#I finished 'Nothin But a Hound Dog' to get Rex

[ruby-static]

Another update on my first NV playthrough:

HI YES MAN HIIIIIII

[petersonwriter]

From Family Blood

They’s one thing Miss Ethel has trouble with, and that’s cookin’. She burns her fried chicken and fries her eggs in grease too hot. Her corn bread is dry as sycamore leaves, and them fruit cobblers she’s partial to, blackberry and peach, ain’t nary sweet enough. I ain’t complainin’ mind ya, just tellin’.

Miss Ethel has what’s called a good sense of humor. She says, “Eat burned chicken. It’ll make your teeth white.”  I’ve seen her sweet daughters, Ida Mae and Martha, get so riled up they’s ready to yank each other’s hair out, over who gets the chicken neck, ‘cause Miss Ethel said eatin’ it makes you pretty.

What shortcomin’s Miss Ethel has in the kitchen is more than made up for to a fare-the-well in plain old guts. In my first go ‘round with the Calls, Miss Ethel showed her gumption in a big way.

July of 1932, slid into September, with a new moon the first week. Ryman was takin’ a wagon load of corn to the grain elevator in Yellowbird. I hitched a ride with him, ‘cause Shorty Harris, the foreman, picks a mean guitar, I hope he’ll see me carryin’ my fine, fine banjo, and will say, “Why Hamus,  me and my brother get together ever Wednesday night when the Missus is in church and have ourself a pickin’ session. Yer welcome to join us?”

Much to my sorrow, Shorty didn’t even sneak a look at my instrument. What he did were to say, “Sorry, Ryman. I can give you only a buck six bits for yer whole load.”

“A dollar seventy five? Hell, that’s hardly fair, Shorty. That don’t pay for the seed, much less mule feed.”

“I know, Ryman. Sorry to say, my hands is tied. There’s trouble back east. New York, Chicago, even St. Louis. Been goin’ on some time, but it hit us yestriddy. Home office sent me a telegram.”

Shorty holds up a wrinkled yellow paper. “They say don’t buy no more grain, and if I do, pay no more’n $1.75 a load. Regardless. That’s orders. Your argument ain’t with me, Ryman. It’s with St. Louis. I’m just doin’ my job.”

Ryman nods. “Yer right. I had in my mind gettin’ a new bridle for Rex, but that ain’t  reason to yell at ya. Ya got a job to do.”

Shory kinda smiles, and say, “Glad you see my side of it. Ya oughta swing by the bank. It ain’t a pretty sight.”

We do as Shorty says. They’s a closed sign on the front door and side windows. A heavy chain and padlock is wound through the door handle. Jewel Hathaway, the town constable, sits in his wagon under the big sycamore, a shot gun ‘cross his lap.

“I ain’t got no answers, nor reasons, Ryman,” he says. “Sheriff’s wire said the bank’s closed, and that nobody goes inside.”

He motions toward the half-dozen or so men standin’ in the shade. “Told ‘em the same, but they didn’t hear, I reckon. Appreciate it if you’d just mosey on home.”

The men jawin’ and gesturin’ in front of the bank ain’t in no mood to mosey nowhere. They seem mad as a treed coon. They want the money they put in the bank. Trouble hangs thick in the cool mornin’ air.  

“That s.o.b., Elliot Barnard, stole our money,” Paul Morris yells. The feller he speaks of is a big shot at the bank. His wife is the lady who drops her handkerchief to start the shootin’ at our Fourth of July celebrations.

“My wife’s inheritance from her daddy is here. We want it.” Paul Morris says, his face is red as a Rhode Island Red hen. Tobacco juice dribbles down his chin. “I want what’s owed me.”

I ‘spect Ryman wants his inheritance money, too, though he don’t say nothin’. Yestriddy he were most rich as Rockefeller, but with the bank closed permanently, he ain’t got eighteen cents to his name. We listen to the men gripe some more, then Ryman shakes the reins and we head home, with the team at a trot. Carpin’ and complainin’ ain’t Ryman’s way.

At the house, he and Miss Ethel go into the kitchen, talkin’ in low voiceds. Me and Grover Cleveland put a tarp over the corn, and Grover unharnesses the mules and turns them loose in the pasture. We’ll empty the wagon when Ryman says to.

