 
Decatur Clary,  
a literary sampler

### by Decatur Clary

### Smashwords edition

### Copyright 2015 by R.A. Olmstead, publisher

### All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form whatsoever without prior written permission of the author or publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

### All characters in this book are figments of the author's imagination and bear no relation to anyone with the same name or names. Any resemblance to anyone known or unknown to the author, living or dead, are purely coincidental and accidental. All of the locations are fictional, even if they share the names of places that are not.

### This work would have been impossible without the assistance of my editor, graphic artist and sternest critic; my wife, Laura.

### Thank you for downloading this e-book. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes.  
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Table of Contents

Who is Decatur Clary?

The Calling

Willa and Buddy

Grandpa's Shortcut

The Agreement

If you liked these stories, you are going to love:

Connect with Decatur

### Who is Decatur Clary?

The first Decatur Clary was my husband's third great-grandfather; a man who lived his life on the frontier of northwestern Florida and died in 1896, known to us now only by a cracked gravestone in an isolated cemetery in Okaloosa County.

### The second Decatur Clary was raised as an Air Force brat and grew up in many places but always has felt most at home in his mother's Florida. He hears poems in the sea breezes and sees the stories of those who came before him in the tendrils of Spanish moss that drip from the live oak trees.

### Here, we have raised our children and built our lives.

Out of this sultry air he has created the Corbeaus of '7 Crows a Secret' and the Steeles of 'the Lady Lu' and they have become as much a part of our lives now as the people we see daily.

### We hope that you will enjoy Decatur's stories, as you get to know the people of our world.

### In keeping with his choice of a nom de plume, I will sign this with the name of the first Decatur's wife.

Mary Clary

Tallahassee, Florida

### The Calling

Excerpted from the novel '7 crows a Secret'

### By Decatur Clary
1855 – Walton County, Florida

"Mercy, look at all the people!" Honor said.

For the last few miles, the traffic had been thickening. First, there was another wagon, then two, then people appeared from the woods, walking, riding or driving farm wagons and buggies. Like droplets, they became a stream that flowed into an opening in the fence where the rails had been thrown down.

Edward whistled appreciatively.

"Looks like everbody for six counties is here," he said.

"You keep a tight rein on that horse," Everett said.

"I can handle her," Edward said.

"Yes, sir," Julie corrected him.

Edward shot her a peevish look, but repeated:

"Yes, sir."

"Look at the tent!" Jenny exclaimed.

On the other side of the fence, there was an open pasture beside the river. In the center of the clearing was a large canvas tent without walls, strung with bunting, flags, and signs proclaiming the availability of salvation within.

"Remember yourself, pet," Julie said in a low voice.

Jenny copied Julie and sat up straight with her hands folded in her lap, looking around casually.

Everett worked the wagon through the congestion caused by people gravitating around the tent, while Honor and Julie waved to friends and relations, and Jenny absorbed everything with big jade green eyes. Edward followed the wagon, slouching nonchalantly and hoping everyone noticed he was riding a horse and not a mule.

"Sweet Jesus," Everett swore softly, "This is worse than town on Saturday."

"It'll get better once you get past the crowd," Honor said.

"It better," Everett rumbled. "I can't stand all these people. Can't draw a good breath."

Once they pushed through the crowd around the tent, there was open space to spread out in and the camps were further apart. Everett directed Edward to a shady spot under a water oak near the edge of the woods, and they stopped the wagon under the tree.

"All right then," Everett said, checking his pocket watch. "Good time too."

"We have plenty of time to eat before first call," said Honor looking at her pendant watch.

Everett and Edward unhitched the mules and unsaddled the horse while Jenny helped Julie and Honor unload and setup their camp.

Jenny noticed him first. She whispered excitedly to Julie.

"Here come Mr. Otis, Miss Julie."

"Where?" Julie said, looking around quickly. "Goodness, I ain't even had time to wash the dust off my face!" She stepped behind the wagon to straighten her clothing and give her face a quick dusting with her handkerchief.

A tall boy, whose clothes suggested a recent growth spurt, approached the front of the wagon.

"Howdy, Mr. Corbeau," he said.

Everett looked at him and searched his memory, unbuckling the harness straps without needing to see.

"You Jackson's boy, ain't you?"

"Yes suh. Otis, suh."

"How's your ma and pa? Y'all satisfied with that land?" Everett asked.

"Hey, Otis," Edward greeted him over the mule.

"Hey, Eddie. Yes suh, Pa thinks we can do real good here. They around here somewhere. I thought I'd see if y'all could use some help, setting up."

"No, I think we got it," Everett said.

"Oh."

Everett let him dangle for a moment before adding:

"You might see if the ladies can use some help, though."

Otis brightened.

"Yes suh, I will, suh. Thank you, suh."

Everett smiled wryly and shook his head, but only the mules saw him.

"Hey," Otis said.

"Hey," Julie said.

Jenny waited, but Otis appeared not to notice her. She cleared her throat.

"He'll get around to us in a second," Honor said.

Otis blushed and ducked his head.

"Afternoon, Mrs. Corbeau, Jenny," he said. "I... thought... if I could help..."

"Yes, we could certainly use some help," Julie accepted quickly, shooting a warning look at Honor and Jenny. "If you could help me with this ground cloth..."

"I'm going visiting," Honor said. "Otis, if you need some heavy lifting done, you just sing out. I'll be around."

"Huh?" Otis said.

"She's teasing," Julie explained, as they spread out the ground cloth.

"Well," she said, straightening up. "I guess we need to gather some firewood. Jenny, can you unpack the baskets with the cold lunch in them?"

"Yes'm," Jenny said with a wide grin. "Y'all don't need to hurry."

Edward took the animals down to the river for water.

Everett took off his black coat and folded it over the side of the wagon bed. He pulled out his pipe and tobacco from the coat pocket, packed and lit his pipe. He watched Jenny for a minute and listened to her softly singing to herself as she set out the lunch. Everett looked around as he dug into one of his pants pockets. He walked to the back of the wagon where Jenny was.

"Here," he said as he took her hand and tucked a coin into Jenny's palm. "Gram wants you to have some spending money."

Jenny looked in her hand.

"A dime!" she exclaimed, looking at Everett. "A whole dime I can spend myself?"

"It's from Gram Honor," he said uncomfortably, looking around. He knelt down and spoke seriously to her. "Now, you be good, y'hear? You stay close by Julie, and don't talk to no strangers. You understand?"

"Yes, Papa ... Mr. Everett."

"That's right." He nodded. "We ain't home, and these ain't our people. We don't need no trouble."

"Yes sir," Jenny agreed quietly. "No trouble."

Jenny was sitting and sewing, leaned against the truck of the tree, when Otis and Julie returned. They were both red faced and looked disproportionately pleased with themselves, considering the puny amount of firewood they had collected.

"Mr. Everett went visiting," Jenny said, storing her needle in the cloth. "Can we go look around some?"

Otis knelt and started stacking wood for the fire.

"Wait until Eddie gets back," Julie said. "Y'all can walk around while you fetch a pail of water from the river."

Jenny looked at her questioningly, but Julie had difficulty taking her eyes off Otis to notice. Jenny sighed and shook her head.

Fortunately, Edward soon appeared.

"Eddie, will you go with me? Miss Julie wants a pail of water and I want to look around some."

"Yes, Eddie," Julie asked pointedly. "We can eat lunch when y'all get back."

"I just come from the river," Edward said. "I don't wanna go back. Why don't you take her?"

Julie's eyes were starting to narrow when Otis spoke up.

"I'll go with you," he said. "You carry the bucket down, I'll carry it back."

"Deal!" Jenny grinned.

"We'll all go," Julie said, looking meaningfully at Edward. "Won't we, Edward?"

Edward smelled the storm gathering on the horizon and was quick to agree.

Julie looked around and located Honor at a neighboring campsite. Julie lifted the bucket and pointed to it.

"Gram," she said.

Honor looked over and got the message, responding with a wave before returning to her conversation.

Edward and Jenny carried the bucket between them and followed Julie and Otis, watching every move they made, sensitive to every nuance of the interplay between the older pair. Although they were nearly as interested in the courtship as the principal participants, the difference allowed them to recognize some of the absurd facets of the rituals. Edward whispered wisecracks into Jenny's ear, who struggled to contain her giggles. Otis and Julie ignored them both.

Julie and Otis remained a respectable distance apart most of the time, only occasionally brushing their hands together as they walked. She carried the bulk of the conversation and seemed to have developed an insatiable curiosity about the most mundane aspects of Otis's life.

He answered her questions without consideration, for he was only interested in looking at her. He would have preferred to be silent and simply stare at her, but the conventions of society discouraged such an embarrassing display of public affection. Instead, they made meaningless conversation as an excuse to look at each other.

The campground was rapidly filling with people, camps and wagons. This was the third and final day of the revival, and people were eager to absorb as much salvation, or glean as much profit, as possible. Vendors walked through the grounds hawking food, drink, and souvenirs, loudly advertising their goods.

Jenny inspected all of their offerings carefully, weighing each against her dime. But, in the end, she rejected them all as inferior to the thrill of having a real silver coin.

Raucous laughter drew Julie's attention to a crowd bunched around a wagon parked at the edge of the trees. A burly bearded man stood in the wagon bed and two other bearded men hovered around the rear of the wagon, laughing and talking loudly with a small group of men clustering there.

"Who's that?" Julie asked.

"That's the Armbruster brothers," Otis said uncomfortably. "The big fellow there's called 'Arm-buster' Armbruster. Those are his brothers, in back there. They showed up a little after we got here this morning."

"They certainly seem to be enjoying themselves."

Otis blushed.

"Maybe too much. Ma said they was moonshiners, selling that pop-skull whiskey."

Julie looked startled.

"At a revival? Why don't somebody make them stop?"

Otis shrugged.

"Pa says they ain't hurting nobody, they keeping it out in the woods. He told Ma to mind her own business."

Julie stiffened.

"Well, it ain't proper."

"No, it ain't," Otis said. "But it ain't worth fighting them three over, neither."

At the appointed hour, a bell was rung outside the big tent to announce afternoon services. The people doused their fires and made their way to the tent, humming with excitement as they filed in and sorted themselves out among the rows of benches.

Jenny held onto Julie's hand and pressed close against her as they followed Everett into the tent. Her jade green eyes were wide and darted around, trying to see everything. Everett stopped at a bench and let Edward, Honor, Jenny and Julie go in before him. He took the aisle seat and took off his hat, smoothing his hair back with one hand.

A curtain closed off one end of the tent, and there was a raised stage set up in front of the curtain. To one side an elderly woman, wearing a bonnet decorated with silk flowers, played softly on the piano while the choir arranged themselves at the back of the stage.

In the center of the stage, Jenny saw the three preachers. One was a round man with long gray whiskers on his chin, a clean-shaven upper lip and a shiny baldhead. Jenny thought him kindly looking, even a little funny. He wore rectangular glasses that would slide down his nose until they nearly slipped off the tip of his nose before he would catch them and push them back up in front of his eyes. Then they would start their downward journey again. She admired his black frock coat and pinstriped pants. His face was fat and flushed, and she thought the fingers caressing his Bible were as plump as sausages.

The second preacher was so different from the first Jenny was taken aback. He was tall, thin and rawboned, dressed entirely in black except for a boiled white shirt. He wore a black string tie and his hands were knotted and scarred. Like Papa Everett's, Jenny thought, workingman's hands. But what struck her the hardest were his eyes. Deep set and hooded, his eyes burned with an intensity that he struggle to contain, his Adam's apple bobbing spastically even when he was not talking. Jenny was scared of what he might have to say.

She looked to the third preacher for relief. He was considerably younger than the other preachers, with dark curly hair, soft blue eyes and a Cupid's bow mouth. He immediately became Jenny's favorite, without even speaking. His dark brown coat and tan pants looked well cut, and she noticed his hands were smooth, with long manicured fingers.

"The old one's Brother Simon," Honor leaned towards Julie and spoke over Jenny's head. "We saw him four, five years ago. Which one do you think is Brother John or Joseph?"

"The thin one looks like he's been living on locusts and wild honey," Julie whispered back. "The young one sure is pretty."

"Not as pretty as Otis," Jenny whispered.

Honor and Julie smiled and Julie took Jenny's hand.

"Otis is handsome," Julie whispered. "He's a man."

Jenny didn't understand the difference, but she had to admit the young preacher was uncommonly pretty for a man.

Brother Simon smiled and waved to the people in the crowd with casual confidence and genuine joy. The second preacher, Brother John, sat stiffly silent, glaring intently and clutching his Bible to his chest, nervously bobbing his Adam's apple. Brother Joseph gazed off into the distance, over the heads of the crowd, and smiling softly at something floating in another ethereal plane.

Jenny noticed the woman in the flowered bonnet playing the piano was also studying the crowd. At some point, she judged the tent sufficiently filled, even though latecomers still roamed the tent looking for bench space. She nodded to the five-person choir in their white choral robes, and pounded down on her piano, shattering the serenity. The choir stepped onto the stage and burst into a hymn.

Caught by surprise, the crowd struggled to their feet and joined in the song. When the choir and piano concluded, all the music stopped. Left standing and not knowing what to do, people looked to see if their neighbors were sitting down. No one wanted to be the first so they all stood.

Unleashed for his restraints, Brother John bound to the center of the stage.

"Hallelujah, Brothers and Sisters! Let us pray for the wisdom that passes all understanding. Pray that you may open our hearts to receive the Lord, and un-stopper your ears that you might hear His Call!"

He closed his eyes and launched into a prayer filled with dire warnings about the fate of anyone who died before accepting Jesus Christ as their personal savior. He lingered long over the torments awaiting these souls upon their arrival in Hell, as promised with certainty in the Bible. His voice was high-pitched and piercing, and rose as his prayer intensified. He went on to list a majority of the sins that afflict humanity and the everlasting damnation that awaited everyone who indulged in them. Jenny listened closely, for many of the sins were new to her.

Finally, at the end of his prayer, Brother John grudgingly admitted that there was one small hope for forgiveness, tonight only, if the congregation had the wit to recognize the opportunity and the courage to take it. Jenny wondered what the opportunity was and worried she might miss out on it.

When Brother John had finished with a loud 'Amen', the crowd gratefully appended their 'Amen' and raised their heads, glancing around surreptitiously to see if any sinners had burst into flames yet, or were at least smoldering from embarrassment.

Jenny sat back down with Julie and Honor, folding her hands in her lap and looked to the stage.

Brother Simon stepped forward.

"Thank'ye, Brother John, for those words of warning." He nodded to Brother John, who ducked his head in reply. Brother Simon looked out over the audience and chuckled. "I reckon anyone not serious about saving their soul has run off or burst into flame."

The crowd laughed and Jenny unclenched her hands, thinking this might not be so bad after all.

The old man was a teacher and well versed in Biblical lore. He spoke in a smooth baritone, honed by years of experience, as he hit the highlights of the Old Testament: The Garden of Eden, Abraham's Sacrifice, Moses and the Ten Commandments, David and Goliath. He flipped through the pages of his dog-eared Bible, stabbing the exact passage he wanted with a stubby finger and reading aloud in a booming voice. He would then snap his Bible shut and wave it around while he illustrated and explained the passage with stories of common people in their everyday lives. Then, being a real teacher, he made his point in language so simple even Jenny understood the moral of the story. She felt as though he was speaking directly to her, despite the fact he kept pacing from side to side on the stage, trying to gather his audience in with both hands.

He kept preaching without interruption for nearly two hours, shedding his coat and wiping the sweat from his forehead with a red bandanna. His voice roughened as he tired, and Jenny wondered how much longer he could continue, but the old man persisted. He worked himself up, and wrung himself out, extorting his listeners to hear the word of God with their hearts, as well as their ears.

Jenny was well past tired. She felt like her ears were full of Brother Simon's words and her back hurt. She was looking for a discrete exit when Brother Simon collapsed to his knees in the middle of the stage. Jenny jumped awake, along with many others around her.

With an agonized groan, Brother Simon leaned back and flung his arms wide.

"Great God Almighty!" he called in a loud voice.

Jenny held her breath and waited.

"Have mercy on us poor sinners gathered here today. Forgive us our sins and guide us on the path to righteousness. Protect us from the Evil One..."

Jenny suddenly realized he was praying and looked up to see Julie with her head bowed before quickly ducking her own, hoping no one, especially not God, had noticed.

But she could not resist peeking up at the stage. She did not want to miss seeing him do something, if he did anything.

Brother Simon brought his arms in to hug himself and slumped forward, bowing his head while still praying, barely audible to the front row, allowing his congregation a minute for silent prayer. Then he lifted his head, turned his joyful face to heaven and flung his arms wide-open, as he shouted:

"Amen! Praise God Almighty, amen!"

With that cue, the woman in the flowered bonnet slammed down on the piano keys. The choir hastily stepped forward and burst into a hymn loud enough to compete with the piano.

The crowd jumped to their feet, applauding and cheering, as Brother John and Joseph helped Brother Simon to his feet and into his coat. They exchanged handshakes and congratulations before Brother Simon acknowledged the applause. He took a bow from the stage before stepping off and walking down the center aisle, shaking hands and greeting his fans as he made his way out of the tent.

Some people got up and moved out of the tent. Jenny looked around in confusion.

"Is that all?" she asked.

"No, pet," Julie said. "That was just the one. We still got two to go. Do you want to go outside, walk around?"

Jenny shook her head empathically.

"No ma'm. I don't want to miss nothing."

"I'm going to walk around some," Everett said, standing up and massaging his lower back. "These benches are hard on my bones. How 'bout you, Ma?"

Honor shook her head.

"Eddie, you go along and keep your Pa company," she said.

Edward looked startled, but was just as happy to get out of that tent, even if it was with his father. He jumped up and pulled on his hat.

"Well, come on then," Everett said as he dug his pipe pouch from his coat pocket.

Jenny was fascinated by the way the slack skin underneath the chin of the old woman in the flowered bonnet jiggled as she pounded on the small piano. She waled away with all her might, making the piano bounce on the stage and forcing the choir to sing at the top of their lungs to be heard. They filled the air inside the tent with sound and worked the crowd for all they were worth. Ushers walked up and down the aisle with baskets of hymnals. Honor stopped one and bought a songbook for a penny so that Jenny could join in the singing.

Jenny's eyes sparkled when she opened the hymnal. The words to every song were printed out here, plain as day, she thought. No more guessing what they were!

Julie helped her find their place in the hymn list and Jenny joined in the singing. She looked up and smiled to hear Honor and Julie on either side of her. Together, they sang the remaining hymns.

The choir and piano finished the last song, nearly together, with a loud flourish for a finale. The congregation rewarded them with warm applause and shouted praise. The sweat-soaked choir grinned and took their bows, but the piano player ignored the audience and was busy rearranging her sheet music.

Everett and Edward returned, apparently none the worse for the experience, with the rest of the men and boys who had left the tent. Jenny tried to show Edward the hymnal, but he was unimpressed. Disappointed, but not surprised, Jenny turned her attention back to the stage.

Brother John stepped to the center of the stage and stood there silently with his eyes closed, clutching his Bible to his chest. The crowd quieted down and stragglers hurried to their seats.

He stood there, motionless, for a conspicuously long time. Everyone strained expectantly, waiting for him to speak.

Jenny jumped in surprise when he suddenly opened his eyes, eyes that burned above hollow cheeks. He called forth in a booming voice as though he were calling Him in from the fields.

"LORD!"

The crowd fell silent. Jenny looked around to see if God would answer.

"Give me strength to cast out the demons that blind men to the wickedness of their ways. Amen." The preacher quickly completed his opening prayer.

Stunned by the brevity of the prayer, Jenny settled back in her seat.

The preacher held up his Bible and snapped her upright again when he shouted; "Repent, you damned sinners! Repent your sins, whether the sin of pride, the sin of greed, the sin of covetousness. We are all sinners in the eyes of the Lord!"

Jenny was surprised and unsettled. She had never considered herself a sinner before. She looked around and saw several people squirming uncomfortably. He's probably talking to them, she reasoned to herself.

The preacher launched into a frothy tirade against all the problems of the world, problems he said were caused by the failure to obey the Ten Commandments. Ten simple rules, a gift from God, ten rules to live by, that were thoughtlessly broken every day without considering the peril to your immortal soul. He opened his Bible and read each one of the Ten and explaining it in clear, simple, terms. After each commandment, he would slap the cover of his Bible and shout: " _Blessed are they that hear the word of God, and keep it_ " before continuing to the next.

After polishing off the Ten Commandments, he added emphasis with quotations about the Devil and his domain, illustrating his topic with gruesome depictions of just a few of the torments awaiting the damned. He spoke of Hell with the certainty of one who had been to the gates and felt the heat from the flames.

This preacher scared Jenny and made her long for the old preacher's Bible stories. She searched her memory and found, to her horror, that she had been guilty of the sin of pride and covetousness: pride in her new dress and her sewing skills, and covetousness in wanting a new dress to begin with. She began to worry and instinctively reached over and took Julie's hand. Julie looked down at her and smiled, squeezing her hand. Jenny felt comforted and figured he must've been talking about someone else again.

The thin preacher warmed to his work. He strode across the stage to challenge first one side of the tent, and then back to the other, calling them out to confess their sins and beg for the mercy of Christ. He testified to his own sins, as a sailor on a whaler sailing in the far-off Pacific Ocean. He scandalized and enthralled his audience when he alluded to the well-known drunken lechery practiced by sailors, the Sabbath breaking and the swearing being the least. He carried his listeners along with stories of the excitement and the temptation of Sin, before stripping the façade to reveal the hidden pit. He took his listeners with him as he fell, alone and friendless, into the depths of depravity.

