The Wettest County in the World (23 page)

Oh glory, Bertha said.

Jack and Cricket looked at each other, Cricket’s face a strange working of anguish that Jack hadn’t seen before.

Ah Jack, I’m sorry, he said. I’m so sorry.

They were shooting Howard, Jack thought. The bastards were shooting his brother. Or he was shooting them.

The shotgun, Jack said. Where is it?

In a poke by the mash barrels, Cricket said.

Go, Cricket, take her. I’ll meet you back at the station tonight.

What? Bertha said. Don’t leave me!

Distant shouts from the camp, indistinguishable. Howard was alone, outnumbered.

I gotta go back, Jack said.

He took Cricket’s hand and put it on her arm.

Go, dammit!

Jack turned and sprinted back as still more gunshots floated out across the dark valley.

C
HARLEY
R
AKES
was shouldering his ax, preparing to unload on the still when a jar whistled over his shoulder and exploded on the still cap.

What tha?

Charley Rakes dropped the ax and grabbed the shotgun out of Jeff Richards’s hands.

What the hell happened, Charley?

Rakes raised his gun up the hill, and the other men saw the silhouette of Howard on a rocky outcrop above them, standing spread legged with his arms hanging loosely at his sides, a blot against the violet sky.

Who the hell is that?

Howard watched the men assemble, pointing their guns at him, their barrels like small black insects in their hands. When Rakes fired, Howard saw the charge of sparks and light and felt the shot whistle by, rippling his pant legs, the shot chattering on the rocks. Rakes fired his second barrel, again low, and Richards let go with his pistol, his bullets whining by Howard’s head, one slug somersaulting by his ear, the sound like a tumbling bee. The valley echoed with the reports as Howard stood there, watching the men trying to kill him. They seemed like tiny feral creatures scrabbling in the dirt.

You, come down from there!

I swear I’ll shoot you if you don’t get down here!

Howard turned and walked off into the brush. To the men below it was as if someone had shut off a light; the darkness of the wood sprang at them.

Where’d he go?

Shut up and listen!

It’s that big son of a bitch Howard.

You sure?

Then Howard was descending, the men could hear his footfalls, the crunching of undergrowth and they huddled together, their guns outstretched in a defensive perimeter.

Get a light goin’!

Howard’s mind was quite clear as he approached the men. His eyes were nearly closed, mere slits, and he walked down the hill leaning far back on his heels. He felt relaxed and quick. The darkness did not seem to affect him; he stepped nimbly around log and stump, the glowing image of the four men like a beacon in the rapidly darkening wood. He would wade into them and explode in their midst, cut them all down.

J
ACK REACHED
the shotgun as Abshire got a stick of pitch pine blazing. Jack crouched behind the mash barrels, a mere fifty feet from the four men who looked wildly up the hill, pointing their guns into the black. He could hear Howard coming down the hill toward them, crashing through brush like a wounded deer. Thunder shook the trees. Abshire got the torch going and held it aloft, illuminating the group, and Jack ducked back down behind the mash barrels, clutching the shotgun. He didn’t know if it was loaded or not. There were no shells in the bag, and he was afraid to break it open to check. I’ll just have to hope it is, he thought.

When you see ’im, pop him one, Jeff Richards said.

It seemed to Jack like Howard was going to walk right out into the clearing, walk right out into their guns. What the hell is he doing? Jack scrunched up behind the barrels and shut his eyes.

Hey! Jack yelled.

Dammit, there’s another!

Who’s there?

Watch him coming down the hill here!

You better run, Jack said. You better get out now.

He was answered with a few pistol rounds in his general direction. One round punctured the mash box he was hiding behind, the mash glugging out the opening, pooling at Jack’s feet. The torchlight flickered over him. He couldn’t tell if they were coming toward him or not. He poked the shotgun out with one hand and aimed it in their general direction, but high, and pulled the trigger. Both barrels let go, jerking the heavy gun out of Jack’s hand. The torchlight immediately winked out and a man screamed.

Sweet Jesus! someone yelled.

Shit! Get that light, Henry!

Jack heard Richards scream.

He’s here!

A pistol shot, a heavy grunt and thud, shoes shuffling in the leaves.