After a while, Miss Ethel and Ryman come outside. Ryman whoops up Rex, his saddle horse, and readies him for a ride. They'll go into Yellowbird and catch the Katy train to Jeff City, so Ryman and his brother, Woodrow, a house painter and church deacon, can discuss plans.

“Do yer chores as usual,” Ryman says to us, standin’ in the yard waitin’ to be told what to do. He swings up on Rex. “Ain’t sure what goin’ on, so ‘till I know, keep on workin’.” Grover Cleveland pulls hisself up behind Ryman. He’ll ride Rex back from Yellowbird.

The day is sunshiny, with no clouds and a freshenin’ wind, the promise of fall in the air. Miss Ethel has me clean lamp chimneys, a chore that takes patience and steady hands. When I finish that, I wash the apples she’ll turn into applesauce. Then, it’s sweep the parlor floor and brush the rug and polish the furniture.

When Ryman’ll be back we ain’t sure. Rex stays saddled, ready for Grover to meet the  5:17 Katy, if need be. When Rex nickers, I drop my dust rag and run to the window, thinkin’ Ryman might’ve caught a work train to Yellowbird and walked home. They ain’t nobody’s on the road.

“He probably get home late,” Miss Ethel says. “’Less he catches the mail train. When’s that? Eight?"

           Crows by the multiplied hunnerts swarm in black waves from the cottonwoods down by the river and settle in the sycamores and willows behind our pond. They caw and squabble like old ladies at a church social.

In the barn yard, black birds flit from barn to smoke house, gabblin’ with starlings and cow birds for roostin' space near the waterin’ trough. In the trees along the fence line, blue jays scream “thief, thief” and dart from tree-to-fence and back again.

“Everthing’s stirred up,” Miss Ethel says.

On the back porch, Laurel Jean plays paper dolls, while Evangeline and Ray David play jacks. Ida Mae and Martha, clean the upstairs closet. The shoes and boxes they toss down, bang on the steps.

“Stop tossin’ things, ladies,” Miss Ethel says. “Can’t bear that noise.” She eyes the clock. “It’s a little early, Grover, but ride in and see if you’re daddy’s on the 5:17.”  

The sun’s low when Grover comes back. He shakes his head no and takes Rex to the barn to unsaddle him. Supper is corn bread and milk. No one talks, not even Ray David who usually chatters like a sparrow.

Twice, Miss Ethel goes to the back porch and looks off at the river. “Feels spooky,” she says. A storm cloud brings rain in big drops. A strong wind blows from the south. We can see rain fallin’ down by the river.

Miss Ethel has me ready the kitchen for breakfast. Grover Cleveland goes to milk Brownie. Miss Ethel separates the milk from the cream and adds it the crock. Tomorrow, I'll churn it into butter. Ida Mae and Martha give Laurel Jean and Josephine a bath in the dish pan on the kitchen table. Ray David slops the hogs.

Grover Cleveland draws a face on the cellar door and throws his Barlow at it. After a few minutes, Miss Ethel calls out, “Grover stop that. It makes me nervous. Come shine your daddy’s boots.”

The crickets under the front porch fiddle loud. The frogs croak like the ladies’choir at the Baptist church. In the front room, Martha pulls a chair up next to the lamp, needle and thread in hand. She pats the seat next to her. It’s time for my sewin’ lesson.

Then, all goes quiet. The whippoorwills stop callin’. Frogs hush. The crickets go quiet. Then, our dogs commence to bark like they’s runnin’ a fox by sight. A door bangs.

Grover Cleveland grabs a lantern and sets a match to the wick. He and Ray David run out to see what’s causin’ the commotion. Ray David’s back in half a minute. “Momma, Momma. A man’s in the corn crib.” We all run outside.

Grover stands with the crib door open, holdin’ the lantern high, like hunters tryin’ to spot a treed coon. A dark shadow hides behind the scoop shovels and empty sacks hangin’ from the wall.

“Whoever you are, come out,” Miss Ethel says.

“It’s me, Elliot Barnard, ma’am.”  A man with a pale face, torn britches and a shirt that were probably Sunday-go-to-meetin’ quality earlier, but is now torn to smitereens, steps out, hands in the air.

I’ve seen him afore, even sold his wife a watermelon or two. He’s a big cheese at the Yellowbird Bank, the same feller Paul Morris said this mornin’ had run off with his money. His name is Elliot Barnard.

