Authors: Gilbert Morris
“Why, yes, come on in. Hello there,” Jenny said, speaking to the children. They both muttered a sullen reply.
“Come into the kitchen. We’re making fried pies,” Kat said.
“Fried pies? I thought you baked pies,” Devoe Crutchfield said.
“You’ll have to have one, Reverend Crutchfield.”
“I want a fried pie,” six-year-old Jeff said. The boy had black hair like his father and dark eyes, while Dorcas, his sister, had blond hair and blue eyes.
“I get two. I’m bigger than you are,” she said.
“Well, maybe there’ll be enough for everyone. Come on,” Jenny said, eyeing the children. She had seen them misbehave in church and had mentioned to Hannah they needed a good paddling.
When they entered the kitchen, Hannah turned around, surprised. “Why, Reverend Crutchfield!”
“Please, Miss Hannah, call me Brother Crutchfield. It’s the custom here in the South. We don’t care for titles too much.”
“Then Brother Crutchfield it is. Why don’t you sit down and we can have some fresh fried pies.”
The pies went over great, and Devoe Crutchfield had a cup of coffee with his.
“I wish we had some milk,” Hannah said, “but we don’t have a cow.”
Crutchfield grew thoughtful. “You know, I think I know where you might get a cow, and she’s coming in fresh too.”
“We can’t afford to buy one right now,” Hannah said regretfully.
“I think this one wouldn’t cost you anything. There’s a family called Logan. They live up north of you just a ways. They come to our church.”
“I know Martha Logan,” Kat said quickly. “She’s in my class. She’s nice.”
“Well, they’ve got a tree they want taken down and cut up, and Mack told me that if somebody did the job, he’s got a nice cow for them.”
“I’ll bet Clint could do it—him and Josh,” Kat said quickly. “Then I’d get to learn to milk.”
“I’ll look into it,” Hannah said. “It would be nice to have fresh milk.”
Crutchfield moved his cup around and stared down into the depths of it as if it were a crystal ball. He seemed disturbed, and finally he said, “I want to thank you, Kat, for taking up for my children.”
“Well, that old Johnny Satterfield is mean.”
“Yes, I guess he is. He’s a bully.”
“If I was bigger, I would have whupped him.”
“Well, don’t do that again,” Crutchfield said, smiling, “but I do want you to know how grateful I am.” He looked over at the two women and said, “I’ll tell you what. I need some exercise. I’ve got a saw and an ax. If Mr. Longstreet wants to take that tree down, I’ll help him.”
“Why, you don’t have to do that, Brother Crutchfield,” Hannah said.
“Be good for me.”
Jenny turned to Kat. “Why don’t you take the kids and play pick-up-sticks with them.”
This turned out to be quite interesting, for both children, as Kat discovered, were spoiled to the bone. They argued about everything, and the game required a strong referee.
Crutchfield remained at the table and finally said, “I had another motive in coming here. I’m looking for someone to help me.”
“Help you how?” Hannah asked.
“Well, I need a housekeeper, of sorts. Someone who’ll come in the afternoon and clean up the house.” He sighed and said, “I’m so busy it gets to be kind of a mess, I’m afraid.”
Jenny said, “Why, I’d be glad to help you out, Brother Crutchfield.” Actually Jenny was tired of the work around the farm and thought it would be nice to have a little ready cash.
“Do you think you might manage to come in the afternoon and do some cleaning and pick the kids up at school—and then maybe cook a meal?” He smiled sourly. “I’ve been eatin’ my own cookin’ so long I’m about to make us all sick. Of
course, I couldn’t pay much. You know Baptist preachers aren’t rich.”
Jenny made up her mind on the spot. “I’ll be glad to do what I can, but I’m not the cook that Hannah is.”
“You’re better than I am, I’d guess.” A look of relief washed across the minister’s face. “Will tomorrow be too soon?”
“No, I’ll be there at noon.”
After the preacher and his children had left, Hannah said, “Are you sure you want to do that, Jenny?”
“It would be a nice change of pace. But you’ll have to teach me how to cook some, Hannah.”
“Well, I don’t know much myself, but Miss Dolly can cook anything. Maybe she’ll give you lessons.” She thought about the minister and said, “He’s lonely, isn’t he?”