Jack peeked around the box and in the low light from the torch that lay on the ground he saw his brother springing from the woods like a coiled demon. The men quailed and shrank back, one man already on the ground holding his head. Using the force of his leap into their midst Howard drove a fist into the body of a man trying to twist away, striking him square on the shoulder, and Jack could see the arm fold up, the unnatural angles of bone coming through his shirt. Charley Rakes was on his hands and knees, searching for his gun, Jefferson Richards flashing out of the light, running fast down the hill. Abshire staggered to his feet, the side of his face a slick of blood. He grabbed the man on the ground, moaning and clutching his shoulder, trying to help him up. Howard stood there calmly in the flickering light, watching the three men struggle on the ground. Rakes looked up at him, pawing at the leaves, looking for a gun.

I’m gonna kill you goddammit!

Jack stood and leveled the shotgun at Rakes. He knew that he wanted the man to grovel for his life. He would put the barrel in his face and make him beg for it. The darkness seemed to separate him from the men and the gun in his hands. He charged toward Rakes, aiming the shotgun from the hip.

Hey Rakes, Jack yelled. Remember me?

Rakes cranked his head around, his face shifting, his eyes widening. Before Jack took three steps he had cocked both hammers and pulled the trigger. It surprised him; it was like the fingers acted on their own. Howard was looking at him too, his face blank as water. The hammers fell on the empty chambers with a solid
thunk.
Then Howard stepped on the torch, plunging them all into darkness.

Let’s go, Charley! Abshire yelled. Richards is gone!

Jack froze, blinking in the dark. There was the sound of more struggle, the pitiful groans from the man with the broken shoulder. A faint glimmer of movement, arms around bodies, thumping footfalls. Another gunshot, the flash illuminating only the spidery limbs of trees and the outstretched arm that held the pistol. The crack and whine of a ricochet close to Jack’s ear, the bullet cracking through the woods. Jack dropped into a crouch, arms protecting his head. He didn’t want Rakes anymore; it was over when the hammers fell on empty chambers. He wanted to run. The patter of rain in the trees, then a sudden downpour, roaring. Then Howard’s voice in the dark, close to him and clear and calm:

Go, Jack. Now.

Jack sprinted down the hill to the west, working toward the faint slice of horizon through the trees.

J
ACK MADE
his father’s house by daybreak. He was mud-spattered and bone-tired, running in a black haze most of the night across the mountain and then along Snow Creek. The thunderstorm was brief and the ground already dry. As he came up the drive his father was heading out to the store and he passed Jack without a word or glance. Jack staggered into his room and collapsed on the bed and slept until noon, finally awakened by the shifting sunlight and the sound of voices outside. In the kitchen he ate a few biscuits washed down with several glasses of cold water. As he gulped the water the enormity of last night came crashing down; the deputies would be back in daylight and the stills would be destroyed. They would come back with more men and guns and dynamite the site. Thousands of dollars of supplies and materials, a whole season of work and the potential income, all lost. They couldn’t have followed him, he was careful, and there was no solid trail. He winced and set the glass down hard on the counter, cracking the base and slicing his palm.
Dammit dammit dammit.
He shouldn’t have brought Bertha; it was so damn obvious. Howard knew. Forrest would blame him.

He watched the trickle of blood running down the side of his hand. The voices outside the house continued, two people talking on the front porch. One of them was his sister, Emmy, the other a man he didn’t recognize. The way she was talking was strange, soft and lilting, like she was talking to a child.

Marshall Wingfield was leaning on the porch post, legs crossed, dressed in a pale suit with a kerchief around his neck. He held a straw boater in his hand.

Hey there, Jack, Wingfield said.

Wingfield’s cheeks were ruddy and he beamed at Jack, straightening up and offering up his hand. Emmy sat demurely, looking at her folded forearms in her lap. She had a small cluster of wildflowers on her dress, tied with a bit of ribbon. Emmy’s glassy hair fell on both sides of her face and she did not lift her head.

Wingfield snatched Jack’s hand, wringing it hard, grinning.

How are you, old sport? Wingfield said.

Emmy would not raise her head. Wingfield’s car, a new Dodge coupe, sat shining on the lawn. The leaves of the stunted dogwood tree in the yard went belly-up, waving their undersides, and the clouds gathered. Gonna rain again, Jack thought. I’ll be damned.

Think you done cut yourself, Wingfield said.

Wingfield held up his hand, smeared with blood. Jack looked down at the rivulets of blood going down his forearm, spattering on his pants. Wingfield was holding his hand up and away from his clothes, doing his best to maintain a pleasant smile. His suit seemed to pulse with a soft, glowing light.

That’s a nice suit, Jack said. Real nice.