He says,“The mob’s after me. Been chasin’ me since noon.”  

“What mob?” Miss Ethel’s voice is louder than usual.

“The one Hiram Pettis and Paul Morris got stirred up with over lies about me. Said I stole their money.” His face is white as a hawk’s belly. His pants are covered with mud and stick tights. His eyes glitter and his words gush out.

"I’m just a clerk. Can’t get my hands on money once it’s deposited. The stock market crash back east finally hit here. Government calls it a depression. The bank loaned money for tractors and seed corn and houses. When it wasn’t paid back, we lost our operating cash and had to close down. It’s that simple. No one stole a red cent. Try telling that to idiots like Pettis and Morris." He cocks his head to listen for the hounds, I reckon.

“They came after me around noon. I snuck out and headed here. If anyone can talk sense to these morons, it’s Ryman. I’m a goner if they grab me.”  

“Ryman’s in Jeff City, talking with his brother. The bank goin’ bust wiped us out.”

Mr. Barnard don’t say he’s sorry or even whisper damn.  

"Where's Betty Jean and the twins?" Miss Ethel’s askin’ about his family.

"Her momma’s place in Eldon."

“Good. They’ll be safe there.”

Miss Ethel and Betty Jean head up the Rebecca Circle at Yellowbird Methodist. Miss Ethel helped birth the boys. She don't seem taken aback that Elliot’s here askin’ for help. Folks stop by right regular to get Ryman's take on who jiggered who in a horse trade, or who owns the calf when a heifer gets loose and the other feller's bull breeds her.    

She says, "You done right comin' here. I’ll handle this."

With that she turns into General Robert E. Lee. “Put Mr. Barnard in the potato barrel and lower him into the well. Grover, pick a mess of muskmelons. Hamus, gather all the eggs you can find. And hurry. Evangeline, dear, fill all our buckets amd wash tubs with water. Fast. Martha get the little ones to bed. Grover, put them muskmelons, dried sausage and the sweet taters we dug last week into feed sacks. Hamus, help him. Ida Mae, bring that slab of bacon from the smokehouse. Slice it thick and start it fryin’ when the first man steps into our yard. We’ve a mob to whup.”

 CHAPTER 6

The first we seen of the lynch mob were two Redbone hounds and they's beady-eyed handlers, the Howard brothers, with thick ropes looped cross they’s chest, a noose danglin’ down, pistols gleamin’ like wild cat eyes. Behind ‘em, men with lanterns turn cottonwood saplin’s and scrub brush yellow, as the vigilantes tromp toward us.

Grover Cleveland meets ‘em at our gate. “Whatcha doin’ on our property?”

Joey Howard answers. “We’re here to hang that banker who stole our money. My dogs tracked him here. Give him up now and ya won’t get hurt.”

Grover spits at Joey’s feet. “We ain’t gonna give ya shit. Get off our property. Now.”

“Not without that asshole banker.”

Grover says, “Daddy comes home, he’ll kick yer ass. Take them other sombitches with ya.” He’ll turn seventeen in August. He’s still mad Miss Ethel made him put Ryman’s 10-gauge shot gun back in the closet.  

In the yard, Joey says, “We’re gonna hang that thievin’ banker. Give him up. Now.”

“Don’t order me ‘round. Not on my property.”

“You been warned, Grover Call.”  

Drebs and drabs of hungry-eyed men push through our gate. The air smells of weeds and sweat and gumbo mud. The carbide and coal oil lanterns make wavy black ghosts on the white clapboard sidin' of our house. They all carry shot guns and pistols.

Hiram Pettis elbows his way up front, like he’s boss. Miss Ethel greets him from the porch in her red apron with white roses she bought last Market Day. “Don’t ‘spect you boys are here to neighbor. What’s goin’ on?”

Hiram clears his throat. "We’re after Elliot Barnard, ma’am. He stole our money. Give him up and we’ll be gone.”

“Elliot Barnard nor no other man’s in my house," Miss Ethel say’s. She’s right. Mr. Barnard ain't in our house. He's in the well where me and Grover Cleveland lowered him mebbe twenty minutes ago.

"We'll take ya out when it’s over," Miss Ethel said at the time.