Abandoned and destitute, he was nearing rock bottom when he met a man, a missionary, an angel of the Lord, who reached down into the depths of his filth to give his hand to a disgusting sinner. This man of God had taken the sailor in, washed, fed and clothed him. Then he gave the sailor the greatest gift of all. He read to him from the Bible.

"As a drowning man clutches at a straw, the sailor reached for salvation!" The thin preacher held up his hand, staring hungrily at it.

"Behold!" He opened his hand. "He grasped the greatest treasure on Earth!" He held up his Bible in both hands.

Now the thin preacher became the harsh taskmaster. He excoriated his audience with whips of guilt and fear, encouraging and demanding they confess. He was unrelenting in his attack, until people began falling to their knees and crying out with hysterical voices, begging to be heard. Brother John would dash over to each of them in turn, lay his hands upon them and encourage them to confess all, to make a clean breast of it all, and make room in their hearts for the Holy Spirit.

Jenny looked up to see silent tears running down Julie's face. Mr. Everett and Edward looked uncomfortable, like their meal was not digesting properly. Jenny had a feeling something bad wrong was happening. She clutched at Julie's arm.

Julie was thinking about her feelings for Otis and thinking about his strong arms about her, how it felt to press her body against his, to kiss his lips. It feels so good; she thought, it must be wrong. She felt pressure on her arm, looked down and saw the fear in Jenny's eyes, and the spell was broken. Whatever sin was in her life did not come from her feelings for Otis, she thought, wiping her tear away. God sent him to me, so it can't be wrong. She leaned over and whispered in Jenny's ear.

"You got to be grownup to sin, baby girl."

Jenny's face instantly lit up with a broad smile of relief and gratitude.

Gram Honor sat stoically throughout the entire performance, unmoved and unrepentant.

The thin preacher had people rolling in the aisles before he was through, frothing at the mouth and speaking in tongues. Women sobbed into their handkerchiefs, raised their hands and shouted 'amen' and 'halleluiah'. Some men openly wept, while other looked around for the nearest exit. Although some children collapsed in screaming fits and had to be removed, most of the congregation found it very satisfactory catharsis.

Then, suddenly, it was over. The old woman in the flowered bonnet at the piano looked at her watch brooch, straightened up and placed her hands on the keyboard. With a nod to the choir, she began softly playing. The thin preacher stopped talking, and returned to the platform, exhausted and soaked with sweat. He raised his arms and hoarsely awarded his final benediction on the crowd, thanking them for their kind attention and encouraging them to stay on the straight and narrow path to their Heavenly reward.

The choir stepped forward and started singing as the preacher walked to the back of the stage amid thunderous applause and cheering. The old preacher stepped forward to accept the homage, and to announce a supper break of one hour until they reassembled for the evening service.

"Ain't the pretty man gonna talk?" Jenny asked in a hushed whisper.

"Not yet, I guess," Honor said as she stood up. "Saving him for later."

"Well," Julie said, "I guess that means he's either the best or the worst."

Jenny kept an eye on the young preacher as she followed Julie out. Brother Joseph sat there, relaxed, with a small smile on his lips, watching the crowd from under heavy lids.

Outside the crowded tent, the air was noticeably fresher. Sunlight slanted in from the tops of the trees, casting long shadows across the ground. The tent emptied quickly, people talking and laughing a little too loud as they exited.

Once they were outside the tent, Honor paused to take a deep breath and pull on her gloves.

"Well, that certainly was enlightening," she said dryly. "Who'd ever thought there was so much sinning going on around here?"

Everett chuckled as he filled his pipe and lit it.

"I liked the first one better," Julie said. "He wasn't as frightening."

"Some folks need a good scaring," Everett said. "Not everone's good for goodness sake."

Back at their wagon, they ate a cold supper while discussing the relative merits of each speaker and speculated on the qualities of the third.

"He looks soft to me," Everett said. "I like a preacher who's been around and made mistakes. He speaks from real experience."

"I like the old preacher, Simon,' Honor said. "He told such wonderful stories, and he has a lovely speaking voice."

"I liked the old sailor," Edward said. "Do you think sailors really do all those bad things he was talking about?"

Everett gave him a hard look, while Honor laughed and Julie gasped.

"Eddie!" she said. "Didn't you hear him tell about the terrible cost of his sinning, and how he struggles, even today, not to?"

"What sinning?" Jennie asked.

"Never you mind," Julie said firmly. "I pray to God you never know."

Jenny looked down, embarrassed.

"It ain't important," Julie said kindly. "Which preacher did you like best, Little Bird?"

Jenny thought for a second.

"The old preacher was funny," she said seriously. "The skinny preacher scared me, but I kind of felt sorry for him." She looked up and grinned. "I want to hear the pretty man talk, before I decide."

Everyone laughed.

"Smart girl," Honor said.

"Yep," said Everett. "Never place your bet until you've seen all the horses."

By accident or arrangement, Otis appeared when Julie was spooning out the peach cobbler. Naturally, Honor invited him to join them for dessert, and he readily accepted. He took a seat across the ground cloth from Julie and could not keep his eyes off her. Julie struggled to preserve her nonchalant air, but every once in a while their eyes met and her happiness bubbled over.

When the bowls were empty and the spoons licked clean, Everett stood up and stretched. He retrieved his pipe from his coat pocket and proceeded to pack the bowl.

"Well, I reckon I'll take a turn, 'fore it's time to go back in," he said.

Otis sprang to his feet.

"I'll go with you," he blurted. "That is, if you don't mind, sir."

Everett scratched the head of a match with his thumbnail and lit his pipe without looking at Otis. Everett puffed until he got a good coal going before looking up.

"It's a free country, last I heard," he said, turned and walked off.

Otis shot a hopeful smile at Julie before following after.

"Smart boy," Honor said, stacking the bowls, "waiting 'til after your pa had a good meal and was smoking his pipe."

Julie blushed.

"Why, Gram! Whatever could you mean?"

Jenny burst into giggles, clapping her hand over her mouth to contain them.

But Honor laughed openly, quietly and happy. Julie's smile leaked nervous giggles as she busied her hands with work.

Otis knew what he wanted to say, he just didn't know how to say it. He cast about for the right introduction to the delicate subject.

"Umm, been dry this year, ain't it?" he said. "Think it'll stay dry?"

Everett gave him a baleful look and puffed his pipe.

"Will, if it don't rain," he said.

Otis was stumped by his logic. Desperately, he tried another tack.

"Hot too," he said.

Everett nodded.

"Usually is in the summer," he said. "At least, round here."

Otis was distracted and nearly asked where it wasn't hot in the summertime, but caught himself.

"Mr. Corbeau," he began.

"What's going on over there?" Everett said. "Ain't that your pa?"

Otis looked over at a knot of men surrounding a wagon in the tree line and saw his father watching the proceedings. Everett walked over and Otis had no option but to walk with him.

"Hey, Pa," Otis said.

"Mr. Jackson," Everett said as he extended his hand.

"Mr. Corbeau," Mr. Jackson replied as he shook it.

"What's going on, Pa?" Otis asked

"Some of the ladies've taken exception to the Armbruster brother's business. They asked them to leave, but Arm-buster declined. Now, they got the preacher man talking to him."

"That so?" Everett said with wonder. "I guess he ain't from around here."

"No, for sure. He wouldn't be wasting words on that lot, if he were."

Brother Simon was appealing to the Armbruster brothers' better nature, quoting Bible passages about the evils of alcohol and calling on their civic pride. Their appearance suggested little of either.

Arm-buster leaned against the wagon wheel with an amused leer on his face. His brothers sat in the wagon bed and grinned at the old preacher's performance. When the Brother Simon wound down some and it seemed like the right time to reply, Arm-buster answered for all of them.

"Now looky here now, old man, I ain't bothering your business, and I don't see no call for you to be messing with mine. 'Sides, there's wine and stuff all over the Bible."

Brother Simon mopped his face with a red bandanna and looked intently at Arm-buster.

"Surely, for the ladies..." he said.

"Surely," Arm-buster grinned wickedly. "Send 'em on over. I'll take care of them."

Constrained laughter broke out from his brothers and the small knot of men clustered behind the back of the wagon.

Brother Simon wiped his face again.

"You're a hard man, brother," he said. "Someday you'll be called to account for your uncharitable attitude."

"Yeah, well, not today." Arm-buster straightened up and planted his feet defiantly. "Reckon I'm man enough to count for something 'round here."

" _But I say unto you, that it shall be more tolerable for the land of Sodom in the day of judgment, than for thee_ ," Brother John said as he stepped forward. Behind him, Otis noticed the young preacher standing at the edge of the crowd, watching closely.

Arm-buster scowled at the new irritant.

"Save your Bible-thumping for the paying customers, preacher," he said menacingly.

"I have been called upon to bring the light of the Lord to the darkest of places. ' _But the men of Sodom were wicked and sinners before the LORD exceedingly.'"_ Brother John said.

"Wicked?" Arm-buster growled disdainfully. "Sinner? God give us the corn we make our whisky from, didn't He. Ain't no sin in taking a little snort now and again."

"We are here to rejoice in the word of God, brother," Brother Simon proclaimed. "This ain't the time for drunken debauchery."

" _Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful,"_ Brother John said.

"Now, you need to stop calling me a sinner," Arm-buster said, his face reddening. "And you need to get on about your business, and let me get on with mine." He turned his back on the preachers.

Brother John clapped his hands together with a sharp retort and began to pray loudly.

"Lord, hear my prayer! I beseech you to open up the heart of our errant brother. Show him the light, so's he can see the wickedness of his ways and repent before it is too late and he's condemned to the eternal fires of damnation. O Lord, hear my prayer!"

Awestruck, everyone froze and silence fell over the crowd as they waited expectantly. Even Arm-buster stopped and looked up to see if the preacher's prayer worked, but no lightning bolt came.

"Now, you leave God out of this!" Arm-buster strode over to Brother John and gave him a healthy shove.

Brother John flew backwards, off his feet, and landed flat on his back at the feet of the crowd.

The man who sprang up was more of a sailor than he was a preacher. His face was flushed crimson and twisted in a snarl. His knotted hands were curled into hard fists.

"No, Brother John! No!" Brother Joseph jumped in front of the thin preacher and restrained him. "Remember your promise! Control yourself, man!"

Brother John pushed to get past Brother Joseph, completely focused on Arm-buster, who was watching with amused confidence. But the young preacher stood fast, and would not let Brother John past. For a moment they struggled, until Brother John regained his senses. He stopped struggling, but his eyes were still hard with anger. Brother Joseph relaxed his hold as he spoke earnestly to Brother John.

"He's not worth it, John. You've come such a long way, let it go."

Brother John took a deep breath.

"Yes, yes, of course, you're right Joseph." He patted the young preacher's arm and gave a wry smile. "No backsliding." He looked back at Arm-buster Armbruster again and his voice hardened. "No matter the temptation or the justification."

Brother Joseph turned around to face Arm-buster, stepping up to within a pace of him.

"Fighting you would be an easy path to take. Brother John has spent many years of his life with intemperate company, and struggles mightily with the concept of Christian forbearance. It'd be a shame if he were to relapse due to the words of a bully."

There crowd gasped as one and fell silent, watching Arm-buster.

There was a play of emotions across Arm-buster Armbruster face while he considered his response. Then his jaw tightened and he swung his arm around to slap the preacher's cheek with a slab-like hand. The sound cracked like shot through the silence.

The crowd gasped, the young preacher staggered back into the thin preacher who caught him as he fell.

"Here, now!" Everett cried, stepping forward with Mr. Jackson and several others. Arm-buster's brothers jumped off the back of the wagon armed with an ax handle and a bung starter.

"No!" Brother Joseph shouted, raising his hand to halt them. "I'll have no one fight for me!" He straightened his shoulders and stepped back up to Arm-buster.

" _But I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also,"_ he said calmly.

"Happy to oblige!" Arm-buster said as he delivered another forceful blow with his other arm. The preacher fell to the ground as the crowd swelled forward.

"Stop!" the young preacher commanded from the ground. He was pulled to his feet by several helpful hands. He stood up before Arm-buster again.

Blood seeped from a split lip, and his cheeks glowed bright red, but his eyes were steady as he stared Arm-buster down.

"I won't strike back. I won't be like you. Do you want to hit me again?" he asked calmly.

Arm-buster scowled at him. He eyed the hostile crowd and decided it wasn't worth it.

"Ah, go on. Let's all go to heaven or hell in our own damned way." He waved dismissively and turned his back on the preacher.

Nervous laughter burst from the Armbruster crowd and excited voice congratulated him. The young preacher's supporters backed away, muttering unhappily, leaving him standing alone.

"I'll pray for you," he called after Arm-buster, but received no response. He turned and walked away, followed by his fellow preachers and the remnants of their supporters. The old preacher caught up with Brother Joseph and stopped him, to stanch the blood from his lip with a clean white handkerchief.

"Thank you, Brother Simon." Joseph said. He glanced back at the men crowding around the back of the wagon. "I guess we'll have to let the Lord handle this in His own way."

"You done your best," Brother Simon assured him. "God's Will be done."

"I thank you for helping me resist the temptation," Brother John said. "Though I knew it was wrong, it sure felt right."

Brother Joseph laughed.

"I understand," he said to Brother John. "It ain't always easy living by the Book, is it?"

"No, it ain't" Brother John agreed and shook his head.

"Uh, Preacher?" A small man with thinning hair stepped forward. "My wagon's right over here, sir, and my missus can fix you up a poultice for your lip. I'd be honored if y'all'd step over and take a refreshment."

"We would be honored, sir." Brother Joseph accepted for all three and the short man led them to his campsite.

He introduced himself as Mr. Baggett and hastened to make them comfortable, His wife, even smaller than her husband, poured them lemonade before she busied herself in the wagon preparing a poultice. She wrapped it in a linen cloth and gave it to the young preacher.

"Press this against your lip," she said. "It'll draw out the poison."

"With ten kids, Ma don't leave home without her medicine box. She's the best healer in her family," Mr. Baggett said.

Mrs. Baggett glowed with pride.

"Lord give me a gift, I reckon," she said.

"Amen to that," Joseph said, fingering his numb lip. "It appears to be working. I can scarcely feel it."

"You keep that on your lip, and it won't swell near as bad," she told him.

"Ten children," Brother Simon said. "What a lovely blessed family."

Mr. Baggett nodded.

"God's been good to us. We only lost two." He leaned back and looked around the people milling around and the children playing games. "Most them's over there, playing Red Rover. The dark headed ones, they're mine. And that knot of little girls playing dollies over there, there's two of my girls. And there's Clementine there, walking her little dog. Clem! Come on over here and meet the preachers!"

A sober faced little girl with dark braids answered his call. She was wearing her Sunday best calico dress, stockings and freshly tallowed shoes. She was walking, and talking to, a little rat terrier leashed with a thin rope, that looked up at her with adoration. She was at the awkward age when childhood ends but before maturation begins, so she was flattered to be introduced to the preachers as if she were a grown-up.

"That's a mighty fine looking dog you got there, Miss Clementine," Brother Simon said. "What's his name?"

"We call him 'Runt'," Mr. Baggett answered. "He was the runt of the litter and they was gonna drown him, when Clem come along."

"His name is 'Pee-Wee'," the girl corrected her father. "And he's a big as any of 'em."

Mr. Baggett grinned.

"Well, I calls him 'Runt'," he said. "But he's a good old dog, ain't that right, boy?" He rubbed the small dog's head.

"Well, tie him to the wagon and fetch me a pail of water," Mrs. Baggett told her daughter, who hastened to obey.

Left tethered to a wagon wheel, Pee-Wee watched his mistress pick up the water bucket and walk off. He waited for her to come over and get him, and was puzzled when she did not. Surely, she did not mean to abandon him, he thought. He fidgeted anxiously as he waited for her to realize her mistake and return for him. When she didn't, he whined unhappily.

Despite his youth, Pee-Wee knew he belonged to her, and that his place was by her side. He followed as far as the rope allowed, but it wasn't far enough. He realized he was going to have to escape the restraint if he was going to do his duty.

Pee-Wee turned around and backed away until the rope was pulling up over his head. A couple quick shakes of his head and he was free. Unnoticed by the adults, he trotted off to find his girl.

Following her trail took him close by the Armbruster's camp, where a small knot of men was arguing around the back of the wagon. Others lounged on the ground or leaned against trees and watched the confrontation with amusement.

"I'm tellin' you, I been makin' and drinkin' whisky more'n thirty year and I know when whiskey's proof or not," a grizzled old-timer argued with Lucas Armbruster.

"An' I'm telling you, it's proof!" Lucas shot back. "Maybe even Navy proof."

"What the hell're you jawboning about?" Arm-buster Armbruster broke in.

"This old fool here thinks we been watering the whiskey," Lucas said, grinning triumphantly.

"You saying my whiskey ain't no good?" Arm-buster growled.

"No, oh, no." The old man backed down quickly. "I'm just saying it ain't proof's all. It's fine, just weak."

"Not proof?" Arm-buster glared at him. "I reckon I know what I make!"

"Easy enough to prove," one of the loungers drawled. "Just takes a little gunpowder."

This suggestion sparked interest among the other idlers and the group sat up to watch the demonstration.

Arm-buster scowled as he looked around.

"Well, all right then. Who's got some powder?"

When no one responded, it looked like the idea was going to die on the vine. Then Pee-Wee walked by. Arm-buster saw the little dog and had a bright idea.

"Here, I got a better idea," he said.

Arm-buster stepped over and swept up the little dog in one oversized paw.

Pee-Wee was surprised when the stranger picked him up, but he expected the man wanted to pet him, like everyone else did, so he did not resist. He looked expectantly at the man, and wagged his tail, but the man ignored him. Instead, he carried the little dog over to the back of the wagon and dipped the end of his tail into a tin dipper sitting on the tailgate.

Arm-buster pulled a match from his coat pocket and struck it on the rough planks of the wagon. He touched the flame to the tip of Pee-Wee's tail. The whiskey was proof and Pee-Wee's tail burst into flames.

The rowdies exploded into laughter when Pee-Wee screamed in shock and pain. He leaped from Arm-buster's arms and hit the ground running, yipping shrilly as he tried to run away from the bright monster eating his tail.

Arm-buster grinned at the old man.

"I reckon that ought to be good enough for you, right?"

"Sure, Arm-buster. I didn't mean nothin'," the old man stammered.

Pee-Wee's first shriek galvanized the surrounding campers. His continued screams stabbed at the heart of every honest soul. The three preachers dashed from the Baggett's camp, along with everyone else, to find the source of the tormented soul.

The was another shrill shriek when the returning Clementine saw her dog running crazily around in circles, trying to get away from the pain in his tail. Horrified, she dropped the pail of water and screamed his name as she rushed to his aid, but the preachers got there first.

Brother Joseph ripped off his coat and netted Pee-Wee as the dog ran by him. Mad with pain, Pee-Wee snarled and snapped at him, but Brother Joseph wrapped him up tightly in the coat and smothered the flame.

Brother Joseph spoke soothingly to the little dog and tried to calm him down, but he would not be comforted until Clementine took him in her arms, still wrapped in the preacher's coat. She sobbed hysterically and Pee-Wee subsided into sad whimpering as he licked the salty tears from her cheeks. Mrs. Baggett pushed her way through the crowd to get to her daughter. Taking in the scene in an instant, she wrapped her arms around Clementine's and Pee-Wee and looked around with fire in her eye.

"What happened? Who did this?" she demanded.

"I don't know," Mr. Baggett said. "But, I'm gonna find out. You take Pee-Wee and Clem back over to the wagon, see what you can do."

"You come on with me, darling," Mrs. Baggett said to her daughter. "I got something in my medicine box that'll stop the hurtin'."

Otis watched her lead Clementine away and his heart ached for the girl and her little dog. He didn't want to believe that someone could be so low as to hurt a small dog, but he didn't see any other way it could have happened.

Mr. Baggett asked the crowd for witnesses, and, though no one had noticed the actual event, several had seen the direction the dog had run from. Mr. Baggett glared angrily at the Armbruster wagon, and muttered dark words.

The three preachers stood around him and considered what to do.

" _And whosoever shall offend one of these little ones that believe in me, it is better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he were cast into the sea,"_ Brother Simon rumbled darkly _._

Otis looked over at the crowd behind the Armbruster wagon. They were all surreptitiously watching, except Arm-buster, who pointedly ignored what was going on.

"Well, that tears it," Otis heard Brother John say. "Dear God, forgive me."

Otis looked around in time to see Brother Joseph step in front of John and block his way, holding the angry man back by his shoulders.

"Wait now, Brother John,' he said. "You too, Mr. Baggett. Let me handle this."

Brother John reared back and glared at the young preacher.

"I cannot... I will not... stand idly by while an innocent is made to suffer!" he sputtered.

"I know, I know. I'll talk to him. Just promise me, no matter what happens, you won't fight. Promise me!" He squeezed the taller man's shoulders.

Brother John's face reflected his internal struggle, but finally he swallowed hard and nodded his head.

"If you think it best," he agreed tersely.

"Brother Simon, will you swear to stay with Brother John and help him uphold his pledge?"

"I will, though I am in sympathy with Brother John's feelings," the old preacher said.

The crowd parted to allow Brother Joseph through, then closed behind and followed him. Being on the outside of the crowd before it turned, Otis ended up at the front as they marched towards the Armbruster wagon. His father and Mr. Corbeau pressed forward behind him, and his pride would not let him fade back into the crowd, regardless of how much he wanted to.