Jack struck hard with his bloody right hand, a straight punch that seemed to come from inside his chest and caught Wingfield flush on one rosy cheek with a loud
smack.

Jack!

Jack’s hands felt fast and as Wingfield bent at the waist, hands at his face, Jack cut loose with a series of left hooks into the side of his head until Wingfield went sprawling into the yard.

What th’ hell’s s’matter with you? Wingfield shouted.

Jack squared up to him. Lead with the left, he thought, use the left and set up the right cross. He put his left foot out and stepped to Wingfield who was in a low crouch, hands up in a defensive position. He reached out and tapped him on the forehead with the left, once, twice, three times, snapping Wingfield’s head back, his hands going higher until he was trying to cover up with his elbows. There was a rush of wind and the ripping sound began again, low at first and building into a high scream. Just as Jack saw the opening for the right, Wingfield folded and sat down heavily on the grass, a sleepy look on his face. The sound from the sky poured forth into his ears, the earth ripping open. I got it this time, Jack thought, stepping up to Wingfield.

Get up, you son of a bitch!

He wanted to finish the combination; Wingfield was ruining it. The ripping sound wavered and cut and Jack paused, confused by the sudden silence. Wingfield crawled away, gasping for air, the rump of his suit grass stained, groping for his hat. Jack turned and saw the contorted face of his sister staring at him in horror, her face agape in a twisted shape of sorrow. Emmy took a deep breath and began to scream again.

G
RANVILLE CLOSED DOWN
his store early and picked up Jack at the house in Snow Creek. They drove west to Haw Patch Hill and the Jamison farm for a wood chopping. With the stills dynamited into a blackened hole of copper shards on the mountainside, Jack stayed on living with his father, helping out around the farm and generally avoiding his brothers.

Get out of here, Forrest told him when he turned up at the Blackwater station a few days later.

It wasn’t my fault, Jack said. No one followed us, I swear.

Get the hell
out.

Jack hadn’t seen Howard in weeks, but Jack got word that his brother was apparently unhurt and back at Forrest’s sawmill. He hadn’t seen or heard anything about Cricket, his hut on the mountain empty, his scant possessions scattered on the dirt floor as usual. Bertha, whom Jack saw only in passing in town, said he dropped her home and that was it, but he wasn’t arrested so Jack figured his friend was okay. The tobacco crop was gone, and Jack had about forty dollars tucked into a soap can in his trunk. Forrest would get by, though soon the sawmill would shut for the winter and the Blackwater station was losing business; Carter Lee had put the word out that no one was to do business with the Bondurants, legitimate or otherwise. Everything Howard had and then some was in the stills.

The Jamison farm lay at the foot of Thornton Mountain in the western part of Franklin County, a rough, mostly wooded stretch with hard clay to well depth. Granville followed the dirt track that wound by the frame house and into the back fields dotted with cattle. Thin plumes of smoke rose from the fields abutting the mountain slope. The felling was finished, and the men were pulling stumps with teams of mules and rolling and carrying the heavy logs to the wagons for transport down the hillside, others burning piles of brush. Most of the able-bodied men from the southern part of the county were there.

Jack joined Howard cutting out stumps while their father helped the older men driving the mules and workhorse teams and cutting small limbs. Forrest was absent. Howard was stripped down to his undershirt and suspenders, his body smoking in the brisk fall air. Jack looked at his brother’s face for some indication of his mood but Howard merely bent to the task. It was difficult and slippery work, the damp roots like rubber and the footing crumbled and shifted. Several times Jack bounced his ax off a bent root like black rubber and narrowly missed cutting his legs or feet. The roots had to be struck at the right angle to bite and eventually they swung into an easy rhythm of Jack setting the cut in a root and then Howard using his heavy broadax to chop it clean.

Lucy here? asked Jack.

Yep.

Working on supper?

Suppose so.

The two brothers worked in silence for the next hour, and Jack figured Howard felt there was nothing to talk about. But where was Cricket? They had been in spots before, plenty, and Cricket’s usual response was a morose sort of defeatism and a period of hibernation. Bertha said he was in tears, apologizing profusely to her as they walked the three miles back to where he’d hidden his car. This was odd; he had seemed sober enough that night, Jack thought. He must be scared and laying low. Jack figured he would run over to his cabin again just to make sure he was okay. He would tell him that Jack and his brothers would protect him.