Hiram Pettis says, “We’ll thank you to kindly step aside, woman. Elliot Barnard’s here and we want him. We’ve chased him all day. Give him up and no one gets hurt.”

“Hiram, it’s downright unneighborly of ya to barge in after supper with my husband in Jeff City and due back any time, with only me and my babies here. My two littlest ones are teethin’. We just got ‘em down for the night, so keep yer voice down. please.”

Me and Grover Cleveland have filled mebbe twenty–five sacks now. I come out on the porch for a better look. Grover Cleveland ducks into the tack room.

Miss Ethel black eyes search the crowd. “That you back there, Pert Wilson?”

Pert’s Barbara and Clyde Wilson’s middle boy. He’s in the same grade at school as Ida Mae. The Wilson’s have been our neighbors for years.

“Yeah, Miss Ethel, it’s me.”

“Your momma’s worried sick with you not home this late. She borrowed my pressure cooker this mornin’. Said she was havin’ pork chops and cream gravy for supper. Bet she saved you some.” She pauses. “Pert, when did yo’all put money in the bank?”

“We ain’t got seventeen cents to put nowhere. I’m along for the fun.”

Miss Ethel steps in among them hornet-mad men. “Fun’s over. Take your sack and go home. Come back tomorrow, hear?”

Pert says loud ‘nough for all to hear. “I ain’t got no dog in this fight. I’m hungry and Momma fixes righteous pork chops. I’m goin’ home.”

Miss Ethel looks at the sweaty men in mud-splashed overalls with guns and ropes draped over ‘em like coon grapes on a tree. “Anybody thirsty? Hold up your hand. My boys will bring you water.”

Arms wave like tree limbs in a strong wind. We do a brisk business, I tell you. I head for the men near the fence.  A hand yanks me to a stop. “Not so fast, Scarecrow.”

It’s not the first time I been called that. A man with a bushy beard lifts me up. His carbide light most blinds me. “I heard you was scarred pure ugly. It’s a fact.” He sets me down. “You’re plain pitiful. Oughta be a law to keep you away from decent folks.”

Ray David says, “The fire killed his daddy and little sister. Burned away his talk box. But, he ain’t ugly.”

“No. He’s ugly as hell. Give me my water and get.”

Miss Ethel said I’d be ragged ’bout my scars. “Don’t pay it no mind. Just ignorant people bein’ ignorant.” When I pick my banjo, or even carry it, I don’t pine for Pap or Mandy, nor worry ‘bout my scars. Come tomorrow I’ll sit on the river bank and pick me some tunes.  

Now the evenin’ breeze carries the homey smell of Ida Mae’s bacon. A quarter moon swims in a star-filled sky. Our dogs have stopped barkin’. The mob, good neighbors all, certain they’ve been robbed of hard-earned money they gave the bank for safe-keepin’, are tired from trompin’ through thick gumbo mud and cottonwood thickets with only limb-bruised faces and achin’ legs to show for they’s trouble. Does the fryin’ bacon remind they’s a far piece home and breakfast were some time ago?

Miss Ethel says, “That you, back there, Deacon Charlie Martin?”

“Yes, ma’am. It is.”

Deacon Charlie is a full brother to the new preacher in town, Marvin Martin. Miss Ethel asks, “Deacon, what Bible chapter you studyin’ at White Cloud Baptist this month?”

“That’d be Galatians, ma’am.”

“Ain’t Galatians where the Lord God warns against seekin' worldly goods?”

“It is, ma’am.”

          “I’ve read Galatians. Guess I missed instructions to chase my neighbor through the woods behind dogs so I could hang him. Deacon, me and Ryman lost his inheritance and ever penny we had when the bank went bust. Is Ryman Call out to lynch his neighbor? You teach that at White Cloud Baptist?”

           “No, ma’am.”

“Didn‘t think so. Charlie, you got a long walk home and chores to do when you get there. Here’s yer sack." Miss Ethel kinda pushes his shoulder. “Remember us in prayer, Deacon. We too, have fallen short. Tell Priscilla I’ll be by to borrow her Kentucky Moon quilt pattern one of these days.”

Deacon Martin says, “God bless you woman. You stopped me for bein’ a part of somethin’ I'd hate myself for all my livin’ days. I'm headin' home, boys. You should, too.”  