The rowdies behind the Armbruster wagon sobered up a bit when they saw the crowd moving towards them, but Arm-buster kept his back turned.

"Arm," Luke Armbruster said quietly and nodded behind him.

Arm-buster grunted as he turned around. Then he grinned at his cronies and cracked wise.

"Looks like we in for another sermon, boys."

The Armbruster crowd laughed nervously, except for a few of the more sentient and less inebriated ones who suddenly realized they needed to be somewhere else. They slipped quietly out the back of the camp and into the woods.

Arm-buster faced the preacher; his feet planted solidly, thumbs hooked into his belt, and smiling mockingly. Brother Joseph walked towards him with stiff-legged determination.

"Did you find another cheek to turn, preacher?" Arm-buster called out.

"No. I have come to teach you to pray," Brother Joseph replied tersely.

"Pray?" Arm-buster laughed. "How you gonna teach me to pray?"

Brother Joseph drove his right fist as hard as he could into the middle of Arm-buster Armbruster's stomach, driving the wind from his lungs and doubling him over. Drawing his left fist up high, Brother Joseph hammered it into the hinge of Arm-buster's jaw, driving him to the ground.

"First, you must humble yourself before the Lord!" Brother Joseph explained to him.

With an outraged howl, the Armbruster brothers sprang from the back of the wagon, armed with a bung starter and an ax handle. They landed on the preacher and drove him to the ground.

Quickly recovering from their shock, the men in the crowd surged forward and knocked the Armbruster brothers off the preacher. Before the other rowdies could rise to the alarm, the crowd was upon them, overwhelming them with cuffs, curses and kicks. Most realized that times had changed and escaped with minimal damage, but whoever stood their ground didn't last long.

Otis Jackson was only one of several to lay hands on one of the Armbruster brothers. There was a wild melee of curses and kicks before the brothers went down before the angry crowd. Once down, a steady hail of fists and boots kept them there until they curled up and cowered in submission.

Alone now, at the center of ring formed by the onlookers, Arm-buster rallied and staggered to his feet. Brother Joseph, bruised and bleeding, waited, determined to deliver a memorable lesson to his pupil.

He danced away when Arm-buster swung wild haymakers, or tried to grab the preacher for a grappling match. Then Brother Joseph would move in, swinging left and right fists with targeted precision, smashing boney knuckles into Arm-buster's brow ridges, splitting the thin skin and blinding him with his own blood. Then the preacher began working on his ribcage, focusing on the floating ribs.

Time slowed and the crowd quieted as Brother Joseph moved smoothly away from Arm-buster attacks before darting in to hammer another painful blow. Otis was reminded of how many axe stokes it took to fell a big pine tree, and he almost felt sorry for Arm-buster.

When Arm-buster started to sway, the preacher kicked him on the side of the knee and Arm-buster fell to the ground. After that, every time he tried to get up the preacher kicked his leg out from underneath him and he crashed to the ground again. Finally, he could not get up any more.

Brother Joseph stood over Arm-buster, panting heavily, his skinned knuckles still knotted and ready to go on, but, like the false prophet, Arm-buster failed to rise.

"Throw him in the wagon," Brother Joseph said. "And dump those barrels of whiskey out. They caused enough trouble for one day."

"What should we do with these two?" Mr. Jackson asked.

Brother Simon answered first.

"Tie them onto the mules, backwards," he said. "Give them a good long think on the way home."

There was a chorus of approval for his idea, and many eager hands guided the brothers to the front of the wagon. In less time than it takes to tell, the mules were hitched to the wagon, their reverse mounted riders mounted, the whiskey was spilled and the mules driven from the campgrounds by shouts, slaps, and more than one rock.

The mood they left behind them was celebratory, with the exception of Brother John. Brother Simon had had to physically restrain him in a bear hug during the fracas and he was not happy about it.

"You should've let me fight him," Brother John said angrily. "I could've taken him!"

"I am certain of that," Brother Joseph said, putting a hand on his thin shoulder. "But you would've killed him, John. Now, he has a chance to repent and find forgiveness, and you haven't added to the burden you carry."

Brother John scowled.

"He's right, John," said Brother Simon. "Ain't that what you were saved from? Ain't we here to save souls?"

Brother John heaved a sigh and looked abashed.

"Maybe you're right, I don't know. I might've killed him. Lord knows, anger was hot within my heart and I would have tried." He looked at Brother Joseph. "Now you have returned evil for evil, and I wanted to, God forgive me. We are not fit to preach the word of God."

"I don't feel that way." Brother Joseph said. "It wasn't evil I felt in my heart, but love for these people, that girl and her little dog that gave me courage and strength. I cannot believe it's wrong to drive evil from our midst, to protect the innocent and weak, as David fought the lion to protect his flock."

"What say you, Brother Simon?" Brother John asked the old preacher.

"Well," Brother Simon drawled, "the Bible says: _'Be of good courage, and let us play the men for our people, and for the cities of our God: and the Lord do that which seemeth him good.'_ The Bible don't account for everthing that happens in life, but studying on it is supposed to help you figure out what's right and what's wrong. This feels right to me."

The crowd accepted this as the benediction and rejoiced, slapping the preachers on the back and congratulating them. Otis grinned and felt justified. Mr. Corbeau shook Mr. Jackson's hand and then Otis's. Otis realized that if there was ever going to be a good time to talk to Mr. Corbeau about what he wanted to talk to him about, this was it. He just needed to get him alone.

However, other people kept arriving, attracted by the disturbance and curious to know what was going on. Natural exaggeration began as the eyewitnesses related their version of the events to newcomers, who repeated what they heard to others with additional embellishment. Thus, Brother Joseph's initial assault grew into the Almighty's Fist of Justice that had knocked Arm-buster Armbruster to the ground with one blow. Many folks compared it favorably with Samson's jawbone of an ass, and no one expressed any displeasure at the Armbruster's sudden departure.

"Mr. Corbeau," Otis pulled on his coat sleeve. "If I could just talk to you for a minute..."

"Huh? Oh, okay. Just one minute, boy," he said.

A bell rang from the big tent.

"Time for evening service," Brother Simon called. "Everbody go get a lantern and we'll see y'all in the tent."

Otis heart sank as he saw his opportunity slipping away.

"Mr. Corbeau,..." he began.

"Not now, son," Mr. Jackson said. "We got to get cleaned up and get in the tent, if we gonna get a bench together."

The long summer day was closing with a lingering dusk, as through the sun was reluctant to leave the sky. The tops of the pine trees to the west were silhouettes against a rose blush sky compressed against the horizon by the darkening blue night. Warmed by the glow of the Earth, the air cooled slowly as the first stars popped into view, followed soon after by the fading in of their less brilliant companions.

Lit torches had been tied to the top of poles stuck in the ground around the outside of the tent. Inside the tent, four shaded kerosene lanterns hung over the stage, lighting up a large area in the center.

Outside the tent, a deacon from the local church slowly tolled a hand-bell and sang a slightly nasal rendition of ' _What a Friend We have in Jesus_ '. People began emerging from the camps scattered around the field and in the woods, forming small groups of families. Every group carried a lit lantern that shone out in front of them as they merged with the others to become a shining stream of light moving slowly towards the tent. They massed around the deacon and joined in his song until he turned and led them into the tent and down the center aisle. Once inside, the piano playing lady in the flowered bonnet and the choir took over, filling the air with music as the people spread out among the benches.

While the women and children filled in the rows, the men or older boys tied their lamps to a rope running along the top of the poles that held up the sides of the tent. Soon the interior of the tent glowed with golden light from the multitude of kerosene lamps strung along the edge.

Edward led the family to a bench, passing in front of it to hang his lantern from the rope provided. Gram Honor led Jenny by the hand after him, and Julie preceded Everett.

Everett stopped in the aisle and looked around. Two rows closer to the front sat the Jackson family; Mr. Jackson's head was bowed in prayer while Mrs. Jackson was quietly correcting one of the younger boys. Everett leaned over the people seated between them and tapped Otis on the shoulder.

Otis looked around and was surprised when he saw who was tapping on his shoulder. Everett crooked a finger, beckoning to him.

Otis got up and edged out in front of the seated people, back to the aisle.

"Sir?" he asked Mr. Corbeau.

Everett didn't say anything, he just pointed to the bench where the next vacant spot was next to Julie.

Otis looked at Everett with unabashed joy on his face. Everett's mouth pulled a little at the corners, but did not smile. Instead, he gave the boy a gentle push to get him moving. Otis eagerly took the seat next to Julie, who blushed attractively and looked straight ahead, as if nothing unusual was occurring.

Jenny knew something was happening though. She leaned forward, looking around Julie at Otis, and grinned at him. Everett crooked his finger to call her to him. As she edged along in front of Julie and Otis, smiling at them, they had to look down to disguise their own happiness.

Everett lifted Jenny up and set her down on the bench between himself and Otis. Jenny had saved one of her sweetest smile for him and Everett's face cracked into a small smile. She slipped one hand inside his and opened her hymnal. Everett took one side of the book and they held it between them. Squeezing her hand, he joined her in singing.

The stage was empty during the entry processional, except for the choir that stood at the back edge of the stage, just outside the circle of light cast by the four shaded lamps. In the center of the stage sat three empty chairs.

The deacon stood in front and directed parishioners to vacant seats. When most of the people had taken their seats and he was satisfied the rest could manage without him, he turned and nodded to the piano player in the flowered bonnet. She turned and nodded her head to the choir. Abruptly, they ended the hymn in the middle with a rousing crescendo.

Taken by surprise, there was only polite applause as the choir retreated to their seats in the dim offstage. The piano player flipped over a page of sheet music, lit up by candles in holders mounted to the front panel of her piano, and began to play, softly, a tender piece designed to promote contemplation.

The three preachers stepped out of the darkness in the back of the tent. Brother Joseph had recovered his coat and washed his face, but his split lip and the deepening bruise beneath one eye bore witness to his combat. Brother Simon carried his bookmarked Bible under one arm and smiled at people in the crowd. Brother John clutched his Bible before him and labored over his prayers, praying like it hurt.

They stopped in front of the chairs, but did not sit. Brother Simon stepped forward and, in a calm voice, explained to God why they had gathered there and asked His blessing for their endeavor.

"Amen," he said. He and Brother John sat down on the end chairs. It was over before the people in the back were aware there was even a prayer going on.

Brother Joseph stepped forward and stood there, in the center of the light, for a few moments. He looked around curiously, as though surprised to find himself there. With a crooked half smile, he looked out over the sea of intent faces, watching expectantly to see what he would do next.

Brother Joseph took a deep breath and spoke in a voice that was casual, conversational, but reached to the back rows of the audience.

"Can you feel the Spirit of the Lord in here tonight?" Brother Joseph asked the crowd.

There was a muffled mixture of 'Amen' and 'I feel it!' back from his listeners.

"I do," Joseph said. "I feel the Lord moving among us, and I wonder... whose heart will He touch tonight? Who will open their heart and let the Lord in? Who will open their eyes to the shining Truth? ' _Whether he be a sinner or no, I know not: one thing I know, that, whereas I was blind, now I see.'"_

The crowd responded more warmly this time, with a couple of 'Halleluiahs' thrown in.

"Could it be you?" Joseph thrust his arms open wide, capturing the entire crowd. Everyone froze for a second, waiting to see.

"I hope it will be," Joseph concluded as he released them.

"Today, you have heard Brother Simon preach on the stories of the Bible that show us how we should live. You heard Brother John preach on the punishment that awaits those who refuse to hear the Word of God and persist in their evil ways. May God have mercy on their souls and may they open their eyes before it's too late!"

"Be a couple of days for Arm-buster," someone in the back quipped, amusing everyone.

Brother Joseph smiled a little while he waited for the laughter to die down.

"I am privileged to bring you the message of the glory of God, of the reward that awaits the wise and the good, and to bear witness with my own testimonial of His power, for I was lost, but now am found. My God is a benevolent God, who loves us all!"

The audience responded warmly to this pronouncement, and then settled into quiet listening concentration.

Brother Joseph let the silence linger for a moment before continuing.

"I have been down. I have lost my way, and started thinking the things of this world were of more importance than my relationship with God. I left my home a headstrong young fool, convinced I was wiser than my father, and determined to prove myself to him and to the world. I put off the love of a good woman, because it was not convenient. Thinking we had all the time in the world, and that we needed the material comforts money would buy. I labored at my craft seven days a week, ignoring our Holy Father's commandment: _Six days shalt thou labour, and do all thy work: But the seventh day is the sabbath of the LORD thy God. Remember the Sabbath and keep it Holy!"_

The crowd drew its collective breath and looked around guiltily.

Brother Joseph paused to give the common guilt a chance to sink in before relieving any of it.

"I was not an evil man. I was young, I was arrogant, and I was stupid. I shackled myself to everything I owned, and obsessed with the collection of meaningless objects."

"Then, my business began to fail. I threw myself into it, thinking that if I worked harder, and longer, I could turn everything around. All I succeeded in doing was to make myself even less pleasant to be around, driving my business from me as I worked franticly to save it."

"Then, my father died, before we reconciled. Before I had a chance to tell him the words every child needs to tell their parents, that now they understand, so there can be peace between them. It takes time, and my father's time ran out before I grew up enough to understand the sacrifices he made for me."

Brother Joseph fell silent. A baby's cry was quickly stifled with a sugar teat, as the hushed crowd waited for him to continue his story.

"Then, my love died." Brother Joseph proclaimed as though relieving himself of a painful duty. "Suddenly, in the Good Lord's own wisdom, she was gone, leaving me to live with regret, for the memories we never made, because I placed my business before her. God forgive me."

"This world had become a vale of tears, a place I could no longer call home. My eyes were blind to the beauty of God's creation."

Suddenly he shouted out.

"In my despair I called out to God! I said 'God, can you hear me?"

A chorus of amens and muttered agreement rippled through the crowd.

"But there was no answer." His voice fell.

Sympathy groans came for the audience.

"In my misery I called out again: Lord, can you hear me?"

Approving murmurs came from his listeners.

"But again, there was no answer."

Groans of disappointment rose.

"Then, I got down on my knees," Brother Joseph got to his knees, "and I bowed my head," he bowed his head, "and I cried."

Snuffling and moans came from the crowd.

"And I prayed: 'Lord, I can't do this anymore. Everything I've turned my hand to has failed. The one man in this world whose approval I crave has died. The one woman, the love of my life, I neglected and lost. I cannot bear this life any longer. If you love me, Lord, take me home. I don't want to live here any longer." He clasped both hands in front of his chest. The entire house was silent, except for the babies and the sniffling, concentrating on the lone figure kneeling on the stage.

Brother Joseph looked up, sweat glistening on his face in the lamplight.

"Remember when you were little and you'd get so caught up playing that you ran too fast and come a cropper? Remember when your Daddy stood over you, tall as the sky, his big hands reaching down to pick you up off the ground, dust you off, and comfort you before sending you back into the game? That's what happened to me."

He got up off his knees and gestured with his arms to demonstrate.

"The Lord God, Master of the Universe, Infinite in His Power, took the time to reach down into the depths of my misery and touch the heart of one poor lonely sinner. In desperation, I opened my heart to Him, and He came in, with a shining light that drove out the darkness and left my heart filled with peace like I've never known! Praise God Almighty!" With a shout he threw his arms open wide.

Joyous jubilation erupted from the crowd as they joined Brother Joseph in celebrating of his awakening.

Brother Joseph conducted the congregation like an orchestra, moving from side to side across the stage, entertaining them with salacious stories of sin, leading to degradation and despair before repentance brought forgiveness and redemption.

He tied all of his stories together with Bible verses of love and forgiveness, from the first three books of the New Testament. He alternately ratcheted up the intensity and excitement as he strode back and forth across the raised platform, rising in fervor until he became so enraptured with the Holy Spirit that he leaped high, off the stage, and landed in the aisle between the two halves of the crowd.

The Spirit flowed with him as Brother Joseph moved through the crowd, touching their faces, smoothing their foreheads, and praying with each. He continued preaching, projecting his voice throughout the tent, bringing everyone into the personal experience. Women waved handkerchiefs in the air as they prayed or shouted out their faith, confidence or condolences to those testifying. Men leaped to their feet, proclaiming their joy, some speaking in tongues, but generally more joyous than after Brother John's sin lashing sermon. Instead of fear for their sins, there was hope for forgiveness.

After working his way through the crowd around the tent, Brother Joseph hopped back on the stage, raised his arms and shouted: " _Behold, God is mighty, and despiseth not any: he is mighty in strength and wisdom!"_ He motioned with one hand to the piano lady, who began playing, softly at first, bringing it up underneath the crowd noise, until the music became noticeable and people settled down for the final act.

Brother Joseph moved to the center of the stage, and held out his arms with his eyes closed.

"The Good Book says; _"For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them."_ We have gathered in your name, Lord. We have sung songs of worship, and we have heard Your Words, trying to listen with our hearts as well as our heads. We will now close with a silent prayer, as we consider what we have heard and what it means in our lives. Brother John and Brother Simon will join me here to receive you, when you are ready, whether you need healing, or comfort, or want to renew your commitment to the Holy Spirit, we are here to help you."

"Open your heart, and let the Lord in, for that is the only true path to peace and happiness. As the Bible says; ' _I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable service.'_ There is no one alive who doesn't have regret for an action or a word they wish could be undone. Come to Jesus with your troubles, and the blood of the Lamb will wash them away. _'In whom we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins, according to the riches of his grace.'_ Seek guidance from the Lord before making any decision, and you can never go wrong, friends. _'Lead me, O LORD, in thy righteousness because of mine enemies; make thy way straight before my face.'_ Open your heart to the Lord and all will be forgiven! _'And in that day thou shalt say, O LORD, I will praise thee: though thou wast angry with me, thine anger is turned away, and thou comfortedst me.'_ Heed this Call, O Children of Israel! Come to the Lord before it is too late!"

The piano lady's face glowed with perspiration, and her flowered bonnet had slipped askew, but she played on with grim determination. Rocking from side to side, she moved from page to page, turning the pages of sheet music without interrupting the flow of music filling the silence as the crowd bowed their heads in prayer and contemplation.

The three preachers stood on the ground in front of the stage and waited. People left their prayers in their own time, moving up to the front or slipping out the sides as their mood took them. The parishioners who came forward lined up before the particular preacher they wanted to commune with, or confess to, and each left with a benediction and blessing. As they moved on, out the sides, they passed boxes set up to receive the love offerings. Nearly everyone stopped to push pennies, nickels, dimes, and, occasionally, quarters into the slot to help the preachers continue their work of spreading the Gospel.

Everett and Honor spoke to the old preacher, thanking him for his instruction. Edward held a brief conference with the thin preacher, their heads close together. The thin preacher put a hand on the back of Edward's neck and spoke intently to him, Edward nodding soberly. The preacher closed his eyes and raised his face for a brief prayer. Edward wiped his eyes when they parted, and looked scared.

Jenny trailed behind Otis and Julie as they waited in the longest line to speak with the young preacher. Otis's heart swelled within his chest as Julie shyly took his arm, announcing to the world they were courting. Brother Joseph recognized new love and rejoiced, counseling them with the words: _"let every one of you in particular so love his wife even as himself; and the wife see that she reverence her husband_ " before giving them his blessing. He smiled into Jenny's solemn face with the jade green eyes, leaning down as he shook her hand, and touched her forehead to bless her. That was when Jenny had her first crush, blushing and becoming so tongue-tied all she could manage was a shy "Thank you." She briefly considered putting her dime in the love offering for him, but when she saw Otis put in a quarter, she figured that was enough for all of them.

The light inside the tent dimmed as people left, taking their lanterns with them. The crowd around the stage thinned out eventually, after meeting with the preachers and touching the love offering boxes. Mrs. Jackson sat, waiting, until the benches were nearly empty, but Mr. Jackson remained hunched over in prayer, his face buried in his hands. Finally, she stood up and motioned her children to go out the other side of the bench. She guided them to the front and spent some time talking to the preachers, glancing back at her spouse. Mr. Jackson still had not moved when she finished shepherding her brood out of the tent. She walked back to the bench to recover their lantern after dropping her offering into the box. She spoke his name, but he made no response. Sighing, she turned and left.

The tent had dimmed and was almost entirely empty before the piano lady stopped playing. She straightened her bonnet before gathering up her sheet music and storing it in the piano seat. She closed and locked the piano cover before blowing out the candles on her piano. The tent got a little darker and she left.

Brother Joseph walked over to Mr. Jackson and knelt down beside him, speaking to him gently. Mr. Jackson's replies were muffled, but Brother Joseph seemed to understand. He looked intently at Mr. Jackson's hidden face as he spoke, low and earnestly. He put a hand on Mr. Jackson's arm, reassuringly. Mr. Jackson slowly lowered his hands and looked at Brother Joseph with tears streaming down his face.

Raising both hands to heaven, Brother Joseph exulted: "Hallelujah! Praise God Almighty, he has seen the Light!"

### Willa and Buddy

### Excerpted from the novel 'The _Lady Lu'_

### By Decatur Clary

### Willa and Buddy

The early spring night, in the Panhandle of North Florida, retained a touch of winter's chill. The moon set early and the stars shone in the pitch-black heavens without competition. Even the noises of the creatures of the night were subdued as they awaited warmer weather.

