The Run for the Elbertas (16 page)

Jabe and Shridy were uneasy about the note which expressed a warmth they did not feel, sent by one they had yet to know. They had weighed the words, looking startled and speechless into each other's eyes. This was Rein's wife, their daughter-in-law, they kept reminding themselves. The spouse of their son's choosing. But she was not their choice. They had chosen Willa, had counted on his return to claim her. But they must acknowledge Rein's woman, accept her, stranger though she be.

Rein's wife had written a letter after their marriage in June; in July there was another in her small, slanted script. There was none of Rein's stubby scrawling on the pages. Willa had read the letters aloud, for Shridy could not read and handwriting confused Jabe. They had listened quietly. After the second letter Shridy had spoken her fear. “Be it Rein doesn't write the next time, hit's a sure sign his wife is going to do all the talking from now till Kingdom Come. He'll be lost to us.”

Jabe drew back his chair and sat down. “We oughten to put these dishes away and just use 'em for company,” he said. “They won't wear out before we're gone from the world. They're from him, recollect.” Shridy's eyes followed the long pattern of the tablecloth as she sank into her chair and folded her hands into a knot in her lap. The letter with the small, slanted script was like a scorpion in her bosom.

In mid-afternoon they sat upon the front porch. The sun had swollen above the hills and now its yellow mask shone dull as hammered metal. The hound's breathing came up through the puncheon floor in moist gasps. There was no movement along the creekbed road. Nothing except the mail hack had passed during the day. The silence and the yellowness swallowed the valley. A jar-fly fiddled in the maple shading the yard and buttery croaks of a frog sounded from the meadow.

“Hit takes a day like this to bresh up the mind and keep us beholden to the Almighty,” Jabe said. “Not many of them as gilded as His throne He lets us see in our day and time.”

Shridy swung back and forth in her rockingchair, her right hand resting upon her bosom. When it seemed the letter would jump out of itself she drew it forth and held it out to Jabe. “It's from them,” she said.

Jabe jerked toward her. “Who writ it?” he asked impatiently.

“Hit's from her,” Shridy said. Jabe sank back into his seat in sudden weariness. His hands clenched the chairposts.

The cows began to gather at the pasture gate. They waited without lowing. Jabe rose slowly from his chair and walked toward the barn. The path curved among the hillocks of earth, running before him into the hills. Little Angus Creek was molten gold. Not a wing stirred in the yellow air.

The Fun Fox

T
HE day I opened the Keg Branch School I rolled my sleeves to display my muscles, and I kept a pointing-stick handy.

Keg Branch was in the upper part of the county—'the jumping-off-place,' some folk call it. The highway played out miles this side, and the creek bed served as the road. The behavior at the school was notorious; but I was eighteen, anxious to undertake my first teaching job, and the Keg Branch position was the only one open.

The superintendent of county schools had given me ample warning. “All sorts of chicanery will be attempted,” he had said, “even to riding you on a rail. Yet my rule is: a rail ride is a discharge, for a teacher must stay master. And an old citizen may plague this term—one I angered by my refusal to authorize a new schoolhouse. The building is in bad condition, I'm bound to admit. Still, I'll not sanction another until the children mend their ways. He swore he'd bring a fool's look to somebody's face.”

“The children won't wrap me around their thumbs,” I had boasted, “and I'll get at the root of the trouble. I'll stand shy of the old fellow.”

“They've run off even experienced teachers,” the superintendent had explained, “but I feel I should give you a trial, in spite of my doubt you can last. Prove me wrong if you can, and hang on at least until I find a substitute.”

The surprise that greeted me when I arrived on Keg Branch took me aback. The schoolhouse was brand-new! It
sat on the foundation of the old one, upon a wedge of land between a cliff and a swamp and the creek, with scarcely space, as the saying goes, to swing a hungry cat. My surprise was so great that the lack of a playground didn't strike me at once. At Argus Bagley's where the teacher customarily lodged, I expressed my astonishment over the building.

Argus explained, “Up until a few sessions ago, the discipline of the scholars was fair, but for some reason it worsened. They've turned the school into a hurrah's nest. We rebuilt in the expectation it might improve matters.”