“Who isn’t?”
“But we have each other. All he’s got are those two children.”
“And he’s doing a sorry job with them. They’re spoiled rotten.”
Hannah shook her head. “Well, he clearly needs help.”
“Yes, and we need the money,” Jenny said. “Never thought I’d be taking a job, but things have changed for us, and we’ve all got to do what we can to pitch in.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Josh and Dora
Josh sat quietly at the table eating the pancakes Jenny and Hannah had made, listening as the rest of the family talked. He had grown silent since his visit to the Skinners, and he slept little at nights. His conscience twisted in him like a sharp knife, but that did not stop him from sneaking off to the Skinners to buy his whiskey. He listened as Jenny spoke of going to the preacher’s house, then asked, “What are you going to his house for?”
Jenny turned to him and shook her head, an odd look on her face. “I never thought it’d come to this, Josh, but I’m going to be a housekeeper for Brother Crutchfield.” She laughed. “Quite a comedown in the world. I feel like a tragic character in a Shakespeare play.”
“It isn’t that bad,” Hannah interjected. “The poor man needs help with those two kids, and I’ll bet that house looks like a cyclone went through it.”
“When do you start?” Josh asked, spearing a morsel of pancake and chewing it thoughtfully.
“Today at twelve o’clock.”
“I’ll take you in the truck,” Lewis offered.
Josh’s conscience might have been in poor shape, but his mind worked rapidly. “Dad, I forgot to tell you I had an offer to make a little money moving some hay for a man named Collins. Let me take Jenny in, and then I’ll move the hay and pick her up when she gets off.”
Lewis was pleased. Josh had shown no interest whatsoever
in helping with the family’s finances. “That’s fine, son. I’m glad to hear it.”
His father’s obvious pride disturbed Josh.
If he knew what I was really doing, he’d probably order me out of the house,
he thought bitterly. He continued to eat slowly, and after his last bite of pancake he got up and said, “I’m going to work on that fence. If we ever get any cattle, we’ll have to have it.”
Clint looked up with surprise. “Well, that’s fine, Josh. You and me together can slap that fence together in no time.”
Josh went out to the fields, and as if in penance, he worked harder that morning than he had since they had arrived at the farm. Clint spoke of some of his adventures on the road, and Josh was surprised to find himself liking the fellow. He had been resentful of Longstreet almost from the beginning because the tall man made him feel inadequate. Now he threw himself into the work and was surprised when Clint looked up and said, “It’s almost eleven o’clock. I expect you’d better go in if you’re going to get Jenny to that preacher’s house on time.”
“It has gotten late. You coming in?”
“I’ll just go ahead and get the last of this section.”
“I’ll see you later, Clint.”
As Josh made his way toward the house, he thought,
There’s still time to get out of this. I haven’t actually done anything yet, but if I get caught selling it, it’ll be the penitentiary for me.
He shoved this thought out of his mind because he had run out of whiskey the day before, and now, almost eagerly, he looked forward to making enough money to buy more—and to leaving this place if he could get enough money together.
****
Josh pulled the truck up in front of Reverend Crutchfield’s home and said, “All right, Jenny, I’ll pick you up at six o’clock sharp.”
“Don’t be late, Josh. I don’t want to have to walk home.”
“I won’t. Don’t let those little devils get the best of you.”
“They’re only kids. Surely I’m tough enough to handle a six-year-old and an eight-year-old.”
Josh nodded, waved, and drove away. As he left town he pulled the map Dora had given him from his overalls pocket. He spread it out on the seat beside him and glanced at it while he drove. Dora had written directions underneath it with surprisingly good penmanship.
He headed south for two miles, looking for a barn with Rock Island Salt painted on the side of it. As soon as he saw it, he slowed down and began looking to the left. Dora had told him it would be hard to see the road, for it was overgrown and barely wide enough to permit a vehicle.
“It’s an old logging road,”
she had said,
“and it’s all grown over, but you can get a truck in there.”
He almost missed the road, but he stopped, backed up, and then carefully nosed the ancient vehicle off the road between two towering stands of timber. He drove very slowly, hoping no one had seen him leave the highway. He had checked carefully, but you never could tell when a hunter might be around. The serpentine road snaked through the woods, and he muttered, “It’s a good thing there aren’t any other turnoffs. I would have gotten lost a long time ago.”