Men shuffle they’s feet. Some cough and study muddy boots. Things ain’t goin’ smooth. A little bit of a woman in a red and white apron is keepin’ them from hangin’ a thief who stole money they need to plant next year’s crop. All this jawin' makes feet hurt more, bellies growl louder and skeeter bites itch something awful. .

Hiram Pettis says, “Ma’am, I ain’t askin’. I’m tellin’. Get outta the way. We’re gonna hang that thievin’ banker.”

“Hiram, Elliott Ballard ain’t in my house. If Ryman comes home and finds you in his front yard and I report I were called a liar, you’ll pay the price.”

Ryman is Miss Ethel's ace card. He can whup a bar room drunk and any three of these yokels at the same time, and laugh doin’ it. He might ride up any minute.

“Ma’am, we chased this piss-ant all day. Now, we demand justice.”                  

“Justice? That's a fine word, Hiram. Is it justice when you bring a bunch of men onto my property and demand I let ‘em in my house where my babies and maiden daughters sleep? ” Her voice is clear as a whippoorwill’s call. “That ain't justice to my way of thinkin’.”

Her black eyes search the mob. “That you, Bill Whittaker?”

“Good evenin’, ma’am. Sorry. But, it’s me.”

“Bill, ain’t Margie about due?”

“Yes, ma’am. Toward the end of the month.”

“Send for me when her time comes.”

“I will. For certain.”

Miss Ethel asks,“Bill, should Hiram Pettis bust onto my property, land we own, with me and my babies all alone, and my husband in Jeff City?”

“No ma’am. He shouldn’t a done it. I’m ashamed I went ‘long with his blathers like I have.” His deep voice reaches every ear. “We’re all growed men who call ourselves Christians, yet we’re actin’ like ten-year olds who ain’t never read the Word.”

The rich smell of Ida Mae’s bacon dances on the night air remindin’ our visitors they’ve a long trek home on a empty belly and once there, fire wood to chop and a horse trough to caulk and seed onions to cull ‘fore they call it a day.    

Bill Whittaker says, “Miss Ethel you’re more’n welcome at my house at any time, night or day. You’re too good a woman for a man like me to call a friend, but I’d be proud if you'd allow it. I’m plum ashamed of my actions today. May God forgive me.”

Bill’s long strides stir the dust in the road. He’s no more ‘n at the calf pen when Joey Howard says, “Hiram, we looked ‘round some. That thief’s in the house or a shed out back. Want me to turn my dogs loose?”  

Hiram says, “We’re here to hang him. Do what you gotta do.”

Joey’s words pass over the tired men like a fresh breeze. “I git my hands on that thief,” one of them yells, "he'll be sorry he stole money."

Another feller unloops his rope. “Good idee, Joey. We’ll hang him here.”

I reckon what’ll happen next won’t be pretty. Some rough-handed man’ll grab Miss Ethel. Hiram Pettis will lock the rest of us in the root cellar at gun point. Joey’s dogs will leap up on the porch, bust through the screen door, race into the parlor, knock over Miss Ethel's étagère, break her china and get dirt tomorrow’s ironin' dirty. When they don’t find Elliot Barnard, they'll slap Miss Ethel 'til she tells where he is. Then, the y'll yank him from the well, slip a noose ‘round his neck and hang his twitchin’ body from our black oak tree.  It’ll be a nasty sight, I tell you.  

On the porch, Grover Cleveland bends over the flower box. When he straightens, his fists are filled with his rifle. “Turn them dogs loose any time you want, Joey.”

His words ring like a coyote’s call. “I ain’t a dog killer, so I’ll shoot 'em in the spine. They’ll suffer, not die. Think I’m bluffin’? Let ‘em loose.”

The night goes still. Nary a man scratches a chigger bite, nor shifts weight from one sore leg to another. There’s only the splash of a cow answerin’ nature’s call near the pasture fence and the breathin’ of the men and Grover Cleveland’s rifle barrel showin’ from the shadows. They know he won the Yellowbird Thanksgivin’ Turkey Shoot three years straight, so he can back his call.

What'll Hiram Pettis do? Let Grover cripple Joey's dogs? Or fight back? Miss Ethel says, “Son, wait ‘til them dogs are on the grass ‘fore you shoot. Easier to clean up that way.”