I inquired, “Why was it done without the county's support and knowledge?”

Argus chuckled. “Ever hear of Mace Crownover?”

I shook my head, wondering.

“Well, you're in his territory,” Argus said. “The new building was his notion, and when the superintendent refused to help, the community humored Mace by providing lumber and labor. What Mace wants he usually gets.”

Then I knew. “I've heard mention of Crownover,” I said. “He's got the superintendent fooled, certainly.”

“Confounding folks is Old Mace's trade,” Argus said. “What that fun fox will do is beyond guessing. Still, he's not so feisty as he used to be, not so ready with pranking and telling tales. Declares his wife is beginning to draw a tight rein and that he's on the borders of swearing off tricks and tales for life. No matter. If ever you cross his path, keep your eyes skinned.”

“I understand he's apt to make my job the harder,” I said.

“Oh, I reckon not,” Argus said. “Yet I doubt he'd let pass a chance to hocus any person. Always up to mischief, that's his history. Why, right now he has a forty-dollar collect package in the post office and he vows he'll clear it. He'll clear it, says he, and I'd swear he hasn't a cent to his pocket. A trick, I'd bet my ears.”

“What does the package contain?” I inquired, mildly curious.

Argus grinned. “He says it's for him to know and for us to find out.”

Forty-eight children, ranging in age from six to sixteen, from tads in the primer to overgrown eighth-graders, attended school the first day, and they came with eyes gleaming. They acted as I'd been told to expect. Spitballs rained, erasers zoomed, tricks were rife. Antics were pulled under my very nose, though catch a body I could not. Unwittingly I wore a sign on my back: “Hello the rabbit!” They laughed when I flexed my arms, when I whistled the pointing-stick, when I threatened or scolded. A good thing Mace Crownover didn't show up, for I already had my hands full.

The next day, I learned I was truly in for a bug race. A chair collapsed under me, soot blackened my fingers when I reached into a crayon box, the pointing-stick broke when I lifted it. Wasps in my lunch basket stung me, and the water in the well turned inky.

Again I caught nobody at mischief—none save a primer child sewing together the pockets of a coat I'd hung on a peg. Bad deportment to the contrary, the children were eager and bright at their studies, and they were respectful toward the new building, neither marking nor scarring it. At recess and at noon they jostled in the small area before the door. There was no room for even marble games or hopscotch, and I gazed covetously at Argus Bagley's posted land across the creek. Argus was the principal landowner in the section.

They kept me walking on pencils the week long, and such was my torment I almost forgot about Mace Crownover. Thorns were in my chair, cockleburs in my pockets, a fresh bouquet of sneezeweeds atop my desk daily. My hat was regularly glued to the wall, and a greased plank sprawled me twice. Yet the scamps were cunning enough to escape detection.

However, on Thursday afternoon I found a clue to their misbehavior. A student read a theme, which began: “A man
bought a horse off Mace Crownover. The critter was blue or green or purple. You couldn't tell which. You couldn't learn till rain washed away the pokeberry and madder dye. The beast was gray. Gray as teeth.”

The children listened, eyes round and mouths ajar. At the completion one said, “Old Mace's tricks are the best a-going.”

And another chirruped, “Ought to hear him taletell. He can spin them from now till Sunday, and every word the truth.”

I thought, Ah-ha, so it's Crownover's example they're following. I hushed them abruptly and would permit no further mention of him. The children took it ill. They batted their eyes at each other and closed their textbooks with a snap. They acted as though the final day of the term had come.

And Friday morning, on opening the door, I discovered a fence rail leaning in a corner.

I knew by now I couldn't fend off four-dozen children. The eighth-graders alone could handle me. But come what may, I'd not surrender without a tussle. I'd stick till the last pea hopped out of the pod. I ignored the rail, feigning not to see it, and I schemed to delay the reckoning. I conducted a three-hour spelling bee—spelling was their delight. I skipped recess and held the lunch period indoors, in the meantime reading to them from
Tom Sawyer.
I read all afternoon, and they could not tear their ears away. Thus I squeezed through till closing.

In the evening, while I was cudgeling my mind to decide what to do Monday, Argus brought a message. He reported: “Old Mace announces he'll clear the package at the post office tomorrow, and he's inviting the doubters to come witness it. Says he wants the schoolteacher there in particular.”