Finally he reached an open spot where the timber had been cleared off.
“What next?” he said, picking up the map. Dora had written,
Look for a pine tree split into two at the edge of the old timber to your right.
He turned the truck to the right, driving over the seedlings that had sprung up since the trees had been harvested. He had not driven more than a hundred yards before he saw it. Without shutting off the engine, he leaped out and entered the shadow of the trees. It was just after noon, and the sun shone brightly in the clearing, but here the towering trees blotted out the light. Underneath the trees, the ground was soft with fallen needles. The last direction had said,
Go twenty steps, and you will see a tarpaulin. The whiskey is under it.
He found the cache almost at once and quickly pulled the tarpaulin back. The whiskey was in jugs of various sizes, many of them two- or three-gallon containers. He tucked a smaller one under his arm and grabbed the crooked handles of two larger ones. He made his way back out to the clearing, looked around, and saw no one. Quickly he set the jugs down, opened the back gate of the truck, and pushed the whiskey in as far as he could reach. He ran back and got more, working feverishly for the next half hour. Finally the last jug was loaded on the truck, and he ran back to get the tarp. Returning with the heavy canvas, he leaped into the truck bed and pushed all the jugs toward the cab. The jugs being made of glass and stoneware, he wondered how he would keep from breaking them. “I should have thought to bring something to keep them from shifting,” he muttered.
He packed them together as tightly as he could, then threw the tarp over them and tucked the edges firmly under the jugs. “I should have brought some hay or something to disguise this load. If they stop me, I’m a goner.”
He shut the rear gate of the truck, got back into the cab, and turned very slowly. He drove even more slowly as he was leaving, not wanting to break any of the bottles.
When he got to the highway again, he paused at the edge of the woods and looked. No one was coming in either direction. Down the road he saw smoke from the chimney of a house but no cars. Inching the truck forward, he got back on the highway and then sped up. He found he was gripping the wheel so hard his hands were cramping, and he leaned back and forced himself to relax.
He picked up the paper and turned it over. He found the directions to the spot where the first delivery was to be made. He had studied it carefully, but now he was extremely nervous as he moved down the road. Several times he passed cars and trucks, and more than once he moved over to pass a wagon pulled by a team of mules. The delivery spot was thirty miles away, and he glanced down at the gas gauge, which was close
to empty. His heart sank. “Should have gotten gas,” he whispered desperately. He kept checking the gauge as he followed the directions, and finally he pulled off the highway down a narrow road to a farmhouse. He drove up to the front and got out.
A pleasant-looking man came out the front door and said, “Howdy, what can I do for you?”
“My name is Winslow.” Josh was not sure if the man had been told his name, and he did not know how to ask if he was at the right place. Just the wrong word here, and he would wind up in jail for a long time.
“Why, shore, Simon told me you’d be comin’. Why don’t you pull around to the barn back behind the house.”
Weak with relief, Josh nodded. He drove the truck around, and the farmer, who said his name was Foss, unloaded a third of the whiskey.
Foss pulled some bills from the back pocket of his overalls. “I got the money right here.” Josh took the cash and nodded. He studied the man’s face to see any signs of guilt, but Foss might have been buying watermelons for all that his face showed. He said cheerfully, “Tell Simon I’ll need another batch in about a week, maybe two.”
“I’ll tell him,” Josh said, then jumped in the truck and gunned the engine. Remembering the jugs remaining in the back, he slowed down and consulted his map again.
He did not relax until he had made two more deliveries. In each case the recipient of the whiskey paid him, and he felt the bulge of the bills against his thigh deep in his pocket. When he left the last location and headed for home, the pressure left him.
It was only four o’clock when he was within two miles of the Summerdale city limits, so he decided to go to the Skinners’ first, give them the money, and buy a jug for himself. When he was turning off the highway toward the Skinner place, he saw a car pull out from where it had been hidden behind a clump of tall grass. His heart beat faster. “It looks
like the law,” he muttered. He pulled over to one side as they blew the horn, and the car nosed up behind him. Two men, wearing guns on their hips with their overcoats drawn back, approached him. One of them, a thickset man with a massive neck, said, “Howdy.”