It was late night when the pickup truck pulled into the yard. It stopped in front of the farmhouse, a white frame house with a steeply pitched metal roof, tall double hung windows, with a wide porch encircling it. A big man got out of the truck on the driver's side and carefully lifted out a box that had originally contained a dozen liter bottles of California's finest fermented grape product. Since wine don't whine, it obviously held something else now. The big man spoke softly and soothingly to the contents of the box as he carried it across the yard and up the porch steps, where a light still shone for him. He quietly opened the door and stepped in, softly shutting the door behind him.

"You're late." A quiet voice came from the darkness and a light switched on. A dark haired woman curled up at the end of the couch with an open book resting beside her.

"Oh hey, sweetheart. You should've gone on to bed." He chided her gently as he stepped forward and handed her the box. He went back to the door to lock it and turn off the porch light.

"Winnie got an infected nipple, and she can't nurse no more," he told her over his shoulder.

"Is it old enough to be off the teat? I don't want to be bottle-feeding it," she said, opening the box and peering in.

"It's so tiny! Oh, Bill, it's too young," she said with dismay.

"Well, Lulu, he is what he is, and he's ours now. I'll take care of him when I'm not working," Bill promised.

"Which only leaves most days and some nights," she replied drily.

"The kids'll help," he volunteered them easily. "In a month he'll be big enough to move out to the kennel." He dipped his hand into the box and lifted out a tiny Beagle puppy. He opened his hand and the puppy fit easily into his big palm.

"Well, he is cute," Laura said. "What're you going to name him?"

"I ain't decided yet," Bill said. "His mother was Lady Windsor Whiffa-Byrd and his father was Duke Reginald von Huntindawg, so it ought'a be something classy like that."

"Winnie and Reg? Those are their real names?" Laura said.

"Their A.K.C. names, not their family names," Bill said with a smile. "I'm thinking of 'Trigger' or 'Hunter'. You know, something to inspire him."

"Well, bring that fine hunting dog of yours into the kitchen, killer, and let's heat up some milk before he starts craving meat."

Laura led the way into the kitchen. Bill followed, still cradling the puppy in his hands. As she warmed the milk, Bill leaned back against the counter and held the puppy up to eye level to examine it. The puppy yawned in his face and looked around sleepily as Bill talked.

"You got to have a good name, a mighty good name, 'cause you're gonna be a mighty hunter. It's in your blood, little pup." Bill stroked him with one finger as he talked to Laura. "I talked to Ed about training him. He said he needed to be about three months old to start, then about six months to start breaking him in for hunting. He won't be ready this year, but he'll get some experience tagging along."

"Yes, dear." She smiled as she poured the warm milk into a saucer, tested it with her fingertip, and blew over it before placing it on the floor.

"Okay, big guy, it's supper time!" Bill sang out as he swung the puppy down to the floor and set him down beside the saucer.

The as-yet-unnamed puppy sat where he landed, splay-leg and shaking, looking around uncertainly.

Bill leaned down and gently pushed the puppy's nose into the milk. The puppy stoically endured this additional indignity by refusing to acknowledge the milk dripping from his muzzle.

"Lord, I do not want to bottle-feed another baby," Laura moaned as she looked down in disgust.

"Wazz goin' on?" a sleepy voice yawned from the doorway. "Wazz ever' body doin' up?"

Barefoot, in a pink cotton nightgown, their youngest child rubbed her eyes to remove the last vestiges of sleep. Soon to be six, Willa Grace had straight blond hair woven into a braid down her back, and carried a ragged one-eyed stuffed rabbit by one ear. Then she saw the puppy. She froze, her eyes widened and she stopped with her hand half raised to her eye. She started to shake.

"Is-s-s th-a-a-t a a a pup-py?" She pointed with a trembling hand.

"Oh, Lord, she's having a 'Quivering Quake'," Bill muttered, before replying. "Hey, Little Bit. What're you doing up? Yeah, that's my new dog."

She continued to shiver and to stare transfixed on the small pile of canine on the floor.

"Th ... th ... that's th ... the most beautiful thing I ever seen. Can I hold it?"

"Not right now, honey," her father said. "We're trying to get him to drink some milk. Maybe in the morning,"

"What's the matter? Won't he eat?" Willa looked at her parents sharply.

"He's very young, sweetie," Laura said, leaning over to explain. "His mama got sick and we had to take the puppy early. He doesn't know how to drink from a saucer yet."

"His mama should've taught him," Willa said firmly, and then thought. "How does a mama dog teach her baby to drink from a saucer?" she asked her mother

"Well, I guess she'd have to show him," Laura said.

"Okay," said Willa "I'll do it." She dropped to her hands and knees on the floor, still holding her rabbit in one hand. Before her parents could stop her, she crawled across the floor and was nose to nose with the puppy.

"Hey, little buddy. I'm gonna be your mama from now on," she explained to the worried pup. He considered her proposal for a moment before leaning forward to lick the tip of her nose.

"He likes me!" she said, looking up at her parents with a joy-filled face.

"Of course he does, honey. Why don't you get up off the floor now?" her mother said while shooting a look at her husband who shrugged and grinned.

Willa ignored her mother's request and bent back down to look into the puppy's eyes. She leaned over the saucer and dipping her tongue into the warm milk, then looking back at the puppy. He didn't move. Willa did it again.

"I'll get the eyedropper," Laura said, resigning herself to fate.

After a third lick, Willa reached over and picked up the puppy. She held him up to the saucer, while she pretended to lap the milk.

"Come on, Buddy. It's good," she assured him, and resumed her pantomime.

The newly-christened Buddy sniffed at the milk and then took a tentative lick. He looked to Willa for approval and she gave him a smile. He took another tentative lick before deciding that warm milk in a saucer wasn't the same as warm milk from your mother, but it wasn't bad. He fell to it with gusto.

Willa looked up at her parents in triumph.

"See? He just needed somebody to show him how," she said.

"Okay," Bill said. "You're going to be a great dog trainer someday. Now you need to scoot on back to bed."

"Where's he going to sleep?" She asked without getting up, or looking up, as she was busy watching the puppy lap milk.

"In his box, here in the kitchen," her father answered. "He's too little to sleep in the kennel yet." Bill knelt on the floor beside his daughter and joined her in admiring the puppy's ability to drink milk from a saucer.

"He can sleep with me," she suggested brightly.

"No, you might roll over on top of him," her mother quashed the idea quickly.

Willa shot her a pitying look.

"I won't roll over on top him," she declared indignantly. "He'll be in his own box. If he's in my room he won't get lonely and cry."

"She got you there," Bill said.

"You hush," his wife said as she waved at him to be quiet. "I've got enough trouble, without you encouraging her."

"I mean, if he's going to be in the box anyway," her husband said. "I don't see no harm in letting her have the box in her room, just for tonight."

When Bill checked on them before he went to bed, Willa had fallen asleep lying along the edge of the bed with one arm hanging off into the box where the puppy slept soundly beneath the coverlet of her hand.

When Bill checked on them in the morning, the puppy lay curled up on the pillow beside her head.

The puppy woke up when the door creaked as it opened. He yawned and beat his tail against the pillow. Before Bill could move in to pick him up, the puppy leaned over and licked Willa's face. She stirred in her sleep, groaned, and got out of bed. Bill stepped back into the doorway to see what would happen.

Without opening her eyes, Willa scooped the puppy up and carried him to the open window. She unlatched the screen and pushed it open. She leaned through and set the puppy down on the porch. He took a step or two, then went into a crouch and urinated on the pine boards. When he was finished, he tried to bury it with his back feet before running back to the window where Willa retrieved him and carried him back to bed. She deposited him on her pillow as she crawled back between the sheets. She sleepily muttered, "Be quiet Buddy. You'll wake up Daddy."

It was at that moment Bill Steele realized that he was not going to get his own hunting dog. He wasn't even going to get to choose a fine hunting dog name for him. This dog was never going to sleep in a dog kennel, would hunt only if Willa wanted him to, and was going to be spoiled rotten by his new owner. Bill smiled happily as he backed into the hallway, quietly pulling the door closed behind him.

### For Sami

### Grandpa's Shortcut

Outside the window the night sky was just beginning to lighten when Chris squeezed his younger brother Randall's shoulder. Randall was sprawled out across the bed, on top of the sheet in the warm summer air, and woke with a start. He looked around for his brother.

"Shh," Chris whispered. "You going, or not?"

"Yeah," Randall said, sitting up and sliding out of bed.

"You don't have too, you know," Chris said. "You can sleep in and play with Bobby."

Randall bristled at the suggestion of staying behind with the little kids. He was nine and figured he could do anything Chris could do at eleven.

"I'm going," he said.

"Don't wake up Bobby, or he'll want to go too."

Randall looked at his younger brother hanging halfway off the mattress.

"If falling out of bed doesn't wake him up, I reckon I won't either."

Chris could not even wait the short time it took Randall to pull on shorts and a tee shirt before sliding his feet into slip on Keds with holes worn through by the toenail of each big toe.

Mama was waiting for them in the kitchen with peanut butter sandwiches and bananas for them to eat and wash down with a glass of cold milk. Satisfied she had fulfilled her maternal duty, she gave each of them a brown paper sack with another peanut butter sandwich and an apple in it. She handed them their filled Boy Scouts canteens.

"Y'all stick together," she said. "And be safe."

They each agreed as they kissed her cheek before going outside.

Outside, their fishing poles, tackle box and can of worms sat where they had left them the night before.

"Come on," Chris said as he grabbed his pole and the tackle box. "We're meeting at Vernon's house."

Randall knew that, and he thought it was his turn to carry the tackle box, but he took the can of worms, picked up his pole and hastened after his brother.

Vernon was the leader of their gang, as they styled themselves. At thirteen, he was a year or so older than the next oldest boy, Chris. Vernon wore black framed glasses with an elastic band joining the legs behind his head. His retainer gave him a slight lisp, he was a tall and gawky black kid, but he was kind to the younger children and they never noticed his defects.

He had moved into the neighborhood last winter. Randall had met him at the sledding hill and it was Vernon who had come up with the idea of dragging the hood off a long abandoned pickup truck up the hill for a mass slide down. Pushing the inverted hood up the hill had been hard, but Vernon had stuck with moving it himself instead of recruiting the younger kids to do the hard work. Without coercion the other kids joined in willingly and soon the hood was reversed and balanced on the cusp of the steepest downhill slope. Vernon took the nose, as was conceded his right and the kids quickly worked out the boarding order once the hood had been put into motion. Randall was near the end, but not at the end. Chris and his best friend, Andrew, stood on either side of Vernon.

"Everybody ready? Okay, let her go!" Vernon shouted.

There was a mad scramble to get aboard the rapidly accelerating pickup truck hood. Randall grinned as he squeezed into the middle and gripped the edge. One of the smaller kids slipped and fell, rolling in the snow and missing his chance.

The ride down the hill was everything that any of the passengers could have hoped for or imagined. The cold winter wind brought tears to their eyes and carried away their screaming whoops of joy and excitement. The inverted hood sled gained momentum as it slid down the icy surface of the well packed snow. Being children, they lacked a real understanding of the relationship between mass, gravity and speed but they acquired practical knowledge when the sled kept speeding up as they approached the bottom of the hill. Lack of any steering mechanism became a glaring deficiency, as was the absence of any slowing device.

At the end of the sled run was a stone wall of a haphazard pile construction. Snow covered the rocks and lay in banks against the wall. Beyond the wall was a country lane of frozen mud and across that was thick underbrush and uncut woods.

About half the crew, Randall included, abandoned their craft before the end of the sled run, rolling off onto the snow in a safe, if dizzying, finish.

Randall looked up in time to see the hood of the pickup truck lift up the snowbank, hit the stone wall and go airborne over the top. Only Vernon, Chris and Andrew remained on board as the hood sailed through the air, crashing to earth in the middle of the road, sliding across the frozen mud and into the ditch on the far side of the road.

There was a stunned silence after the crashing noises died out. Randall imagined his brother's bloody broken body and worried he might get in trouble for this, when Vernon let loose an exuberant whoop.

"That was great! Let's do it again!"

Vernon was the man with the plan. Vernon always had something cooking. Whether small, like the expeditions to the nearest store that sold candy and baseball cards, or large such as arranging a weekly swimming party at the base pool. Vernon figured out the schedule for the base bus and where the bus stop was. Anyone whose parents allowed it could go and in two cases Vernon went so far as to actually talk to the parents, assuring them he was responsible enough to protect their young innocents, much to the embarrassment of the young innocents. At the appointed time Vernon walked through the neighborhood gathering children like the Pied Piper, all dressed for the pool and carrying rolled up towels containing their swimsuits. Excited and scared they pressed together and followed Vernon as he confidently led them to the correct bus stop, the correct bus, and the pool where they enjoyed an afternoon's frolic and returned home without incident. The event grew so popular that girls were allowed, if they had a brother in the gang, then smaller groups began to splinter off and make the passage on their own, but it was never again as nerve-wracking as the first time.

This summer Vernon had uncovered a local resource that no one had been aware of. The local Grange had a pond on their property, out back behind the building. Vernon discovered that children up to age fourteen were allowed to fish in that pond whenever they wanted. According to the groundskeeper the pond was stocked with bream, catfish, and bass, elaborating with exaggerated tales of record catches and near misses. Vernon came away with his eyes aglow from the thought of landing a big mouthed bass. He immediately began arranging a fishing expedition to secure his prize.

Only the core cadre of the gang was invited to participate in this adventure. Randall was pleased to find himself included without having to ask.

The boys assembled in the pre-dawn hours, long before any of them would normally think of being up during summer vacation, but Vernon had vowed to leave at six and anyone who was not ready would be left behind. No one wanted to be left behind.

In tee shirts and shorts, they shivered in the early morning air as they assembled around the back porch of Vernon's house. Each boy clutched a brown paper sack containing his lunch, possibly his bait too, and had a fishing pole across the other shoulder in the correct manual of arms style. They set off as the sun broke the horizon over the tree tops.

Vernon had only ever been to the Grange by way of the roads, so that was the way he led the troop, walking on sidewalks when they were available and along the shoulder of the road when they weren't.

Following the road was boring, but the boys kept up a lively chatter of fishing lore and great expectations. As the cars swept by them, the boys earnestly discussed what the best bait was, whether to bottom fish or float, and, if float, how far to dangle your bait below the bobber.

"All I know," Vernon declared. "Is I want me a bass, a great big old granddaddy lunker big mouth bass."

He waxed poetic about the allure of the big mouth bass, the most noble and wiliest of all game fish. He had seen a picture, an artist's conception, in a fishing magazine and described a fish with a muscular body behind a great gaping maw of a mouth. He had memorized the article and recited it to the boys as a holy gospel of how to capture the elusive big mouth bass. If you were able to trap one, and didn't break an arm reeling it in, you would be rewarded with the finest eating fish known to mankind.

Randall couldn't have cared less. He just wanted to catch a fish, any fish, on his own and not have one handed to him after it had already been hooked, like some little kid. He looked forward to bringing something home, even if he would have to clean it. His pride swelled a little imagining his mother telling his father who it was had caught the fish. Randall felt a little a guilty at this passing thought, wishing his brother would get skunked and Randall would be the fishing hero today.

In kid time, and on kid's legs, it seemed to take forever to sight the cinder block building that was the Grange, but Vernon checked his wristwatch and assured them that they had made good time and the journey had only taken forty-five minutes. He led them down the driveway to the pond out back.

Surrounded by widely spaced trees, the pond was wider than Randall could cast and at least three times as long. Tall grass dried in rows where a bush hog had left it, but the edge of the pond had overgrown with grass and brush that hung out over the water. The boys stopped to consider their options.

"Smells fishy," Vernon said.

Everyone else agreed as if they knew what fishy smelled like.

They split up and spread out along the banks of the pond, unlimbering their rods as they went. There were plenty of clear spots along the banks so they could fish without crowding each other.

As soon as they put their lines in the water the floating fishermen started hooking bream and the bottom fishermen began catching catfish. As the morning wore on there was a shift in policy when the floating fishermen grew envious of the bottom fishermen's bigger fish and switched to bottom fishing, while the bottom fishermen remembered how much easier bream were to clean, so they switched to floats. Soon the boys were catching and releasing fish because everyone already had more than they felt like cleaning.

Except for Vernon. He had a special bait casting reel mounted on a new rod and he approached the pond with the seriousness of a general surveying the battlefield. He squinted into the bright spots and frowned at the shadows. He licked his finger to find the direction of the wind. He restlessly stalked the banks in search of the correct spot to make his assault. He only had two lures in his tackle box, so he had a fifty-fifty chance of picking the right one. He finally found the perfect spot and put down his gear. He unwound the fishing line from around the pole and clipped on the chosen lure, a bug-eyed plug with a yellow belly and a red back, with black spots and a small propeller spinning off the rear. Beneath it dangled two dangerous looking treble hooks. Vernon stared at it for a moment as it swung hypnotically before his eyes. He set his feet and marked the spot he was aiming at. He took a deep breath, drew back his arm and swung his rod forward in a graceful sweep. It would have been a magnificent cast if the treble hooks had not snagged on a tree branch behind him. His forward motion abruptly halted in mid arc. The spool of his special bait casting reel spun and the line poured off of it into a knotted birds nest.

Silently, Vernon looked at the lure, dancing as it dangled from the tree limb. Then he looked down at the tangle of monofilament line in his hands. To his everlasting credit, not one word of profanity or complaint came from him. He sat down on the bank of the pond and patiently began untangling the mess. He worked steadily while the other boys fished, responding enthusiastically to their whoops of joy when another fish succumbed to their inducements.

Eventually, Vernon succeeded in putting things right. He started again, casting slower and smaller this time while he became accustomed to his new reel. He worked his lure along the banks and under the overhanging trees. He worked the edge of the lily pads before venturing a cast in the middle of them. A snag and nearly losing one of his lures convinced him he could not afford to explore the weeds the way he wanted to. He moved slowly, working his way along the banks of the pond. When he completed the circuit, he switched to his other lure and slowly repeated his passage around the water, all without effect. Not so much as a ripple pursued his attractions.

Fishing slowed as the sun rose in the sky, until around 11AM the fish stopped biting altogether. Without discussion, it became the consensus that it was time to eat and head home.

While they ate their lunch in the shade of the trees Vernon assured them that he was not disappointed, that this was to be expected, as the wily bass was nearly impossible to catch. It was its elusiveness that made the experience of catching one so precious. Vernon said that some people went their entire lives without ever landing a truly notable fish, but that was okay because even the smallest bass was capable of jerking a pole out from the hands of the unwary. Bass fishing is an art, Vernon assured them, and like all art it required patience and practice.

Randall thought about his string of catfish and bream waiting in the water and thought about how good they were going to taste with cheese grits and hushpuppies. He decided he did not have the patience or stamina to be an artist.

The other boys insisted that Vernon accept a share of the fish, so every family got a fresh fish dinner. That night, Randall fell asleep with a full stomach and a happy memory.

The fishing trips became a semi-regular weekly event, but the corps remained small, as the little kids could not make the trip and the girls were decidedly uninterested in fishing. Vernon continued his relentless pursuit of the wily big mouth bass while the rest of the gang nearly always got their limit on catfish and bream, but no one ever saw any sign of any bass, big, small or medium mouthed.

Summer settled into a happy routine of recreation and lassitude, sleeping late and staying outside until the street lights came on. The 4th of July came and went, but Labor Day was still weeks away, when everything changed with a sudden twist, though Randall did not realize how much at the time. His father announced that his parents were flying across the county to visit.

Grandma and Grandpa's flight came in after the boy's bedtime so they did not get to see them until the next morning. A usual Sunday morning would have found them fighting for five more minutes of sleep but this Sunday they were up before their parents. The girls had to move in together so their parents could have their room while Grandma and Grandpa took the big bed in the master bedroom. The boys took care to avoid being the first to waken the grandparents, sending Bobby, the littlest and least likely to get into trouble, to tap on the door of their parent's new bedroom. Bobby cracked open the door and stuck his face inside. Randall and Chris watched nervously from the hallway, prepared to dash back to their beds should anything go awry.

But a fair wind blew that morning and Bobby pulled his head back and turned to tell them:

"Daddy's getting up."

Their father appeared in the doorway, looking sleepy eyed without his glasses on, gathering a bathrobe over his shoulders.

"Coffee," he croaked and the boys scampered before him to the kitchen. They watched silently as he put the coffee pot on to percolate. He looked at his three sons watching him and his face broke into an easy grin.

"Let's get some coffee going, before we get them up, okay? Who is going to be a good dog and fetch me the paper?"

Chris was too old for this game, and Randall knew how silly it was but played along anyway, for the love of the sport and to give Bobby someone to race against.

Bobby got away first, but Randall caught him at the door when he had to stop and unlock it. Randall leaped over the three porch steps, that Bobby had to take one at a time, and got to the paper first. He taunted Bobby with the thick Sunday edition by holding it just out of his reach as Bobby hopped around and tried to grab it. Finally Randall had enough and let Bobby snatch it from him. He dashed back inside with his prize and Randall followed; remembering when he was little and the game was a lot more fun.

Grandma and Grandpa came down just after the boys learned they would not be attending Sunday school or church that day. The appearance of the guests of honor combined with this happy news to send the boys into loud paroxysms of joy.

Even in her bathrobe and curlers, Grandma was intimidating. She was short, wore bifocal glasses, and had the determined jaw of a bulldog. She had raised five boys by the back of her hand and left no doubt as to who was the boss of the house. Strangely, she and Randall's mother got along well; two domineering forces that combined instead of clashing or canceling each other out. Randall was always more appreciative of his mother after any short exposure to Grandma's discipline.

