohol-tainted gusts that made Potts flinch. “You want to have a good evening tonight, you steer up toward the north side of Greeneville and look for Ott Dixon's place. Kind of a cabin, but it's walled only halfway up, with a tent finishing out the top of the walls and the roof. Old Ott hisself you'll know from his homely face. Uglier than Crale's lump, that man is.”

“What's a Crale's lump?”

“Hell, I don't know! It's just something folks say in these parts, ‘uglier than Crale's lump.'”

“Does Ott provide lodging?”

“He provides drink. Rum. And whiskey from east of the mountains. I got this very jug from Ott three days back.” He sloshed it again, gauging how much was in it. “Surprised I ain't drunk more than I have in that time.”

“I ain't much of a drinker, myself,” Potts said.

“You're missing one of life's blessings, then,” John said.

“I'll be moving on now, John. Need to find me a bite to eat somewhere.” Potts looked ahead, around a clump of trees. “That your cabin yonder?” He would never directly ask, but was hoping John might offer food, if he had any to spare. Quite possibly he didn't…. John seemed to be a very poor man.

“That's my house, yes,” John said. “Not much of a place, is it?” No invitation followed.

“Well, a home is a home. My best to your wife and your new son. David, was it?”

“Yep.”

“Take care of yourself and your brood, Mr….”

“Crockett. Name's John Crockett.”

“Mr. Crockett. All best to you.”

“Right back to you, Potts. And don't forget to stop at Dixon's later on.”

As Potts passed the Crockett cabin, he heard from
inside the open door the quacklike squall of a newborn, and smiled. But his accompanying thought was sad: that the little Crockett born in that humble cabin had little chance for success—not as the product of such a father as just plain John Crockett.