Jack and Howard worked on a black-chestnut stump that had put roots almost straight down, winding around hunks of limestone and clay, the taproot like a shaft of black muscle as big around as Jack’s waist. They finally got chains under it and G. T. Washburne drove his team of Suffolk punch horses while Howard and Jack sliced at the taproot with axes.

Whadja tell Forrest? Jack asked.

Howard wrestled his ax from the taproot.

Told ’im what happened.

Water ran from each wound in the fibrous flesh, the roots covered in tiny hairs. Jack thought about how the combined effort of all these tiny hairs brought life to the tree, delicately sipping drops of moisture, eventually hauling thousands of gallons of water up the trunk and out to the leaves.

Didja say anything ’bout Bertha being there?

Yep.

Jack stopped chopping and leaned on his ax.

Well goddammit, Howard, whadja do that for?

’Cause it was a damn fool thing to do.

They didn’t follow us. No way.

A damn fool thing to do, Howard said.

Well, Jack said, we all done made mistakes.

Howard paused, just a hitch in the stroke of his ax, then made a final, heavy cut. He stepped back from the hole, tossed his ax aside. Ah hell, Jack thought, now I’ve done it. Howard looked at him for a moment, the same blank look, then turned and gestured to Washburne, who drove the horses and with a crunching roar the stump was ripped from the ground. Howard put his hands on his hips and looked at the dark hole in the earth, the twisted ends of roots, rocks, red clay, and seemed to consider something for a moment. He took off his gloves and slapped them on his thigh. He glanced around for a minute, then turned to Jack with a slight grin.

What say we go find ourselves a snort?

The brothers joined the group of men around a small pile of pine knots. Aubrie Kendrick brought a jar from his truck and the men passed it around slowly and discussed the progress of the work. Jack pulled the Mitchell twins aside for a moment.

Y’all seen Cricket?

Naw.

Haven’t seen hide nor hair.

Jack passed the corn whiskey when it reached him, and Howard grinned and took the jar and punched him hard in the arm, pointing across the broad valley. Three cars were slowly making their way from the house, the women with the food, and men began to put their coats on and after a few more quick drinks Aubrie Kendrick put the jar back on the floorboard of his truck before the women got close enough to see it.

When the women arrived they spread blankets on a patch of level grass and laid out bowls of sweet corn, greens with ham hocks, pork cracklings, hash gravy, plates of biscuits covered with napkins, and skillets of corn bread. Dick Jamison came over to the circle of men who remained clustered off to the side.

Well, set to it, he said.

Jack filled his plate and sat on a stump next to his father who was eating a hunk of corn bread. Women joined their husbands and the younger unmarried women present, mostly friends of Wilma Jamison and her daughters, made their own circle on a blanket, their soft voices carrying over to where the men sat. The light began to fade and pine-knot torches were lit and women wrapped wool shawls around their shoulders. Howard stood off a bit, speaking in low tones with Lucy. Jack hadn’t seen her in some months and was surprised how fair-haired, slight, and freckled she was, like a young girl rather than a woman in her upper twenties. Jack had spoken to her only a few times, the first at the simple wedding they had at the Snow Creek Baptist Church. Her family was from Smith Mountain, dirt-poor hog farmers, a dozen straggling kids in a muddy patch of unworkable mountainside land, and Lucy seemed glad to be rid of them and to move into the little cabin in Penhook. Lucy’s second pregnancy only seemed to waste her already-slight form even further, and as she stood in her calico-print dress and boots holding a plate Jack could see the heavy rings under her eyes as she looked up at Howard. It was clear that their second child wasn’t doing well either. They needed money and Jack knew this wore on Lucy like a sore. Lucy turned and caught his eye and Jack turned away embarrassed.

Howard walked over with his plate piled high with corn, cracklings, and biscuits, the whole thing covered with white gravy. He sat at his father’s feet and dug in with a large spoon and the three men ate together, glancing about occasionally and remarking upon the coming weather or the quality of the food. The sweat dried on Jack and his hands and feet grew cold and he wished he had worn an extra pair of socks.

How’s Lucy? Jack asked.

She’s fine, Howard said as he sopped a biscuit.

How’s the baby? Granville murmured from his stump.

Up at her mother’s place, Howard said. Same as ever I guess.