Grandpa was the corker though. Stooped and weather beaten, he still wore an easy lopsided grin most of the time. His gray hair circled the back of his head without disturbing the top and the fingers on his left hand were bent at a forty five degree angle from the last joint to the tip. Family mythology had it that Grandpa had broken them when a cow he had a rope on fell into an arroyo. Grandpa had set the fingers himself, wrapping them up tight in a bandana, and finished the cattle drive.

Grandpa enjoyed a good joke or a bad pun. He had an easy smile and a twinkle in his eye, and sometimes Randall couldn't tell if he was kidding or serious. Grandma's fussing never seemed to bother him much, he just agreed or went along with what she wanted, until he had enough. Early on in their 50 year marriage, Grandma and Grandpa had established boundaries.

Randall had been shocked and surprised the only time he had ever seen it happen. The last time they had visited Grandma and Grandpa in Oregon, Randall had gotten in trouble for kicking Grandma's chickens, and Grandma was correcting him for what seemed to Randall to be an uncomfortably long time. Grandpa must have thought so too. He rustled the pages of the newspaper he was reading and spoke quietly from behind the page.

"That's enough, dearie."

Grandma abruptly stopped talking and shot Grandpa a look. She turned her back to the table and busied herself with the dishes. Randall's mother looked embarrassed, but his father acted as though nothing had happened. Randall was amazed.

After a few minutes Grandma turned back around with a saucer in her hand holding a piece of toast spread thickly with the strawberry jam like they had sent out at Christmas. At home, it was doled out by the spoonful and only on special occasions. Two of the original six Mason jars from Christmas still remained, sealed with wax, hidden deep on the back shelf of the pantry.

"Here," she said gruffly, putting the saucer on the table in front of Randall. "Eat it before it gets cold."

"Thanks, Grandma," Randall said with relief before sinking his teeth into the treat. Grandma rubbed the top of his head before giving him a soft slap to the back of his head.

"I swear, you boys'll be the death of me," she said.

Randall looked over and saw his grandfather smile behind his paper.

Grandpa was a retired rancher, which is what farmers out west call themselves. Retired meant that he did not have to go to work like Randall's father. However, years of ranching had conditioned him to be up and out of the house during daylight hours. Unless Grandma wanted him along on a shopping trip, he was left on his own. Since he had left all of his projects in his workshop, and did not have his over-sized garden, milk cow, chickens, bees, or the rose bushes that normally occupied his days at home, it fell to Randall and his brothers to keep Grandpa entertained.

The boys had to wait through a day trip into New York City and a shopping trip to Newburgh before they finally got Grandpa to themselves. They gave him a Cook's tour of the back yard, the baseball diamond their father had built and beyond that, the woods where imagination ran wild, transforming from a battlefield to a swamp, Camelot or Shangri-La, as their play required.

At the edge of the woods grew two ancient crab apple trees, the sole survivors of a long defunct orchard. They grew unperturbed by the disappearance of the others, offering their tart apples up every fall to those who could wait and a sick stomach to any who didn't. Alongside them lay a sizable sugar maple that had been laid low by last winter's storms. Grandpa sank down on the horizontal tree trunk. He pushed his soft brown fedora back off his forehead and blew a breath.

"Hot, ain't it?"

Randall and his brothers looked at each other, uncertain whether or not to tell him the real heat didn't come until August.

"Yes, sir," Chris replied. "I guess it is warm for July."

"Is that so?" Grandpa eyed him with a twinkle in his eye. "You reckon I'd be safe shucking the long johns? No sudden cold snaps on the horizon? Grandma will be glad to hear that." He laughed at their shocked expressions and rolled his shirt sleeve back to show the arms of long handled underwear. Randall had not worn his long johns since March.

Chris and Randall climbed into the lower branches of the nearest crabapple tree and sat or lay along a limb. Bobby couldn't reach the lowest limb, so he sat on the fallen tree with Grandpa.

As they talked, Grandpa pulled a yellow handled pocket knife from his pants pocket and opened a blade that had been sharpened so many times, over so many years, that only half of it remained. He started telling them an old Indian story about the time the animals stole fire from the Gods and gave it to man. None of the animal had their distinguishing marks at the beginning of the story, acquiring them as they played their part in the transmission of the flame. It burned the fox red, the throat of the bull frog, and the breast of the robin before man used it to burn the god's mountain home. The rainbow broke through the clouds and struck the mountain, becoming trapped in the molten rock. As proof of this story, Grandpa showed them the rainbow in a polished piece of quartz that he carried on his key chain.

As his story unfolded, Grandpa ran the tip of his knife down though the bark in two long parallel lines along the length of the trunk. Then he closed the two ends with lateral cuts. Sliding his knife under the bark he carefully pried up one edge before sliding his knife underneath the bark to free the rest of the rectangle.

Stopping his story long enough to request a length of green vine, he resumed talking as he used the tip of his knife to bore holes a couple of inches apart along most of the two long sides. He scored an oval on the inside, in the middle, before folding the two sides around the bottom, running the green vine through the holes along the edge to close the sides. He finished the basket as he finished his story.

"Vo-lee!" he said as he held the basket up for inspection. "A genuine fake Indian basket." He handed it to Bobby, whose face lit up at the unexpected present.

"I'll make you boys one too, next time," Grandpa promised Randall and his older brother who were struggling to control their envy. It mollified them enough for them to be happy for their brother.

Grandpa was like that. Even when he was sitting still, his hands were always doing something. When Randall's father was home, he and Grandpa worked in the garage; or rather they talked, drank beer, and played with the tools. Woe betides any kid who happened to walk by when they were working on a project.

Randall had lost track of the gang and was circling the house hoping to pick up the trail when his father saw him and called out.

"Just the fellow I'm looking for."

Randall cringed.

"Sir?"

"I need a helper, son. I think you'll do."

With a sigh Randall surrendered to the parental authority. His shoulders slumped as he walked into the garage.

"I need some nails."

Randall nodded and went to the workbench. From underneath the workbench, he pulled out an old paint can filled with the bent and rusty nails his father had had the boys salvage from any scrap of wood or discarded project he found. Next to the can was a rectangular piece of armor plating that Grandpa had brought back from the shipyard where he had worked during the war, a block for each of his sons and one for himself. Randall grunted as he slid the block out from under the workbench. Grandpa handed him a hammer and Randall sat on the cool concrete floor. He took an assorted handful of nails out of the can and held them up to his father.

"What size?"

His father looked through the selection and picked out the one that he thought looked to be the right size. Randall sighed again and found ten of that size nail in the bucket, picked them out of the rusty tangle and laid them in a row on the floor beside him. One at a time, Randall rolled the nail across the flat surface of the armor plating as he tapped it out straight. His father started hammering them in as soon as Randall finished the first one, and he had to pull more from the paint can. Randall had no idea what it was his father was building but it seemed to be comprised mostly of nails.

Grandpa had no active role in the project at this time and he wandered around the garage looking for something to do. He looked down into the trash can, and then bent over and reached into it. He came out with the base of a Coca-Cola bottle that had been broken and was now non-returnable. Grandpa wiped it off with a rag before wrapping it in the rag and holding it in the palm of his hand. He got another hammer and carefully struck the glass in his hand, light taps before examining the result between blows. When he was satisfied, he dumped the slivers of glass from the rag back into the trash can. He wrapped the remaining piece of glass back up in the rag and held it in the palm of his hand again. He got a big nail from the can beside Randall and sat in a chair at the entrance to the garage, talking to Randall's father and studiously digging away at the piece of glass in his hand with the tip of the nail.

Randall didn't pay much attention as he was completely absorbed in getting the nails straight enough to pass his father's inspection and completing the onerous task as rapidly as possible.

After the big nails, Randall's father requested small nails. Randall hated small nails because he kept hitting the tips of his fingers when he straightened them. He yelped when he pinched his finger against the unyielding armor plate steel. His grandfather noticed and, without saying anything about it, got up and went to the work bench. He picked up a pair of needle nosed pliers and dropped them into Randall's lap.

"Here. These won't hurt as bad when you hit them."

Randall gratefully took the tool and immediately realized how much less painful it was to hit pliers instead of his fingers. His grandfather returned to his seat.

Around the corner, Randall saw his younger brother appear. Bobby froze at the edge of the building when he saw what Randall was doing, and then slowly backed up, abandoning his brother to his fate. Randall noticed, but could not rat him out to their father. He took his anger out on the twisted nails, straightening them furiously and returning them to service as fast as he could.

He was five nails ahead when his father finally finished.

"Okay, that's enough. Thanks, son."

Randall pushed himself up off the floor. He butt was cold and sore from sitting on the concrete and he rubbed it to restore feeling before sliding the block of armor plating and paint can of nails back under the workbench. He left the hammer on top of the workbench, since none of the tools were hung up.

"Anything else?" he asked.

"Humh?" His father had already become absorbed in another of the arcane and, in Randall's mind, incomprehensible facets of the project. "No, you can run along now."

"Thanks, Pop."

As Randall was leaving the garage Grandpa was examining the chipped piece of glass in his hand. He blew some chips away and gave it another poke with the tip of the nail. A miniscule flake of glass flipped off the larger piece.

"Here," he said, holding out the piece of glass to Randall as he walked by.

Randall looked at the arrowhead fashioned from the green glass of a coke bottle. His eyes widened as he realized what he was being given. Eagerly he took the arrowhead, looking at his Grandfather with wonder.

"Old Indian feller, used to work for me, showed me how to make those things. He was real good making them. He used to sell them in town, to the tourists on the train. You remember old Barney, don't you son? On the 'Last Chance'?"

"I remember," Randall's father straightened up from the project, leaning against it to reminisce. "I was younger than Randall here when he died, but I remember him. He wore a clean shirt every year."

"Yep, that was him. He never took the old one off. When we were washing him for his funeral he had on nine collars."

"Hey, remember Black Ned? He was the first Negro I ever saw."

"He sure could play the fiddle though."

"Yeah. There were a lot of interesting people on the road in those days."

"Yep, hard times. Hope we never see the like."

"What were hard times?" Randall still held up his arrowhead, studying it, but felt compelled to ask.

"The Depression, son," his father said. "A lot of people lost all their money, and farms in the Dust Bowl dried up. A lot of men took to the road looking for work. Pop used to hire them when he could."

"Most times it was just room and board," Grandpa added. "Most of them were decent men, just down on their luck and at the end of their rope. Anyone who wouldn't help out someone like that don't have a heart."

"Did your far...ranch dry up too?" Randall asked.

"No," his father said. "We were in the desert. Couldn't get any dryer."

"Y'all didn't lose your money?"

Grandpa and his son looked at each other and burst into laughter.

"No," Grandpa answered. "We had nothing to start with, and we managed to hang on to most of that."

When the news was shared around the dinner table that a fishing expedition was being planned for the next morning, Grandpa perked up and asked the boys about what kind of fish they caught around here. Randall's mother suggested that Grandpa go along with them as she and Grandma had hair appointments tomorrow and would be gone all morning. Randall's father agreed and looked meaningfully at Chris and Randall who were quick to pick up on the hint and invite Grandpa to accompany them.

They liked the idea, of course, but they would have preferred to talk to Vernon before making changes to his agenda. Their father's silent suggestion had complicated matters and they skipped the conference out of political necessity, hoping Vernon would understand. Grandpa looked at Grandma.

"You might as well go," she said. "Ain't nobody gonna be around to fix your lunch anyway."

The next morning, Chris shook Randall awake in the pre-dawn darkness. They dressed quickly and semi-quietly in the darkness, knowing from past experience that it would take a cannonade to wake up Bobby. He was happily excluded from their fishing plans and would spend the day playing with the littler kids in the neighborhood.

Downstairs they found Grandpa already up, sitting at the table and drinking coffee with their father. They were discussing the issues of the world, as communicated by the morning newspaper, while Randall's father fixed toast, setting out butter to soften and Grandma's strawberry preserves. The boy's fixed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for themselves, carefully wrapping them in wax paper sandwich bags before sliding them into brown paper sacks, along with an apple and a couple of cookies. Since the peanut butter was chunky, Grandpa could not eat it, he said it was because the chunks got up under his plates. Randall wondered what on earth plates had to do with peanut butter, but he put a tin of Vienna sausages and a stack of soda crackers in his bag for Grandpa's lunch. They filled their Boy Scout canteens before sitting at the table and eating a quick breakfast of toast and jam.

Their father poured two glasses of milk before sitting down to his own breakfast. After the boys drank the milk down to the last inch, their father filled the glasses half way up again with coffee. The boys added a spoonful of sugar and stirred the light brown liquid to a consistent color. They smacked lips as they slurped the lukewarm liquid, sipping slowly while swishing the sweet concoction over tongue and gums repeatedly to extract the full flavor before swallowing.

They split up in the garage where Randall and his brother got their fishing gear while Grandpa walked their father out to his car. They waved him off as he back out of the driveway, shifted the car into gear, and went to work.

The boys were eager to get fishing, but had to wait while Grandpa closed the garage door. They walked up the sidewalk to Vernon's house for the designated rendezvous.

There were three other kids waiting on Vernon's back porch already. They looked curiously at Grandpa while exchanging greetings with Randall and his brother.

"This is our Grandpa. He's going fishing with us." Chris stated flatly, looking intently at the other boys for any sign of derision. They looked at each other and shrugged their collective shoulders.

Vernon came out from the back door, shutting it softly behind him. He stopped short when he saw Grandpa.

"This is our Grandpa. He's going with us," Randall ventured to follow his brother's tack.

Vernon shrugged and welcomed the stranger, shaking his hand like an adult.

"Which way you figuring on going?" Grandpa asked. "You gonna follow the road or take the shortcut?"

There wasn't much the boys loved better than discovering a shortcut or a new way to get somewhere. Shortcuts through the backyards of the neighborhood were important when on the run from a bigger kid, or late for an appointment with a parent, or if caught up short. Knowing the quickest way home from anywhere in the neighborhood was useful knowledge, particularly a route that did not require jumping any fences.

"What shortcut would that be, sir?" Vernon asked while the rest of the boys crowded forward to hear.

"Well, I was looking at the map and it seems your Grange is right across those fields out there." He pointed his cane out behind the houses to Farmer Armstrong's fields.

"We've never gone that way before," Vernon said.

Grandpa looked at him for a moment, and then looked at the other boys.

"Then I'd say it was about time you went that way, wouldn't you?"

Vernon chewed his lower lip as he considered. All the other boys waited on him before committing themselves.

"You think it's shorter?" he asked Grandpa.

"Sure, it's always shortest to go the way the crow flies, ain't it?"

No one knew enough about the navigational prowess of a crow to doubt the common wisdom.

"Well," Vernon said, "I would like to get there sooner. I'm thinking I might have better luck catching a bass earlier in the day."

"Probably right," Grandpa said. "We used to go fishing before breakfast, so we could work during the daylight. Seems like we always caught something."

This convinced Vernon. Shouldering his fishing pole, he walked alongside Grandpa, with Chris on Grandpa's other side and Randall crowded out behind with the rest of the gang. Vernon asked Grandpa if he had any experience pursuing bass.

"Well, I don't know anything about the kind of fish you have around here, all my experience has been out west, but I figure a fish thinks the same, no matter where they are. Find out where they are, and figure out what they eat, and you'll catch you a fish."

"Bass aren't like regular fish," Vernon assured him. "They're different. They are the king of all the game fish. People have been known to fish for them their entire lives without catching so much as a nibble, they so smart."

Grandpa eyed him with amusement.

"They must've gotten hungry," he said.

"Oh, yes sir, bass are fine eating. But the best is when you get a real big one, and you take him to the taxidermist so he can make a cast of it, that you can hang on the wall."

"You don't get to eat it?" Grandpa asked.

"No, sir. Bass are trophy fish."

"Uh-huh," Grandpa said. "Is that a special bass catching rig you got there?"

"Yes sir," Vernon said as he held it up proudly. "Baitcaster 1000 with micro-adjust star drag, mounted on an Eddie Grabbles signature model fiberglass rod with ceramic coated guides. I ordered it from a fishing magazine."

"Well, it looks mighty fine. Had much luck with it?"

"No," Vernon reluctantly admitted. "But I am still learning. Bass fishing takes years to learn and a lifetime to master."

"Uh-huh," Grandpa said.

They arrived at the stone wall that divided the backyards of their neighborhood from Farmer Armstrong's fields. Randall felt awkward, as though he were entering new lands, though he had been across Farmer Armstrong's fields many times before. But then he had always known where he was going and his destination was fixed in his mind. Now he had no idea where his destination lay and he realized no one knew which way to go. They were being guided by what Grandpa remembered from looking at a map last night. If it had been his father, Randall would have had no doubt about his ability to glance at a map and navigate unerringly to his chosen target, but his Grandfather was another matter, untested and unknown. However, fierce family pride swelled in his mind to chastise him for lack of faith in his own grandfather.

Passing through an opening in the stone wall, they entered neat fields of well-tended corn, soy beans, green beans and onions. They walked along a tractor path that paralleled a stone fence between the fields. Grandpa had a keen eye for the fields and pointed out the different crops to the boys as he explained crop rotation, fertilizer balance, and the source of the stones piled into loose walls at the edge of every field.

"Whenever the farmer would hit a rock with his plow, he'd dig it out so he wouldn't hit it again. He dragged it out of the field and over to the edge. He piled them up, year after year, and his son and his son after him, until they built that wall. How many years do you think it took for them to build a wall that high and that long?"

None of the boys could venture a guess, but they were all impressed, considering how far the wall stretched into the distance and surrounded every field.

"That's a lot of rocks," Vernon said. "Do you think they got them all out? Must've gotten them all out by now."

"The earth keeps giving, both good and bad," Grandpa said. "Rocks rise to the plow. At least, they seem too."

They crested the rise and looked out over the orderly patchwork of fields spreading before them. Randall wondered if all the fields belonged to Farmer Armstrong or if there might be other farmers out there. The fields were large and small, distorted rectangles or misshapen triangles, or a strip curving around the side of a hill in the distance. It appeared as though every possible acre of arable soil had been carved out of the forest, though the trees and bushes still lined every edge, waiting for a time when farming ceased and the farmer came no more. Until then, they grew up though the stone walls, flowing along the creek banks to spill into the low land, waiting patiently for their opportunity to recapture the fields.

"Ain't that pretty now," Grandpa said. "There ain't much prettier than well-tended fields, is there, boys?"

The boys slowed down, looked out to the horizon and appreciated the view. They all agreed that it was a pretty site before they descended the hill into the shallow valley below.

They heard a motor rumble as they rounded a curve in the dirt lane and came face to face with Farmer Armstrong hunched over the wheel of a faded red tractor. Behind them, dangling in the air, was a wicked looking implement with rows of curved rakes culminating in shiny arrowhead shaped points. Randall's heart leaped to his throat and he felt like he had been caught doing something wrong. Farmer Armstrong stopped the tractor and looked down at them, unsmiling. Randall's face flushed with guilt.

Farmer Armstrong throttled the engine down to a slow idle and set the brake. He uncoiled his long lean body from behind the steering wheel and jumped down, dusted off his clothes and walked over to the boys.

"Hey, Mr. Armstrong," Vernon called out.

Farmer Armstrong gave Vernon a nod, but spoke to Grandpa.

"Howdy. Jim Armstrong," he said, sticking out his hand.

Grandpa said his name as he shook Farmer Armstrong's hand. The knot in Randall's gut unclenched and he briefly worried he might be caught out here, too far from home for any shortcut to help.

Fortunately, the feeling passed and he was able to relax. It was his first time seeing Farmer Armstrong up close and Randall took the opportunity to examine him closely.

He was thin, with weathered skin and coarse features. He wore a dirty ball cap from a seed company, a patched chambray shirt and utility trousers. His heavy brogans were caked with mud or manure and Randall wondered if his wife made him clean them before he could go inside the house. It was not a job Randall wanted.

After **a** quick explanation for the trespass on his land, Farmer Armstrong and Grandpa engaged in a conversation about crops, rainfall and market prices. Randall didn't understand much, but was impressed by the depth of his grandfather's knowledge.

While they talked Farmer Armstrong began the process of finding, filling, tamping and finally lighting his pipe. Randall was mesmerized by the ritual, and watched the gnarly calloused hand, lined with ground-in dirt and one finger black from tamping his pipe. Randall suddenly realized where he had seen hands like that before. He looked at his grandfather's deformed fingers that he was gesturing across the fields with. His grandfather had hands like that, except clean, and now that he thought on it, so did his father. Randall looked at the back of his own young hand and wondered how old you had to be before your hands started changing. Chris's hands had not changed yet, so it might be a while. Randall looked forward to the transformation with eager anticipation.

Farmer Armstrong had the hairiest ears Randall had ever seen. Despite the obvious evidence of them being clipped back, he looked like he was wearing mink earmuffs. Randall wondered if it was the pipe that caused it, as he was the first person Randall had ever known who smoked a pipe. He resolved to find out and to avoid the smoke issuing from the pipe until he knew for sure.

"Yeah," Farmer Armstrong drawled slowly. "It's right over that rise there, can't miss it. 'Course, it's a bit thick back in there."

"Think we can make it through?" Grandpa asked.

"Yeah, don't see why not. Just a crick runs though the bottom of it. Should be down now."

Grandpa nodded, looking off in the direction indicated.

"Should be an easy walk," he said.

"Lord willin' and the crick don't rise," Farmer Armstrong said.

They shook hands as they parted. Vernon stepped up and offered his hand to Farmer Armstrong too.

"That's a mighty fancy rig you got there, Vernon," Farmer Armstrong observed as he shook Vernon's hand.