Does Hiram doubt Grover Cleveland can aim, fire and re-load his single shot rifle fast enough to hit both dogs ‘fore they tear into the house? His face shines with sweat. Carbide and lantern lights gleam on gun muzzles. Hungry men count the nine chimes our parlor clock strikes. A screech owl screams down by the creek. A hog squeals. Then, it goes quiet as a church in prayer.

“That boy and his single shot rifle don’t scare me,” Hiram says. “We got him out gunned. I’ll count to three. Paul Morris, give him both barrels of yer shot gun. Jack Wilks, grab that mouthy woman. That’ll shut her mouth. ”

As I figgered, blood’s gonna flow. Grover and Miss Ethel will be bad hurt, mebbe killed. The rest of us will be slapped ‘round and Mr. Eliot Barnard gets his neck stretched.

Then, what no one expects, happens. Paul Morris blows out his lantern. “I’ve taken my last order from you, Hiram Pettis. This ain’t right, standin’ in a neighbor’s yard ready to shoot two good hounds tryin’ to lynch a man for doin’ his job. This little woman kicked our ass ‘cause she’s right.”

Mr. Elliot Barnard said earlier that Paul Morris was the one who stirred up the mob. Now, Paul says, “Some of yo’ all come along 'cause I egged you on. Don’t figger you signed on to lynch folks and kill dogs. Ya just want yer money back, like me. But, it gonna happen. The money’s gone, Yours and mine. Elliot Barnard didn’t steal it. Somebody bigger ‘n him did. I made a ass of myself today and I’m sorry. I’m hungry and my feet hurt. I’m goin’ home if my wife will have me. Anyone with a lick of sense, will do the same.”  

Paul shoulders his sack of goodies. At the gate, he says, “The bank snookered us 'cause we’re all edjits in the first degree. When we don’t know how somethin’ works, instead of edjucatin’ ourselves, we grab a gun. Or a noose. No wonder we got hornswoggled by the bank.’ He turns to go, then looks back at Miss Ethel. “Thank ya, ma’am. I owe ya in ways I’ll never be able to pay back.” He lifts his hat and heads for the road.  

“Wait for me, Paul,” calls Ben Shelly. Four or five other men grab sacks and follow him. I ain’t one to say what happened next. Mebbe it were fear that Ryman Call would ride up, find his wife in a dither and knock heads. Or mebbe it were a quarter moon hidin’ behind a silver cloud and bacon perfumin’ the night air and the golden light of a lamp in a window and a pretty girl cookin’ in a cozy kitchen.

Whatever the reason, the evil left them men right then and there. Shot guns are breeched and pipes lit. Some fellers sprawl on the well head, others hunker against the maple tree. John Ruffle asks, “Think that moon’ll bring rain?”  

Hiram Pettis don’t give in easy. “Hold on, boys. Ya such cowards you’d let a woman talk you down?” 

When no one pays him no mind, he says, “I've chores to do.” He heads toward the road like his pants are on fire.

Ray David runs after him. “Here’s the sack Momma fixed ya.”

“Don’t fun me, Boy. I ain’t the coward here.” He disappears into the dark.

In the yard, Joey Howard muzzles his hounds. “Me and Harold will push off, I reckon."

Eight or ten neighbors sit and smoke near the well. Miss Ethel calls to Ida Mae, “Fry some eggs and serve that bacon, girl. We’ve got hungry guests to feed.” She catches my eye and strums her apron. I run for my banjo.

I’ve learned a few songs since Miss Ethel given me my precious instrument last month, so I’m gobsnuckered to pick for folks. I stand on a box ‘neath the maple tree and plunk out, Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star and Old Mac Donald Had a Farm. Then I give Crawdad a go, and follow it with The Soldier’s Lament. That’s all the tunes I know, so I do ‘em over agin and agin. Nobody seems to mind one whit.

Our last guest finishes his coffee, goes to the privy, then heads out. Miss Ethel says, "Let’s pull Mr. Barnard from the well." Me and Grover do. He’s all a shiver, his face scared white.

“Couldn’t hear a damn thing down there. They gone? Am I safe?”

He don’t even say much obliged, just scarfs down two helpins’ of bacon and eggs and chugs coffee. Miss Ethel calls us ‘round her, “Yo’ all done more ‘n good tonight. When Ryman gets home, we've a brag or two for him.”