Howard chewed, his heavy-lidded eyes gazing out over the field and into the dark tree line. Women were gathering up dishes and folding blankets, and two young boys chased each other through the stubbled fields. Jack stretched out his legs, crossing his new boots in front of him. His father ducked his face back to his plate, a bit too quickly. Hell, Jack thought, the old man doesn’t miss that much. The car, the clothes, the hours up on the mountain. Jack felt like a fool for this pathetic attempt at concealment, this conspiracy to keep his father in the dark. Night was coming on and the wind picked up, scattering sparks from the pine-knot torches.

You comin’? Howard asked Jack.

Jack looked at his father who continued to study his empty plate.

I suppose so, Jack said.

Howard nodded and then wrenched his body upright and brought his plate over to Lucy who stood in a small group of women. When she took it from his hands she touched his arm and looking up into his face said something that Jack couldn’t catch. Howard nodded and then Lucy turned and gathered more dishes and bowls from the blanket. She climbed into a car with several other women, laughing and waving to the men, some of whom called out to them to stay on, to come back. Jack stood next to his father and they watched as the cars of women made their way down the hill and across the valley to the house. Jack thought about the picture of Bertha standing under the crab-apple tree, holding a sprig with one hand, her mouth set in a prim line. Hell, Jack thought, I got to get my damn self together and do this properly.

Men gathered around Howard, joking and slapping his arms. He grinned, hands jammed in his pockets.

Sitting next to Jack, Granville grunted as he chewed the stub of a biscuit.

I’ll tell you what, son, Granville said, if that boy had a mansion, he’d burn it to the ground.

He shook his head, gazing at his oldest son.

Well, Granville said, I guess I’ll leave you boys to it.

He slapped the crumbs off his dungarees and walked off to his car.

The remaining men built a bonfire and were quickly flushed with liquor, sweating again in the firelight, passing jars freely and laughing loudly. Howard sat on a fat stump, putting away twice as much liquor as any man there, his face going slack, eyes narrowing on some faint spot a few feet in front of his nose. Dick Jamison came into the circle of firelight bearing a six-foot staff of seasoned dogwood about four inches in diameter. Men cheered as he held it aloft and everyone stood, taking pine-knot torches, and followed him up the hill to where the large trees lay felled. When the right log was chosen, a sizable oak three feet across, Dick Jamison laid the staff on the ground and the log was rolled onto it to the middle point. Then the money came out and the first two men spat on their hands, hitched up their trousers, and squatted down on either side of the log, worked their fingers under the staff ends and established their grip. Money bet on the contest was placed on the log in a pile and then pinned there in a rawhide bag with a knife. Belcher Whitehead pulled out a revolver and fired it into the sky and the two men lurched and heaved upward, straining against the bulk of the log, the other men shouting encouragement. There was a slight shift, a collective shout, and the log began to move slightly, one man pulling up on his end and forcing the other man’s knuckles into the dirt, the shifting of the log putting more weight on his end until his hands were driven into the ground and he yelped and pulled away, stumbling on his backside. Men laughed and clapped the winner on the shoulder, the loser kneeling in the dirt, a jar proffered and a sheepish grin, crumpled bills changing hands.

Then Dink Amdams called out Howard for a contest and there were howls and whistles of disbelief. Jack looked over to Howard, who swayed in the torchlight, his eyes mere slits, his brow furrowed. Dink was a robust fellow with a barrel chest and legs like stumps, short, blunt-fingered hands, a broad back and thick neck. Near forty years old, he had been the acknowledged strongest man in the county till Howard came along. Dink hadn’t had much to drink and he stripped off his coat and focused his gaze on the dogwood staff. Jack feared that Howard was completely insensible with booze and wouldn’t be up to the challenge. He’d been watching Howard drink, Jack thought, and ol’ Dink figured this was his chance. But then Howard’s body swayed forward and he took a stumbling step to the log and the men erupted into cheers. Jack helped Howard off with his coat, his arms hanging limp, tugging at the sleeves as money began to pile up. Howard put his arm around his brother’s shoulder, drawing him close, and put his lips right up against Jack’s ear. He smelled of sweat and rotten corn, his breath foul with whiskey.

Did I ever tell you ’bout the ocean? Howard whispered.

Then he drew back and for a moment Jack saw a glint of something in his eyes, the slits widening slightly.

It’s a hell of a thing, Howard said. I wish I knew how to tell it.

He clapped his hand around his younger brother’s shoulder and gave him a squeeze that crunched Jack’s rib cage. Jack fumbled in his pockets; he had two dollars and some change. The other men stood around them watching.

I’ll match all of it, Jack shouted. I’ll take all bets against my brother.