"Yes sir, it's the Baitcaster 1000, and an Eddie Grabbles signature model fiberglass rod with ceramic coated guides. I ordered it from a magazine."

Farmer Armstrong squinted one eye and looked at him, a corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

"Good luck with it. A fish should be honored to be caught by such a pretty rig."

Vernon grinned.

"I just hope they don't see it until it's too late."

Farmer Armstrong laughed and sent them off with a final farewell as he ground the gears and engaged the clutch. The tractor lurched forward and the cultivator swayed back and forth as they moved sedately down the lane.

The gang gathered around Grandpa seeking affirmation that he now knew exactly where they were going.

"Not exactly, but I got a pretty good idea which direction to head in. Mr. Armstrong said it was just over that hill, so we just need to cross this valley to get the hill. He said there's a creek running along the bottom; that's why the land was never cleared. He said it should be down now, so we ought to be able to cross without any problems. We should be there soon."

The glint of shiny metal partially buried in the leaves along the side of the lane caught Randall's eye and he pounced.

"Hey, look!" he called as he pulled his prize from beneath the debris. He held it up for everyone to see. It was an arrowhead shaped plow tip, worn smooth and shiny by countless miles of cutting through the soil. It was still attached to the curved rake with the square box welded to the other end. There was an open hole where the set screw should have held it to the rail of the plow.

"Cool!" Randall said. "I could plow up a garden with this." He bent over to drag the tip through the loose top soil of the roadway. It wasn't as easy as the tractor made it look and Randall quickly realized it was a stupid idea.

"You know who that belongs to, don't you son?" Grandpa asked.

Randall stopped playing with the plow tip and looked up at his grandfather.

"Why, I reckon it belongs to Farmer Armstrong," he said slowly, before adding hastily. "I wasn't gonna keep it."

Grandpa nodded.

"I know. But don't you think Mr. Armstrong could use that rake when he's doing his work today? If he ain't got it, that's one row less he can cultivate on every pass. That could mean an extra two or three passes over the field. Don't seem right we should give him extra work when he's been nice enough to let us walk over his land. Some people wouldn't."

Randall lowered the iron finger, feeling its weight now, wishing now he had not been the one to find the dang thing.

"Can't I just leave it here, for him to find on his way home?" he tried.

Grandpa shook his head.

"Half a good deed ain't a good deed," he said.

Randall looked around for help, but the other boys refused to meet his eye, except his brother who looked at him haughtily.

"What?" Chris challenged.

"You're faster," Randall reasoned.

"So what? You found it," Chris said, then relented a little. "I'll carry your fishing pole. If you run, you can catch up with us before we get to the creek. I'll leave you signs."

He pulled Randall's fishing pole from his reluctant fingers and Randall was forced to accept the inevitability of the task. Throwing the curved metal over his shoulder he turned around and ran back the way they had come.

Anxious to complete what he viewed as an onerous and unfair task as quickly as possible, Randall started off running at full speed with cultivator tine over his shoulder. Quickly realizing the pace was unsustainable he slowed to a steady run, and then slowed again to a fast walk.

He stopped to catch his breath at the corner, looking back at the slowly diminishing figures in the distance. He set off again, cradling his burden in his arms to give his bruised shoulder a break. He cursed his luck for being the first one to spot the accursed thing. He tried running again, but had to slow back to a walk to work a stitch out of his side. He looked ahead, but the road curved as it rose away from him so he could not see very far. All he could see of Farmer Armstrong's tractor was tread tracks in the dirt. He laid the tine across both of his shoulders and resumed walking as fast as he could.

As he walked along he looked down at his feet and had a curious sense of Déjà Vu. He stared down at his feet and searched his memories to identify the source.

He remembered another time when he had watched his feet while he was walking. He might have been four the first time he had gone to his grandfather's ranch out west. He remembered following his father and uncle down to the corral to see the horses. The grass had been tall, nearly as tall as his legs were long, and he remembered struggling to keep up with the men. He had noticed his father and uncle had longer legs then his and took longer strides. In a flood of memory he remembered mimicking their stride, stretching his legs wider on every step, to match their pace. He stretched out his stride now, taking full steps and getting into the rhythm of the walk. He concentrated on keeping a steady, even pace, forgetting about the weight on his shoulders; he lost himself in thinking about the mundane act of walking. He wondered what would happen if he instantly stopped swinging out his legs and pictured himself falling flat on his face. He marveled at how much walking and falling were alike; walking was just falling from foot to foot. He shifted the load onto one shoulder and swung his free arm, looking straight ahead, he imagined himself to be an old-fashioned locomotive, puffing out steam as it climbed the hill. He got a regular rhythm going, even letting out engine noises every once in a while when he really got caught up in his role playing.

He didn't break stride when he saw Farmer Armstrong working on the implement hanging off the back end of his tractor. Satisfaction filled his heart as he saw the end of his journey and the release from his commitment. He maintained a steady pace right up behind Farmer Armstrong.

Farmer Armstrong jumped when Randall dropped the cultivator tine on the ground behind him.

"You dropped this," Randall croaked dryly.

Farmer Armstrong looked at the cultivator tine and then back to Randall.

"Thought you was going fishing," he said.

"I am. I...Grandpa thought you might need this."

Farmer Armstrong nodded and leaned over to pick up the tool. Randall turned to go.

"Wait," Farmer Armstrong said, hefting to implement in his hand. "You thirsty?"

"Yes sir, I am."

Farmer Armstrong laid the tine on top of the tall tractor tire, reached across into the back of the tractor and retrieved a thermos jug before returning to Randall.

"Open up."

Randall opened his mouth and Farmer Armstrong twisted the spout on the jug to send a clear stream of water into it. Randall thought it was the sweetest water he had ever tasted. It was clean and cold and sliced though the dust in his throat like a cool breeze. He took three big gulps before holding up his hand.

"Thanks."

Farmer Armstrong nodded silently, looking at him as he closed the spigot on the water jug.

"If you'll stay out of my beans you can cut across this here field. That'll save you some time catching up."

Randall grinned.

"Gee, thanks sir! I'll be real careful."

As he went off Farmer Armstrong called out after him.

"Tell you grandfather I said thanks for the thirty four fifty."

Randall picked his way carefully through the rows of bean plants, feeling responsible for them now that Farmer Armstrong had allowed him to walk across his field. He kept with the long-stride, fast-paced walk. Without the tine to carry, he could swing both arms and that helped balance his forward falling into rapid walking. He felt like he was nearly running, but he could keep it up all day.

He left the field by climbing across a stone wall and ended up back in the lane not far from where he had left the rest of the gang. He turned and set off down the lane, confident he would catch up with them soon at this pace. He followed the road down a ways until he came upon a stick laid lengthways in the road. Before it someone had gouged an arrow in the dirt with the toe of their shoe, pointing to the left, down a trail that led into the woods.

He was a little disappointed the other guys wouldn't get to see him walking so fast, but he was more relieved when he ducked into the narrow opening of the trail. Soon he heard a voice up ahead, and soon after that he was close enough to realize it was not a happy voice.

He caught up with the others on the shore of a sizable pond.

"Hey, y'all. What's up?"

"You're back," his brother observed without interest and stuck out the hand holding Randall's pole.

"Yeah."

"Did you find him?" Grandpa asked.

"Yes sir. He said thanks for the thirty four fifty. What do you think he meant, Grandpa?"

Grandpa chuckled.

"Thirty four dollars and fifty cents. Probably what it would cost to replace it. A farmer knows what things cost, down to the penny if he can. He has to; he makes a living off a penny's worth of difference."

"Dam!" Vernon sputtered. "Damn d' dam damn dam beaver dam. Damn beaver dam."

One of the other kids snickered into his hands and grinned sheepishly at Vernon's temerity to cuss in the presence of an adult.

Grandpa did not appear to hear.

"Looks like a pack of beavers got in here last spring. They closed off the creek and have made themselves a nice little home here."

Randall pushed some bushes aside to look out over a fairly extensive body of water. The trees of the forest still stood where they had before, but now water lapped a couple of feet up their trucks.

"They ain't been here that long, not over a winter; otherwise they would have eaten all those trees," Grandpa said.

"How are we going to get across?" Vernon said irritably. "If we go back to the road we'll be back almost where we started."

"Well, we can break trail along the edge until we find a way around it," Grandpa said. "If we go uphill, we'll eventually get above it. If we go downhill, we can cross below the beaver's dam."

The boys looked uneasily among themselves, each unwilling to take responsibility for the decision.

"What would an Indian do, Grandpa?" Randall asked.

Grandpa grinned.

"Go through the water, I reckon. And eat the beaver if he could catch it."

That didn't help them make the decision. The boys fidgeted as they looked upstream and then downstream and tried to find a reason for choosing one over the other.

"Course, if you're asking me what I'd do, I'd go downstream. The deep water is going to end at the dam and there ain't no telling how far back in the woods the water goes. Could be muddy upstream."

Consensus was achieved quickly following this observation, and they left the trail headed downstream. Grandpa took the lead, pushing apart small trees and tramping down the brush.

It was slow going. The vegetation bent, but snapped back as soon as it was released, usually into the face of the fellow following. The fishing poles had a natural affinity for the trees and snagged monofilament line at every opportunity. The whole procession had to wait impatiently while the captive equipment was untangled. Grandpa suggested they carry their rods horizontal, butt first through the tangled underbrush. This position made the fishing rods easier to pass through the woods but endangered the eyesight of those following.

Randall's faith was beginning to fade, and he was wondering what the other guys would say if he suggested pitching the whole idea and going home, when he stepped over a subsidiary stream feeding into the beaver's pond and into a clearing. His grandfather had stopped and was looking out across the pond with Chris and Vernon behind him

Before Randall could say anything, or move to where he could see too, he heard three loud smacks and water splash.

"They're gone," Grandpa said as the remaining boys came up behind Randall and crowded in to look at the expanding ripples spreading out across the surface of the pond.

"They were there," Vernon said, pointing to a mound of sticks and brush rising from the water in the middle of a clear area. All the trees had been removed below the waterline.

"There were two of them," Vernon continued. "We stopped as soon as we saw them, but they spooked anyway."

"That's their lodge," Grandpa said. "The dam is going to be close."

Randall felt remotely cheated by not getting to see the beavers, but he didn't know who to blame. He just generally wished he had seen the beavers. Maybe the gang could come back here later and stake out the beaver lodge. Then he figured he would see the beavers. He imagined it as he resumed his place in middle of the line winding through the trees.

Up until now the insects had been solitary and seldom, but gradually Randall became aware of a black gnat that landed on his lips and tried to crawl into his mouth. After a couple of sputtering and spitting, near gnat swallowing, incidents, Randall kept his lips tightly pursed to prevent their entry. The gnats shifted to his nostrils, forcing him to snort his nose holes clear and pull his tee shirt up over his mouth and nose. The gnats moved to his eyes and ear holes. Randall waved his free hand around his head and looked back to see if anyone else was similarly plagued. It was small solace to find out they were.

The beaver dam spanned a naturally narrow spot in the gently sloping valley, where large granite boulders had resisted the pressure of the water that eroded the topsoil out from around them. They lay there for years until an industrious beaver recognized their potential and closed off the narrow outlet, backing the water up behind a dam of granite boulders, mud and sticks.

The beavers' dam leaked along its length, creating a soggy bog down hill that had been colonized by winged armies of black gnats. They swarmed like smoke above the leaf cover that hid black decomposing muck beneath it. Chris's friend, Andrew, put a foot wrong and sank into smelly black goo up to the top of his Chuck Taylors. They had to pass through the worst of the gnats as they worked their way downstream until the seepage narrowed enough for them to cross.

Once beyond the creek, they spread out as everyone climbed the hill at their own speed. Randall stayed with his grandfather while the others dashed ahead. Steadily they climbed, catching up with one of the boys who had run ahead and winded himself. He fell in with them and trudged up the hill at a steady pace. They arrived at the top of the hill only a short time after the ones who had raced ahead, but without being nearly as winded.

"There it is!" Vernon said, still breathing heavily, and pointed.

"Yep," Grandpa said. "A little later then we planned, but not bad."

No one checked the time to see how long the hike had taken, everyone wanted to get down the hill as quickly as possible. They leaped and ran down the hillside, yelping like a pack of young hounds on a fresh scent. Randall lingered behind, wanting to race to the Grange and start fishing, but restrained by concern for his grandfather.

"You go on," Grandpa said when he noticed Randall's hesitation. "I'll be along directly."

Released, Randall bound off down the hillside in pursuit of the other boys. He caught up with them as they were spreading out around the banks of the Grange pond.

From his brown paper sack Randall pulled a can that had once contained cocoa powder, but now held his hand-culled prize worms from the worm bed, plucked yesterday and kept fresh in damp sawdust from his father's workshop. He untangled the fishing line before selecting a juicy looking worm and threading it onto the hook. Once the hook was completely hidden he examined it closely and spit on the worm for luck. He held in the button on his Zebco reel and cast his red and white bobber into the middle of the pond.

The other boys were getting their rigs in the water too, except Vernon who was stalking the edge, examining the wind conditions, the lighting, and the vegetation before deciding where to fish. When he was finally content, his first cast went over a limb hanging over the water and he had to retrieve it carefully to keep the treble hooks from becoming entangled in the branches.

Grandpa arrived about this time and held the pole while Vernon untangled his plug. When Vernon was settled, and keeping his casts in the water instead of the trees, Grandpa walked around and checked on all of the other boys in turn, helping tie or untie knots, assisting with bait selection and giving general cast placement advice. When he got around to Randall he sat down on the grass and reached into the pocket of his coat.

"Any luck?" he asked.

Randall shook his head, wary of making any sound that might be picked up by the pole and transmitted along the line into the water to warn the fish.

"Ah, well. Fishing teaches patience, that's for sure." He began unwinding a ball of nylon twine he had taken from his pocket.

Randall could not resist quietly asking.

"What's that?"

"Trot line. I made it up last night in your dad's workshop. Thought I might lay it out, see what happens."

Randall saw the monofilament leaders attached to the nylon twine with the hooks tipped with bits of cork. It was about twenty feet long and had eight hooks hanging from the middle.

"You need some bait?" Randall asked.

Grandpa shook his head and pulled out a Prince Albert tobacco tin from his shirt pocket.

"Dough balls," he said, shaking the tin. "Made them last night too. Mixed in some chicken livers. Usually, I let them ripen a day or two, Here, smell." He flipped open the lid and held it up for Randall to smell. The odor was noticeable from a foot away so that is as close as Randall got.

"Phew!" he said. "Stinky."

Grandpa nodded.

"Catfish, bluegill, carp, all love them."

"Can you eat carp?" Randall asked.

Grandpa chuckled.

"The English do. My father had a recipe for carp," he continued as he unrolled and baited his trot line. "Collect a bucket of horse turds, add enough water to make a paste, and coat it all over the outside of the fish, guts, scales and all. Bake in the coals of a hot fire for one hour, then you carefully chip away all of the dried horse manure and the scales will come off with it." He looked up and grinned. "Now throw the fish away and eat the manure."

Randall laughed without thinking of how the fish might react.

"That sounds delicious. Think Grandma will cook us some, if we catch a carp?"

"Let's hope not." Grandpa stood and held the trot line in loops between his hands.

"Reckon I'll string this across one corner and see what happens. I'll be back."

Randall watched as his grandfather tied one end to the limb of a tree overhanging the water and stretch out the cord as he walked around until the trot line cut across one corner of the pond. He pushed a stick into the ground along the bank and secured the other end of the line to it. After he was satisfied the stick was firmly planted, he returned to where Randall was fishing and sat in the shade beneath a tree. He carried on a casual conversation with Randall, but soon fell silent and Randall saw he had pulled his hat down over his eyes and was likely snoozing.

Whether it was due to their late arrival or not was a matter of conjecture and discussion later on, but fishing was poor that day. The bottom fishers had not caught any catfish, but the float fishermen didn't do much better, no one had enough for a meal. Vernon stalked the banks like King Hamlet's ghost stalked the ramparts, muttering to himself as he attempted to discover the secret of catching bass.

Currently, he was working on his cast. According to the article in the fishing magazine he carried in his tackle box, a single incorrect cast was capable of traumatizing every bass in the vicinity and sensitive ones in neighboring bodies of water. Vernon had memorized the correct rod positions of the perfect cast, although occasionally he still referred back to the magazine. He recited the procedure before every cast as his mantra, miming the movement without releasing the line, until he was sure he had it right, and then he would release.

However, his lure still splashed when it landed, unless it sailed amiss and ended up hung on a limb, or among the lily pads. Vernon patiently dealt with every obstacle, picking at knots that would have had Gideon reaching for his sword, or working the two treble hooks free from their entrapment, figuring they were lessons he needed to become a successful bass fisherman.

Grandpa sat up, pushing his hat up off his face. He looked around before calling to Randall.

"How you doing, son?"

Randall held up the small string of four bream and shrugged.

"Ah, well, not every day is Christmas. I'm hungry. What say to some lunch?"

Randall was agreeable, as were the other boys when he called out to them. The ones who had had luck left their poles behind, to mark and hold their places for them. The ones who were not satisfied brought their rods and studied the water for a luckier spot to try after lunch.

They reported their success or lack of it to the group. Everyone had at least one fish, except for Vernon.

"It's my casting," he explained. "I can't get it to land without making a splash."

"Oh, is that important?" Grandpa asked as he pried open a can of Vienna sausages.

"It's the most important thing about casting!"

"Oh? I thought it was hitting the water." Andrew cracked.

"And keeping it out of trees," Chris added.

Vernon scowled darkly at them.

"Yuck it up, funny boys. You wait until I hook one of those monsters, and he comes leaping out of the water... we'll see who laughing then..." Vernon trailed off.

"Maybe it's not your casting," Grandpa said. "Maybe it's your equipment."

"This is the best stuff I could afford!" Vernon's voice quaked a little.

"I'm sure it is, but don't them magazines usually go to big lakes, and catch big fish to write about?"

"Well, yeah. Why?"

"Well, there you go! They sell equipment for big fish, in a big lake, and you're in a small pond that's naturally going to have smaller fish, right?"

"Okay, I guess that makes sense."

"Let's see your lure."

Vernon held up the bug eyed plug with a yellow belly and a red back with black spots and a small propeller spinning off the rear.

Grandpa eyed it critically.

"Don't it seem a little big to you?"

"Yeah," Vernon admitted. "It didn't look this big in the magazine."

"What else you got?"

Vernon popped open his tackle box and withdrew his other lure. It was torpedo shaped with a propeller on the nose and purple tassels hanging off the rear.

"This one was free, 'cause I bought the other stuff."

Grandpa studied the monstrosity for a moment before answering.

"I think that's a muskie lure. They'll eat anything. You should save that one for when you go fishing for muskie."

Vernon gratefully put it away.

"Well, let's think about it for a minute, think like a bass. He's stuck here in this pond. He's got to eat whatever is in there. Now what kind of food is a bass going to get in this pond?"

Everyone's faced screwed up in the agony of thought, unaccustomed as they were to it since school had let out for the summer. One of the little kids raised his hand.

"Frogs?"

"That's good, but frogs come out at night. Daytime, they're asleep in the mud on the bottom," Grandpa said.

"Fish," Vernon said. "They eat the little bream."

"It would have to be small. They raise that back fin with all the sharp spines to keep from getting swallowed."

Randall stared at the edge of the water, trying to remember something he had seen. It was like frogs, but it wasn't frogs. It wasn't really like frogs it was like... like... pollywogs! Suddenly the memory shone clear, of him standing there, holding his rod and waiting for a bite, and watching the pollywogs cluster around the edge, too tender and delectable to venture into deeper water, when he had seen a cloud of minnows race by, silver darts flashing through the water.

"Minnows," Randall said. "Perfect size and there's gobs of them."

"By golly, I think you might have hit on something there, son. Do you have any pliers?"

Vernon went into his tackle box again and returned with an 'all-in-wonder' universal toolset. Grandpa looked at it in amazement. After some finagling they managed to get it to function like a pair of pliers.

Grandpa took the pliers to the top of his Vienna sausage can and cut the shiny metal into strips. With his pocket knife he bored small holes into one end of each strip.

"We need hooks," he said.

Vernon pulled out a card of single hooks.

"Do you have any treble hooks?" Grandpa asked.

Vernon looked through the tackle box and shook his head. He hesitated for a second before picking up the gaudy purple lure.

"I probably won't be going after muskie anytime soon."

Grandpa unscrewed the tiny eye screws that attached the hooks to the body and tossed the declawed lure back to Vernon.

"How about some leader wire and split shot weights?"

Vernon had both of those, pulled them out and gave them to Grandpa.

Everyone watched Grandpa's hands as he cut, twisted and tied, all the time talking about fishing, telling them stories about the salmon runs in Oregon. As they ate their lunch, he told them about the salmon swimming up the waterfalls, of watching bears snatching the fish out of mid-air and fish carcasses so thick you could cross a small river without wetting your feet.

When everyone had finished their lunch, Grandpa held up two shiny baubles, two silver spoons disguising the deadly hook between them, with a split shot weight directly in front for weight.

"Do you think they'll catch fish?" Vernon asked dubiously.

"At least as many as you've caught so far," Grandpa assured him. "If not, you can give them to your mother for her birthday. Just tell her they're earrings."

That got a good laugh from the crowd and imaginative speculation as to what would occur if someone actually tried to wear them as earrings.

Vernon took the lure with thanks, weighing them in the palm of his hand.

"I bet you can land them without a splash," Grandpa said.

Vernon grinned.