I replied bitterly, “He's setting the stage for a hoax.”

Argus chuckled, “That fox would saw off a toe for a laugh. He's the cat's beard.”

“In my opinion,” I blurted, “he's the downfall of the Keg Branch School.”

Argus jerked his chin, surprised at my accusation, and he defended Crownover. “Had it not been for him, you'd be teaching in a shack,” he said. “Squirrels used to steal the lunches through the cracks. Come a high wind, shingles scattered like leaves. Walk the floor, you made a noise like a nest of crickets.”

To argue would serve no purpose, I decided. I smothered my rancor and said, “The package doesn't concern me.”

“A trick, naturally,” Argus said, “and he may pull it on you. Nevertheless, be on hand and show you're not bluffed out. Remember that courage goes a long way in this community.”

Though tempted, I said, “I've borne enough misdoings for one week.”

“Humor the old gent,” Argus advised. “I'll go along and start him talking so he won't rack you too heavy. Go, and count it a part of your education.”

The post office occupied a corner of the general store just above the schoolhouse. Saturday morning early, when Argus and I arrived, the counters and feed bags and barrels were covered with men, and the crowd overflowed onto the porch. Argus found a seat on a sack of salt, and Zack Tate, postmaster and merchant, furnished a crate for me to sit on. A stool stood bare, awaiting Mace.

Argus proposed to Zack, “Let's try loosening Mace's tongue. Before he locks his lips absolutely, we ought to hear him relate one more tale.”

Zack agreed. “Say we do. We'll try, though it seems nowadays his wife has him twisted down tighter'n a nut on a bolt.”

The crowd smiled expectantly.

“You believe he'll have money enough to free the package?” someone asked.

Zack said, “He's just wagging you fellers. Haven't you learned that?”

“I know him well enough not to read him off too quick,” came the reply.

A man inquired, “Anybody made a reasonable guess what's in the bundle?”

“Maybe the devil's eyeteeth,” a joker said.

Time passed. Eight o'clock came without a glimpse of Mace. At eight-thirty, the mail rider reported he'd seen nobody along the creek road. By nine, the men had become restless.

To hold them, Argus said, “Mace is giving the crowd a while to swarm and will appear right shortly.”

Right as a rabbit's foot! It wasn't long before a cry arose outside. “Yonder comes Old Scratch!” And presently Mace was standing in the doorway. The walk had winded him, and he was panting. He was about sixty-five years of age, widefaced and bushy-browed. His eyes were as blue as a marsh wren's eggs in a ball of grass.

Argus shoved the post office stool forward, greeting, “You're late, Old Buddy. Sit and rest and give an account of yourself.”

“I promised my wife I'd do my duty and hurry home,” Mace answered. He scanned the crowd, his gaze settling on me.

“What antic delayed you?” Argus baited. “Confess up.”

“Why, I'm a changed character,” Mace snorted. He accepted the offered seat, still looking in my direction. When he'd regained his breath he addressed me, “I figure you're the new teacher.”

I nodded coldly.

“I'm hoping to thresh out and settle a matter today,” he spoke gravely.

Zack Tate broke in, “The package is ready any time you are, Mace.”

“It'll preserve an extra minute,” Mace replied.

Argus caught his chance. “Tell us a big one while you rest. Tell of the occasion you turned the tables on the town barber after he'd short-shaved you.”

Mace jerked his head as if slapped. “Never in life has a razor touched my jaws.”

“You singe them off, aye?”

“Now, no,” Mace said. “I climb a tree, tie my whiskers to a limb, and jump out.” While the crowd guffawed, he pinned me with a stern glare and said, “The word comes the scholars are running you bowlegged. Still, their behavior has improved mightily over last session. Not a window broken, not a desk whittled, not a peephole drilled through the walls.”

Argus spoke quickly to draw Mace's attention. “Come on and relate some rusty you've pulled and we'll not bother you more. You be the chooser. Anything.”

Mace's eyes sparkled despite himself. “Let me name the word 'rusty' and my woman will wring my neck. And remember, I'm trying to conquer my trifling.”