"Bet I can too. These are like nothing compared to the plug."

"Now, if it were me, I think I would try running it right along the edge of the shadow along the banks, just to the light side. I figure old mister fish is going to be cooling himself off in the shade. It might be too warm for him to be moving fast, but if he were to see an easy meal, like a wounded minnow, just in the light, why, he might just have to try for it. Retrieve it slowly, with a jerky motion. Think like a sick minnow."

Randall realized he had the inside track on a fountain of useful fishing information. He asked his grandfather if he had any recommendations for him. He did, and they fixed a dough ball and worm package and doubled the distance the hook hung beneath the bobber. The other boys started asking questions too, and Grandpa moved around the pond, helping as required, advising and encouraging, and celebrating when the boy's effort paid off.

Vernon later said that he yelled, but the other boys swore it was more of a scream. Whichever it was, it galvanized all of the fishermen surrounding the pond. Everyone looked across to where Vernon stood.

His rod was arched like a bow and he was furiously working the star drag on the reel as his line zinged through the water, leaving a small 'v' to mark its path. Then the fish jumped.

In Vernon's mind it was the culmination of nearly all his cherished dreams. In his eye the fish froze in mid-leap to pose like the fish on the cover of the magazine, with its body arched, water droplets flicking off its tail, and the line pulling tautly at the hook in the corner of its mouth. The fish crashed back down, into the water, but remained forever etched into Vernon's memory.

The other boys broke into cheers and reeled in their own lines so they could run around to where Vernon battled his prey, shouting encouragement as they ran.

Randall was first to arrive at the scene and immediately saw the source of Vernon's frustration. In front of his reel was a monofilament birds nest the size of your thumb. Vernon could play the fish, but he could not bring it in. Vernon screamed and struck at the handle, trying to force the reel to swallow the knot.

"No, no, no..." he begged franticly. "Don't do this to me, please! Dear God, look at the size of him!" He jerked on the handle but the tangle only wedged in firmer.

"Ease up, ease up," Grandpa said as he walked up. "Keep your rod tip up, let the rod fight the fish for you. That's it, let him play. You got yourself a whopper there, son. Let him tire out before you try to land him. Whenever you're ready, start backing up, slowly. That's it. Keep you rod high and your line above the weeds. That's it, you've got it."

Vernon calmed down under Grandpa's coaching and stopped looking down at his reel. He raised his eyes and watched his line zig-zagging across the surface of the water and then the magnificent fish leaping from the water, just as Vernon had imaged countless times, only now it was real and all of his friends were here to witness his triumph. He concentrated on keeping an even strain on the line, letting the fish pull when he wanted to, then backing away again to recover the line. He was in no hurry now. He stared at the fish, transfixed, with an idiotic grin spreading across his face. If he could have stopped time and lived in that moment forever, he would have.

"Randall!" Grandpa barked. "Grab hold of the line. Don't pull on it, just hold it. Vernon, you're going to have to pull him in by hand now."

Vernon dropped the rod and ran to where Randall nervously held the line, scared to death of pulling on it or doing something stupid that would cost Vernon his fish. With relief he let Vernon take the line from him. Randall moved out of the way but stayed near enough to see all the action.

Vernon carefully pulled in the line, trying to keep steady tension. The end of the leader came out of the water and he reached down and grabbed it, wrapping the wire around his hand. He stepped off the edge now, standing with both feet in the water. He leaned over and, with an effort, lifted the wire at the end of his extended arm.

The fish rose from the water like a piscine Excalibur. Everyone gasped and drew their breath in sharply at its hulking magnitude, its wide tail fin, and the humongous gaping maw of its mouth. He could swallow a softball and not even notice, Randall thought with wonder.

Vernon leaned forward to claim his prize, reaching out to pinch the lower jawbone, when the fish suddenly flipped its broad tail fin around and gave Vernon a loud wet smack on his hand. When Vernon jerked back, the fish gave a twisting shake, spit the hook into the air and fell back into the water.

Shocked silence fell over everyone, most of all Vernon. He stared, unbelieving, at the spot where the fish had disappeared, thinking that maybe it was just a bad joke and the fish would reappear and they would all have a good laugh. But it was a cruel joke and there was no laughter, just awkward silence from the other stunned boys.

"No," Vernon finally managed. "No. It was right here. I almost touched it. It did touch me. Where did it go? Why? Why?" Tears began to stream down his cheeks as he raised his eyes to the heavens for an answer. "Why?"

The boys drifted awkwardly back to their fishing spots and began to gather their equipment together. Silently and unanimously it was decided the time to go home had arrived.

Grandpa stood on the bank and watched Vernon, letting him get it out of his system. When Vernon finally turned around and sloshed to the bank, Grandpa patted him on the shoulder.

"You had a piece of rotten luck, and that's no lie. But look at the good things you did. You overcame malfunctioning equipment and fought that fish like a champ. You did everything but clean and eat him. You could say you just let him go so you can catch him again."

Vernon silently went over and picked up his rod and reel. He looked helplessly at the tangled line and half-heartedly picked at it. Grandpa walked over to him and pulled his pocket knife out and opened the blade.

"Sometimes you got to cut it out and start fresh."

Randall walked over with all his equipment stowed and ready to go.

"Sorry about the fish, Vernon. It sure was a beauty. I thought that old man was just pulling your leg. I didn't think there was any bass in here. You sure showed me."

Vernon nodded without looking up from the line he was hacking.

"Yeah, there's bass in there alright. You just got to know how to fish for them." He pulled the other lure Grandpa had made off his shirt pocket where it had been stored. "This here's my secret weapon. 'Grandpa's earring', I call it."

Grandpa laughed and slapped Vernon on the shoulder.

"That's the spirit! Next time, you might even hook his grandpa."

The other boys were starting to gather when Randall remembered.

"Grandpa, what about your trot line? You ain't checked it all day."

Grandpa smiled.

"That's what I love about trot lines; you only got to check them once. Come on; let's see if we got anything worth cleaning."

He and Randall went to the far side of the pond where the stake had been driven in and untied the line. It immediately moved off when Grandpa released it.

"Looks like we got something. I hope it ain't no turtle," Grandpa said.

At the tree Grandpa leaned out and untied the cord from the limb and then handed it to Randall to pull in.

Randall let out a whoop when he saw a catfish twisting on the end of the first hook. He called out to the other boys when the second hook held another one. By the time he got to the third line and found it full too, the other boys were starting to gather around. Five of the first six hooks yielded nice fat catfish. The seventh was empty, but the line pulled off through the water and gave Randall a good pull. Randall braced his feet and improved his grip on the cord. Hand over hand he pulled the last fish from the water.

A bass popped out of the water, big mouthed and beautiful, with the hook solidly though its lower jaw. Randall's mouth dropped open and he quickly flipped it onto the grass to the excited exclamations of his friends.

"Hush! Hush now!" Grandpa dropped to his knees over the fish.

"But, Grandpa, I caught a... I mean you caught a..." Randall tried to say.

"Shhh! That's what I mean. Look at all Vernon has done to catch one of these things, only to lose it. How do you think he's going to feel?"

Randall considered for a moment.

"Well, he can have the fish, I don't care. I just want to show Mom and Dad."

"It ain't the fish, it's the catching of it," Grandpa said. "You can tell them, and I'll back you up."

Grandpa checked on Vernon, who was absorbed in re-rigging his fishing equipment, before he picked up the fish by its lower lip, leaned over and set it back down in the water. With a flip of its tail, it was gone.

"Now, nobody has to say anything to Vernon, right? The bass is still the hardest fish in the world to catch, right? Now, y'all divvy up those cats and we'll all have plenty of fish for a good supper. Save that fat one for Vernon, there."

They stood in front of the Grange to discuss their path home. Grandpa's shortcut was a harder than walking along the road, but they hesitated when the time came for the choice to be made. As usual they all looked to Vernon for guidance.

"I don't know," he mused. "It is getting kind of late..." There was a silent response. "Of course, I would like to see those beavers again. This time we could sneak up on them, now we know where they are. And now we know the way, it shouldn't take as long."

The other boys hastened to agree, and took off across the road, back the way they had come.

Randall started to follow, but stopped in the road and turned back to his grandfather.

"You coming, Grandpa?"

Grandpa smiled his lopsided smile, settled his soft brown fedora hat on his head and gripped his cane with his twisted fingers.

"I'm right behind you, son."

### The Agreement

### Excerpted from the novel ' _7 crows a Secret_ '

### By Decatur Clary
1867 – Ridgeview, Florida

Julie Corbeau sat on a wooden bench at the railroad station in Ridgeview, square-shouldered and straight-backed, inches away from the backrest. The whalebone stays of her corset squeezed her in the middle and reminded her why she only succumbed to the vanity on formal occasions.

She reached up and touched her new bonnet, assuring herself again that it sat straight on her head and her hair remained tightly bound inside her snood.

She tugged at the cuffs of her kidskin gloves and spread her fingers to stretch the leather. They were tight and stiff after years of storage, as was her dark blue dress, newly trimmed with black ribbon, and plaid traveling cloak folded on the bench beside her. Occasionally she caught a whiff of cedar from her clothes that added an aromatic component to the strangeness of the moment.

She leaned forward to see the station clock that jutted out at an angle to the ticket office wall. It read 6:55. She took out her pocket-watch and carefully set it to official railroad time. The train was only twenty minutes behind its scheduled appearance, which meant it was still early by local standards. She tapped her feet and sighed, wishing the waiting was over.

She had not slept well last night after the argument with her brother, and felt tired and on edge. Edward appeared to believe he had inherited her along with the estate, she thought, and that he was entitled to run her life as he did the sawmill. She planned to disillusion him of that belief today.

Julie supposed the trouble had really begun the day her brother had brought his new wife home to live. The second Mrs. Corbeau took one look at the family home, a log cabin core with rough-cut additions, and turned up her nose with a sniff. She made no secret of her dislike for farm life and complained frequently about the isolation, the loneliness, and above all, the smell.

It wasn't long after Everett's death before she started suggesting that Edward should purchase a house in town and oversee his business from there. With Uncle Peter managing the lumber and Julie running the farm, the second Mrs. Corbeau could not understand why Edward needed to be there every day. Where he was the most valuable to the business, she insisted, was in town, developing the relationships with other businessmen to secure the big lumber contracts.

Within two months, Edward had bought a house in Laurel Hill, the closest town. The second Mrs. Corbeau moved immediately, taking her two boys with her, to get them ready for school she said. Since Edward's daughter was too young for school, she stayed on the farm with Julie.

Edward split his time between town and county, and the business suffered no neglect. Peter assumed some of Edward's chores on top of his own, managing the entire operation from forest to lumberyard, and Julie ran the farm as well as the house.

But Julie had a secret that she had shared with only one other person. Julie was making plans to escape. Part of her plan required the clearing of some land. But when she asked Peter when he could have a team log the land, Peter looked surprised?

"Didn't you brother talk to you?" he said.

"About what?" Julie asked.

"He traded it, for that town house," Peter said. "I knew you had your eye on it. I thought he'd talked to you about it."

"No," Julie said. "He didn't say anything."

Julie was heartsick, but said nothing more about it to Peter. Still, he watched her from the corner of his eye.

Julie stewed about it until Edward's next visit, picking at the painful memory and carefully composing what she was going to say. She was loaded for bear when he suddenly appeared in the middle of the week, summoned her into his office and began chastising her with his wife's complaints. Taken by surprise, they were knee deep in argument before Julie got around to declaring her own complaints.

"I hear you traded the Fish Eating Creek parcel for the lot and house in town."

Edward looked at her, gauging her temper.

"Yes, I did," he answered slowly. "Why?"

"You know why," she said, struggling to keep her voice even. "Papa promised me a hundred acres for my own place. You knew I wanted that property since Otis... a long time. But you traded off, without even asking me."

Edward tried to shrug her off.

"So pick another parcel," he suggested. "God knows there's enough land."

"That's not the point," Julie said. "I wanted that property and you knew it. Papa promised me. Why'd you trade my property?"

Edward shrugged again.

"I thought it was the least valuable property I had."

"Not to me," she said. "It was supposed to be mine, and you knew it! I wanted to build my cabin right there on the bluff, overlooking the river."

Edward laughed.

"What do you need a place of your own for? You got the whole cabin to yourself now, except for Babe. You got the house and the farm to look after, what do you need more for? There's a lot of women who'd be happy to trade places with you."

"Papa promised," Julie said stubbornly. "It's in his will. I get a hundred acres of my own choosing, and five hundred in gold whenever I want it, to set up my own home. You knew I wanted that land around Fish Eating Creek, and you traded it away. Papa left the money in the Yankee bank over in Pensacola. I want it now. Before you decide it's the least valuable gold you own and trade it away, too."

Edward grimaced.

"You hurt me, Sissy," he said. "You know everything I do is for the good of the family."

"Whose family, Eddie?" She eyed him steadily. "Seems to me you got family right here that you're ashamed of."

Edward flushed.

"Now, Julie ..."

"I ain't talking about him, though I could be," Julie snapped back. "Babe's your legal born child, and she ain't stupid. How do you think she felt, getting left behind when you moved to town with your new family?"

Edward flushed even deeper.

"She seems fine to ..."

"She's happy to be away from your wife and her boys, but she misses her daddy."

"They're her family too," Edward said.

"Then they need to start acting like it," Julie snapped. "Instead of like we're something nasty they found on the bottom of their shoes. Oh, the children might be all right, if somebody took them in hand. They're young and just a reflection of their mother, spoiled lazy."

"Now, Julie, you go too far," Edward said. "I'll not have you speak disrespectfully of Mrs. Corbeau."

"Horse apples!" Julie swore and glared at him. "Who do you think you're talking to, Eddie? You might have the family fortune, but I hold the family secrets, some even you don't know. You can't hurt me anymore, Eddie, unless you're ready to move back out here and run the farm by yourself, or maybe get your wife to do it."

Edward frowned. "What do you want?"

Julie took a deep breath to slow her racing heart.

"You hurt me again, Eddie," she said. "You betrayed me over a piece of property. Now I want my money, all five hundred dollars in gold, as soon as you can get it here."

"Now, Sissy," Edward said soothingly, "you take me all wrong. If you did tell me you wanted that land, then I forgot about it. I'm sorry. You can have your pick of any other piece of property you want. I'll deed it over to you immediately."

"We'll talk about that after you get me my money," Julie said.

Edward ducked his head and muttered.

"What?" Julie pressed him. "When did you say you'll have it?"

"I can't get at it right now," Edward said reluctantly. "The account's encumbered as security for a loan."

"Encumbered? What loan?" Julie felt a rising panic.

"A loan I took out to buy stocks." Edward hastened to explain. "I have it on good authority that in six months' time these stocks will double in value. I used the money in the bank and some other assets as collateral to borrow more money so I could buy more stock. In six months we'll be rich!"

Julie stared at him.

"You bet my money in the stock market?" she asked incredulously. "I want my money now!"

"But in six months you'll be rich!" Edward assured her. "You'll just have to wait a little while longer. Besides, it ain't like you going anywhere, anyway."

Julie bit her lip to keep bitter tears from her eyes.

"I could go. If I had my money, I could leave tomorrow, with two suitcases and the clothes on my back. But I don't have my money and I don't have my property. You took it all from me."

"Now, don't be like that," Edward said. "I'm not taking anything from you; it'll all work out in time. We need you here. Babe, Peter and Martha May. I need you here. You don't have to worry about anything, Sissy. I'll take care of you for as long as you live."

Julie glared at him through her tears.

"Seems to me I'm the one doing the taking care of," she said bitterly. "I been cleaning up your messes my whole life and I'm sick of it! I want my own land, my own place, my own life, before it's too late. Is that too much to ask for?"

"No, of course not. You deserve those things," he said. "But sometimes dreams don't come true. You had your chance with Otis, but it was not in God's plan. You should submit to His Will, and accept it ain't never gonna happen. You're pushing thirty, ain't much chance of anyone wanting you now. You might as well let go of that dream, and accept the fact that this is where you belong, where God intends you to be, for the rest of your life."

It was an ice-cold lightning shock for Julie to hear the worst fears of her darkest nights spoken aloud. Her throat knotted up and she felt like she was going to be sick. She raised a hand to her mouth to smother a sob. The emptiness of her life overwhelmed her last reserve and her body shook as she broke down into tears.

A train's whistle blew far off in the distance and snapped Julie back to the train depot bench. She jumped up and looked down the track, but the train was still invisible, so she sat back down. She couldn't resist staring at the vanishing point, where the track disappeared around a gradual bend, anticipating the appearance of the locomotive.

Then the train did appear and she was convinced it really did exist, and she was able to look away. She looked straight ahead and composed herself. She took as deep a breath as her corset would allow and tried to calm her rapidly beating heart by squeezing her hands in her lap. She refused to acknowledge the train again until it arrived at the station.

The stationmaster came out of the office with his clipboard, pulling on his hat with its brass plaque. Laborers appeared from the shade of the shadows, wheeling wagons and handcarts into position. The train pulled through the station, venting steam to stop with the freight cars alongside the loading dock. The doors rolled open and the workers began unloading the freight at the direction of the conductor and the stationmaster.

Offloading the incoming freight had to be completed before loading the outgoing freight could begin. The engineer topped off the engine's boiler from the water tower and watched the time on his pocket watch. The train would be ready to roll as soon as the cargo exchange was completed.

Passengers stepped down from the two coaches and made their way through the milling crowd. Most of them were men who lit cigars and pipes as they strolled idly around, stretching their legs. There was a large family greeted by another large family, and together they blocked everyone else while they held an impromptu family reunion in the middle of the loading dock. Two elderly women walked slowly by, supporting an obviously ill woman between them.

Julie sat and watched the crowd, trying not to hold her breath as she feverishly repeated her silent prayer not to be made a fool of.

When she saw him step down from the second passenger car, she caught her breath. She knew him instantly, though he was wearing a bowler hat now instead of bareheaded as in the picture. Panic flooded her chest, making it difficult for her to breathe and her heart raced wildly. He wore a black frock coat and trousers, and carried a suitcase in each hand. Stopping and standing on the last step, he scanned the faces in the crowd and spotted her as soon as she stood up. Perceptible relief relaxed his features and he broke into a smile.

Julie found she could breathe again.

He worked his way through the crowd on the platform. She stood waiting, her hands clasped. As he grew nearer, and the crowd between them thinned, she held up her hands, open in front of her.

He stopped, confused.

She dropped her hands to her sides and held them out, away from her body. She pivoted slowly and turned completely around. Facing him again, she stopped and clasped her hands together in front of her.

His confused look gave way to an amused smile. He held the suitcases away from his body and slowly mimicked her pirouette. She smiled, ducked her head, and blushed.

He approached her eagerly, set his bags down and doffed his hat. He gave a small bow as he spoke.

"Miss Corbeau, it's grand of you to meet me." His brogue lilted lightly.

"Doctor Sullivan. It is a pleasure to meet you at last," she replied.

The dialogues they had so carefully planned and rehearsed were exhausted by this exchange. An awkward silence fell between them.

Doctor Sullivan plunged ahead.

"If I may be so bold, perhaps if we took a walk around your town? You can show me the sights."

"That's an excellent idea," Julie agreed with relief. "You can leave your bags in the office. That is, if you're sure you want to leave the train."

She looked directly into his eyes. He smiled and leaned forward, speaking softly so that only she could hear him.

"I see nothing unpleasant, Miss Corbeau. Quite the contrary."

Julie blushed and turned to hide her pleased smile. They walked into the depot office where the stationmaster accepted receipt of the luggage with a curt nod as he hustled by to get the train moving again.

"Where shall we start then?" Doctor Sullivan asked Julie.

"All the businesses are over on Main Street, the old Spanish trail to Pensacola and Tallahassee. We can walk up there and look at the new courthouse."

They hurried down Back Street, where warehouses, a blacksmith, and a lumberyard had sprung up alongside the railroad tracks. They walked up to Main Street, with boardwalks and nearly twenty brick buildings housing stores and offices. They walked slowly by the stores and examined the windows displays with exaggerated interest as they struggled to make conversation.

"How was your trip?" Julie asked.

"Tolerable," Doctor Sullivan said. "Though I do believe we jumped the track once or twice."

"Indeed?" Julie said. "How fortunate you were able to recover."

"Yes."

They walked in silence for a few seconds.

"It appears to be a prosperous town," Doctor Sullivan said. "How many people live here, do you know?"

Julie shook her head.

"No, I live on a farm, north of here. I only get to town about once a month."

"Oh," Doctor Sullivan said. They walked a bit before he spoke again.

"I must confess, Miss Corbeau, I'm at a loss as to how to proceed."

Julie glanced at him before looking down.

"You needn't concern yourself, Doctor. You're doing quite well."

He smiled and offered his elbow. After a momentary hesitation, she slipped her hand inside the crook of his arm. They talked easily as they walked to the courthouse.

It was being constructed in the center of the town square on its own block; two-stories with twin cupolas, the unpainted pine planks shone bright yellow in the sun.

"The old courthouse burned down during the war," Julie said. "Took us this long to get around to replacing it. Looks like a big yellow cat, don't it?"

"Did we burn it?"

Julie laughed.

"Gracious, no! It's a long way from Pensacola for little bit of nothing. No, some drunk made a fire in his cell. Nearly burned himself up too."

They sat on a bench in front of the courthouse and admired the new building.

"Miss Corbeau, would you object if I smoked my pipe?"

"No objection, sir," she said. "I enjoy the aroma of good tobacco."

"Good. That is good. I must confess I have a partiality for the noxious weed." He pulled a honey colored meerschaum pipe from his coat pocket and started packing it with tobacco.

"A nasty habit, my mother says, and I'm sure she's right, but sometimes, during the war, it was my only comfort."

"It must've been horrible for you," Julie said quietly.

"It was," he said, lighting his pipe. After he got it going to his satisfaction, he turned to look at her.

"Would you like to ask me about your fiancé's passing?"

Julie looked down at her hands, tightly clasped in her lap.

"No," she said. "No, I think not."

Doctor Sullivan looked at her but said nothing.

They sat in silence for some seconds before Julie looked at him and burst out.

"I shall turn thirty in November." She blushed and looked back down at her hands.

Doctor Sullivan smiled slightly.

"And I shall be thirty-two in December. Does my age bother you?"

Julie shook her head.

"Then I say we are well matched in that department."

Julie sat silently for a moment before continuing.

"You should know, Doctor Sullivan, that my expectations have not been realized."

Doctor Sullivan looked at her, puzzled.

"I'm sorry to hear that. If I have misled you in any ..."

"Oh, no, not in you, sir!" Julie quickly broke in. "In my own finances. I have not realized all I had hoped."

Doctor Sullivan cocked his head.

"I'm not understanding, Miss Corbeau."

"Though a series of circumstances ... money that I thought was mine ... I have not been able to ..." She fumbled for the right words. "In plain fact, Doctor, I bring nothing but myself. With the exception of the contents of two valises, I am as you see me, wearing my fortune upon my back." She looked straight ahead, sitting stiffly upright, and waited for his response.

Doctor Sullivan leaned back against the bench, smiled and puffed on his pipe as he considered his words. He leaned in close to her and spoke softly.

"If you brought all the gold in the world, it wouldn't be enough, if you didn't bring yourself."

She looked up, searching his eyes as he continued.

"Whatever wealth I might have in this world, I would gladly risk it all for one chance at happiness. To never be alone again, to grow old with someone I care for and whom I know cares for me, is the fortune I seek."

"It is a frightful risk we're taking, practically strangers and meeting like this. I expect you've felt the same doubts and fears I have. All of my uncertainties vanished when I saw you at the station. Tell me, why did you pirouette?"

Julie blushed and laughed softly.

"Oh, I don't know. I thought of horse-trading, when you have a seller walk the horse around the yard so you can see it from all sides. I thought I should let you see me from all sides."

Doctor Sullivan's eyes twinkled as he grinned.

"Anyone watching us must've thought we were a queer pair, dancing like a couple of geese!"

Julie laughed lightly.

"It does seem odd, now."

"You have a very musical laugh," Doctor Sullivan said.

The compliment sobered her and she grew quiet.

"I'm sorry," he said. "That was forward of me."

"No, please," Julie said. "It's just that I promised myself ... I was not going to be charmed. I promised myself that I would be cold and calculating when I met you today and to assess you as I would any business proposition. I was afraid my feelings would betray me." She looked at him and smiled. "Silly isn't it? I was trying so hard to keep my distance, to not like you or let you like me, until we had added and subtracted and come to a sum total, like any good businessman."

Doctor Sullivan eyed her thoughtfully before replying.

"I didn't know what to expect, coming here today. I felt we had established a connection through our letters, but I was uncertain as to how much was real and how much sprang from my own misery. And I too had resolved to remain aloof until I had more confidence in your feelings. A ridiculous resolution! How easily overwhelmed by emotion cold logic can be. I tell you now, Miss Corbeau, I am well pleased. And I am content to let my heart lead me where it will, if you would free your heart to accompany mine."

Julie colored to the roots of her hair.

"Now you are being forward, sir," she said, smiling. "We have the whole afternoon. We have until the last trains leave."

"Trains? Do we need more than one?"

Julie looked down at her hands.

"I intend to leave here today," she said firmly. "Where I go, that depends on many things. But I must leave this place or I fear I shall do murder upon a member of my family, and I love them all too much for that."

Doctor Sullivan nodded.

"I understand. More than you can possibly know, I understand."

Julie looked up and brightened.

"Well, that's for later," she said, smiling. "Are you hungry? I packed a basket for us, if you're ready. I thought it only fair to provide a sample of my cooking. It ain't fancy, but it'll hold us over until supper."

"I'm sure it will be delicious." He looked around. "Perhaps we can find a shady spot for our picnic?"

"More private, too, I think." Julie stood and pulled Doctor Sullivan to his feet. She took his arm and turned him back toward the depot, where the mule and wagon were waiting.

He held her hand to steady her as she climbed into the wagon. She held the reins while he mounted from the other side and then handed them to him.

"The mule's name is Sparky" she said. "He'll kick if he thinks he can get away with it, so keep the reins up short."

Doctor Sullivan released the hand brake, clucked and slapped the reins against Sparky's hindquarters. He was relieved when the mule responded without dispute, but he still kept the reins drawn up tight as he followed Julie's directions out of town.

Doctor Sullivan surveyed the rocky creek as he got down from the wagon.

"Beautiful place," he said, turning to help Julie dismount.

"Yes, it is." She reached into the wagon bed and lifted out a large split oak basket. "This place and a visit to Mr. Senterfitt's store were always the best parts of any trip to town." She handed the basket to Doctor Sullivan and pulled a patchwork quilt from the back of the wagon.

"We can spread this out down by the water."

"And quickly. Whatever is in this basket smells delicious."

He spread the quilt on a grassy spot between the water polished boulders that lined the bank. The water was no more than a couple of feet deep across its thirty foot width and gurgled happily over round river rocks. Julie opened the basket and started spreading out the food. She handed Doctor Sullivan a bottle.

"Scuppernong wine," she said. "Can you put it in the water to chill?"

Doctor Sullivan wedged the bottle in between two rocks in the water and left it for after lunch.

The food was as promised, tasty, simple and nourishing: cold fried chicken, sliced ham in biscuits, corn bread with butter, a jar of peach preserves, and lemonade to drink along with the wine. Doctor Sullivan displayed a healthy appetite and sincere appreciation. They talked little while they ate, but kept stealing glances at each other. Whenever their eyes met, he smiled and she blushed.

"It is true, that in the looks department, I disappointed my sainted grandmother." He smiled at her. "She claimed I wasn't one, but there have been many others who will attest that I am a 'Prize Pig'."

Julie laughed in spite of herself.

"Oh, dear! I'm so sorry!"

"Don't be. I'm as God has made me, no more and hopefully no less. If my appearance should give someone offense, then I say let them take it up with my maker."

Julie looked down and hesitated before pulling off her gloves. She held out her rough work-worn hands.

"As life has made me."

He took her hands in his and examined each one carefully. He turned each one and kissed the palm.

"Honest hands," he said, looking into her eyes. "Hands that know life."

She smiled as she pulled her hands back.

"Maybe too much life."

"Is your family large?" Doctor Sullivan asked, scooping a spoonful of peach preserves.

"Sometimes it's overwhelming. I raised my brother after our mother died when he was two and I was six. Then Papa brought Jenny Bird home a couple of years later. She was no more'n a day old. Her mother had died, so I raised her too. She was the sweetest baby, never gave me a lick of trouble more'n she had to, being a baby. Gram helped when she could, and sometimes Papa'd hire a girl to help, but when Jenny got old enough, he figured he could forgo the expense."

"What happened to Jenny Bird? Did she fly away?" Doctor Sullivan asked.

Julie looked off into the distance.

"She moved off, after the war."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that," Doctor Sullivan said. He sensed he had touched a nerve.

"Then Edward came back after the war, with his daughter. His wife died in childbirth, so I raised Babe, too." She shook off her distraction and smiled. "They're both near about useless, but Dupree's getting big enough to help out around the farm."

"Who's Dupree?" Doctor Sullivan asked. "I missed him."

"Dupree? Oh..." Julie had to think of how to explain Dupree. "Jenny left him behind when she went away. Anyway, Edward came back home after the war and took over the family's business after Papa died. Now he has acquired the second Mrs. Corbeau and she treats me like a maidservant in my own house! Unfortunately, Papa believed in Edward's reformation and left the bulk of the estate to him. Papa trusted him to do right and follow Papa's instructions. I was supposed to get a hundred acres of land and five hundred dollars in gold." Julie's jaw tightened.

"He traded away the land he knew I wanted for a town lot for her new house, and then speculated with my five hundred dollars!" Fire was in her eyes when she looked at Doctor Sullivan. "Jesus said we're to turn the other cheek. By God, sir! I have run out of cheeks!" She fell silent for a moment before realizing what she had just said and bursting into laughter. Doctor Sullivan joined her with rich chuckles as she buried her face in her hands.

"I'm so sorry!" She sighed. "I just get so angry sometimes."

Doctor Sullivan reached out and pulled her hands from her face. He looked into her eyes.

"We've shared our first confidence," he said. "I am honored that you trust me enough to express honest feelings to me. Thank you."

She smiled and squeezed his hands.

"It's easy for me to talk to you, Doctor Sullivan."

"Please, Julie."

She blushed.

"Emmett," she said shyly.

"Thank you. That sounds much better, like we're old friends. I like saying your name aloud. Julie. Juulliiee! Julle-ee!" He laughed.

"Now you do tease me, sir!" she protested.

"No, I swear! You may ask the conductor who told me to stop calling your name out load, because I was frightening the other passengers."

She laughed again before recovering her hands.

"Well, Dr ... Emmett." She smiled as she said his name. "What drives you from your home?"

He leaned back against a boulder and filled his pipe. His expression darkened as he began to speak.

"Oldest son of a devout Irish Catholic mother who decided at my birth I was to be a priest. Medicine was her only acceptable alternative, so I donned a bloody apron instead of a cassock. Father is a politician, a 'mover and shaker' for the party. You can introduce him to a hundred strangers and he'll remember ninety-nine names.

When I finished my studies, my parents set me up in practice in the house next door to them. They pressured me into an engagement with Father Madden's niece, a girl I hardly knew and who barely knew me. I think I knew it was wrong, but I was preparing myself for a life of Shakespearian tragedy.

Then the war came.

The war was my salvation as well as my curse. At first, it was a great lark, a chance to get away, to sit around the campfire with other men, bragging and telling lies.

The Army took some getting used to, of course. In camp, the most common complaints were blistered feet and boils and an occasional outbreak of camp fever. I gained confidence, but I grew complacent.

Then came Shiloh Church. That was when it stopped being fun, and got ugly. I learned many truths about myself, about what I could tolerate, and what I could do when I had to." He looked solemnly at Julie.

"I mean it with all sincerity when I say I hope and pray you can never imagine the horrors I have seen one man inflict upon another. The number of horribly wounded soldiers was overwhelming. I couldn't take time to do a proper job on any of them, because the time I needed could cost another man his life. I couldn't do anything but trim off ragged edges and stop leaks before sending those poor bastards back to a hospital as quickly as possible.

I was with Sherman's Army in Georgia - but you know that. I met Otis after the slaughter at Kennesaw Mountain. He was the most good-natured patient I ever had. I couldn't send him to the hospital because he was the enemy, but we weren't moving much while Sherman worked his way into Atlanta. I operated on him twice, trying to clean his wound of debris... but these kinds of wounds are difficult to recover from.

He spoke of you often..."

"No," Julie interrupted in a strangled voice. "Not now. Someday, but not now, please."

"Of course, my dear, of course. Forgive me. I must say, though, your fiancé was a rare man. He didn't mind that I was the enemy, or that I was Irish. The first time we met, despite his wounds, he laughed at my accent. I assured him that I found his equally amusing and he informed me he had no accent and spoke English as it was meant to sound. Then he grinned and winked.

When I told him there was no hope, he apologized and assured me that I was a fine doctor, and that he was a poor patient. I felt like he liked me and looked forward to our conversations. For my part, I liked him, and found him humorous and intelligent beyond his education. I regard him as a friend."

Julie nodded and swallowed the lump in her throat.

"He was a very special person," she said. "Sometimes I wondered what he saw in me, but Gram said love's like that and there ain't no accounting for taste.

Pa was going to give us land, but Otis insisted on buying it, said he didn't want people thinking he married me for the land. Nearly three years we saved up. Three years I waited, and then the war came. What a waste! I wish we'd married and lived in a lean-to in the woods!" She sobbed and buried her face in her hands.

Emmett moved toward her, unsure of what to do. Julie suddenly straightened up and stiffened her chin.

"No, dash splash it!" she swore, clenching her fist. "I've cried enough for him! He made his choice. He wanted to go to the damned war with his damned friends, and he did and he got killed and it serves him right. I won't waste any more time grieving for him."

She glared at Emmett. "You men! You never think about the ones you leave behind. Union or Confederate, slave or free, it won't put a plate of beans in front of a child or warm a bed on a cold night!" She stopped suddenly and looked away.

"I'm sorry ...," she whispered.

"No, don't be. There's truth in what you say as far as it goes. But there is more. There are things that cannot be seen, but are felt just the same. Like the wind, they drive men like ships across the water. Feelings of duty, honor and respect carry weight on a person's conscience, as does a sense of justice. These feelings can unexpectedly overwhelm thoughts of hearth and home, and we find ourselves committed to an enterprise that good sense should warn against.

Reason will return, but honor and duty hold us fast. We stay to retain the respect of our comrades and we rationalize that we are sacrificing for a greater good, just as you have sacrificed yourself for your family.

So much blood, so many men killed unnecessarily... But I still believe the war itself was necessary. There has been a stain upon this country, from the beginning, that belied our claim of liberty for all men. I believe the war was a blood sacrifice we, as a nation, had to make to end the sin of slavery."

Color flooded Julie's cheeks.

"Then you should know I am stained, for my family owned slaves," she said stiffly. "Papa preferred to hire freemen, so he didn't have to feed folks when they weren't working. But sometimes he acquired slaves. Not because he wanted them. No, he had to take them as debt payment when people had nothing else of value left.

Pa wouldn't sell or trade a slave without knowing they'd be taken care of. After the war some of them stayed around, doing the same jobs they did before. Pa feeds them, and treats them at least as well as he does his mules. Rather, he did until he died. Now Uncle Peter looks after them. It could be worse."

She slowed down, took a deep breath, and gathered her composure. "Edward told me stories about how they treated their people on the big plantations up north of here. It was a business, and the slaves were just ciphers. The owners figured out how much they invested against how much was returned, just like Yankee merchants.

It's different down here. You pretty much got to take people as you find them, there ain't that many. We all got to get along if we're gonna survive."

After an awkward silence, Emmett cleared his throat.

"Well said, Julie. I'm sure everyone had a different experience with slavery, but I define it in the broadest terms of one man owning another. Can we at least agree that no one should live off the sweat of another? And that every person deserves to reap their own harvest?"

Julie considered.

"Aye, I can accept that. No one wants rats in the corncrib."

Emmett grinned.

"And that, my dear, was our first disagreement. We're making splendid progress!"

Julie laughed, but then grew serious.

"Emmett, you should know... this is not the real me. This dress was made seven years ago for a honeymoon that never happened. Most of the time I live in calico and linsey. I hate wearing a corset and one of my greatest joys in life is soaking my feet in hot water. I am a plain person, with simple ways. You should know that."

Emmett smiled.

"You neglected to mention honest and true," he said. "All these things I knew before or I wouldn't have come here. To be honest, I hate wearing a corset, too."

"As for myself, I am haunted by the war," he continued in a lower tone. "I wake up screaming in the night sometimes, but not as often as before. I have fits of melancholy when it hurts to speak. When a black Irish mood gets on me, it's best to just leave me alone until it passes. I've had enough adventures to last me a lifetime, and I long for a quiet life, of cotton and linsey and warm foot baths."

He looked into Julie's eyes and she smiled.

He smiled in return.

They lapsed into a silence of a different kind, as the discomfort of strangeness melted away in the growing warmth of familiarity.

Julie stood up and said that she was going to take a walk in the woods in that direction. She suggested that Emmett explore a short distance in the other direction.

When she returned, she found Emmett sitting on top of a large boulder at the water's edge. He had taken off his hat and coat and was smoking his pipe while watching the water ripple over the stones. He looked over when he heard her approach, smiling as he slid off the rock.

"This really is a most lovely place," he said as he took her hand to help her up onto the rock. He followed to sit close beside her. "It must be twenty degrees cooler here in the shade by the water."

"This is our favorite picnic spot whenever we come to town," she said, looking around. "It's best in the spring, when the dogwoods are in bloom. They look like little white ghosts among the trees. I shall miss this place."

"So you are determined to leave?"

Julie gave a determined nod.

"I have to leave. I will not be a servant to my brother's wife."

Emmett nodded. They let their silence linger for a time and listened to gurgle of the water and the singing of the birds.

"Julie," Emmett said, swallowing hard.

"Yes?" Julie answered softly.

"Will you go with me?" he asked, quickly adding, "I mean will you marry me. Marry me, and then go with me?"

Julie laughed softly and smiled as she took his hand.

"I think we are well-matched, Emmett. But where are you going?"

"West," he said emphatically, looking at her hand in his. "There's new life out there, Julie. There's free land, if we want to farm, or I could be the only doctor for miles and miles. I thought we could go to New Orleans and take a ship to Panama and then on to California or Oregon until we find the right place, some place special. The East is too civilized for me now and the South is going to be in ruins for many years to come. I'm ready to escape, get away from it all and start all over again."

Julie weighed his words.

"It's a great distance," she muttered.

Emmett held her hand in both of his.

"But not distant from me, Julie. At the edge of the world, whenever you reach out in the darkness, I will take your hand. Whatever I am worth in this world, I pledge to you if you will accept me, unworthy as I am. I confess I have had tender feelings for you, my darling, since I read your first letter.

These feelings have grown hidden in the darkness of my loneliness and have blossomed today in the sunshine of your smile. If pressed to name these feelings, I would call them love. I do so name them, Julie. I love you, I love you, I swear it's true, I do love you!" He kissed the palm of her hand.

She smiled and stroked his hair with her free hand.

"Ah, Emmett. All the things I feared could go wrong, and you have said everthing just right. I too must confess to tender feelings for you, despite my fears. Yes, I will go with you."

Emmett raised his head and looked into her eyes, still holding her hand. She looked into his eyes and knew it was time. She leaned forward slightly and closed her eyes. With joy Emmett leaned forward and kissed her, softly, full on her lips, lingering for a long second before pulling away. She opened her eyes and smiled at him, pulling her trapped hand free to open her arms to him. They embraced as their second kiss heated quickly, threatening to knock Emmett off the rock.

They sat there for some time, talking quietly, wrapped in each other's arms, kissing frequently. Some were small pecks while others steamed with rising passion. After a while though, Julie noticed the changing light. She shot up and checked her pocket watch.

"Oh, my stars!" she exclaimed. "We have to leave now or we'll miss the last train."

"Or we could get married here, and leave tomorrow on a honeymoon," Emmett suggested as he slid off the rock.

"We can get married anywhere." Julie started cleaning up the picnic area. "This is the last train out tonight, and when the sun comes up tomorrow, I want to be somewhere else. I want to be someone else."

"Mrs. Emmett Sullivan?" Emmett asked, stooping to help.

Julie dimpled at him and caused his heart to flutter.

"Aye, that's a good start." She pushed him away. "Here, let me pack that food away. It'll be our supper on the train. You get the mule hitched, and I'll have this done in no time."

Emmett grinned at her.

"Just engaged, and already giving orders! Aye, aye Mrs. Sullivan, 'tis mule duty for the good doctor!" He gave her a mock salute and turned to Sparky.

The mule was glad to get back on the road, but was thwarted when the reins pulled him to the left when he knew the way home was to the right. He tried to correct the obvious mistake, but the stubborn people insisted on returning to town and Sparky was forced to comply.

At the train depot, Emmett retrieved Julie's valises from the wagon bed while she got the basket out and forced the folded quilt under the handle to cover the food.

"That's a beautiful quilt," Emmett said. "Did you make it?"

"No," Julie replied, running her hand over the colorful patches with their tiny stitches. "No, Jenny Bird made it."

She reached into the wagon bed and pulled out a basket with a plant growing out of it. Emmett eyed it curiously.

"I take it the plant is important to you?"

"It's a gardenia," Julie said. "And I would rather lose the valises."

Emmett nodded.

"What about the mule and wagon?" Emmett asked as he took the plant from her.

"He knows the way home," she said as she rummaged through her handbag. "He knows where his oats are, and that's about all a mule cares about after gelding." She pulled out a notepad and pencil and scrawled a few words. She tore the page from the notepad, folded it and tucked it inside the mule's bridle. Untying the lead from the hitching post, she turned the mule and wagon around, pointing them back out of town. She took a moment to rub the mule's muzzle and to speak kindly to him, before walking back towards the wagon. Without mounting, she smacked his rump and hollered "Giddy-yup!"

Sparky was happy to be heading in the right direction at last and never noticed that no one was in the wagon, and no one held the reins. Thoughts of his stall and the bucket of oats waiting there filled his mule brain and he never noticed the paper flapping from his bridle. And, being a mule, he could not have read it anyway.

It was dark by the time the mule got home. Peter caught the mule by its bridle while Edward came out of the Big Cabin when he heard the wagon enter the yard. Holding the mule's bridle, Peter pulled out the paper and unfolded it. He read the words before silently passing the note to Edward. He held the paper so it was lit by the lamplight, and swore at the top of his voice after he read it. For no good reason, he kicked a bucket, stubbing his toe. He cursed, tore the note in two and threw it to the ground, but Julie's words still burned in his brain.

" _Someone wants me. Good-bye_."

### ###

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Cover art by Laura at LauraKate@DecaturClary.com

