Read Online The Run for the Elbertas by James Still - Free Book Online

your nag to our mare?” I ventured at last. “I allus did want me a little beast.”
    â€œFifteen years we’ve fed that pony,” the drummer said. He arose, stretching his legs. “She’s nigh a family member,and my wife thinks more o’ that nag than she does her victuals. She’d skulp me, was I to trade.”
    How bitter I felt toward our mare. “Our critter’ll never have a colt like it was promised,” I grumbled.
    The drummer stacked his hands. He looked wise as a county judge. “She needs a special medicine,” he advised. “I mix a tonic that cures any ill, fixes up and straightens out man or beast—the biggest medicine ever wrapped in glass.” He patty-caked his palms. “Now, there’s one trade I do fancy. Show me where the ratsbane grows and I’ll make you a present of a bottle. One’s all I’ve got left.”
    I spoke, “Bet was a feller to eat wild fruit, a dram o’ that tonic would cuore the pizen. I bet.”
    A woman’s voice called from the mill. “Doc Trawler! Oh, Doc!”
    The drummer started off. “You stay till I see what my wife’s after,” he said. I waited, and soon heard him returning, and the cow tunnels were filled with his laughter. He came back shaking with merriment. “That devil of a pony!” he said. “Oh, hit’s a good thing we’re leaving tomorry.”
    We went to grabble ratsbane and the drummer chuckled all day. He was a fool about that nag. We dug till my back sprung; we dug till the sun-ball stooped in the sky.
    Late in the afternoon we stood by the mill with a poke crammed full of roots. I breathed in the smell of cooking victuals and fairly starved. The drummer slapped the poke; he treated it like a human being. “I’ll get your pay,” he said, and fetched a bottle out of the mill, a bottle no taller than my uncle-finger. “Hit’s strong as Samson,” he said. “And wait. My wife’s fixing something for your mother.”
    â€œIs this medicine bound to work?” I asked, sliding the bottle inside of a pocket.
    â€œHit’ll fix that mare right up, shore as Sunday-come-Monday.”
    The nag walked around the millhouse. She stuck her head in the door, and drew back crunching an apple. The drummersmiled. “See that thar. Didn’t I say this hardtail’s nigh one o’ the family?”
    â€œMy colt’s going to have folk sense,” I bragged.
    â€œThis pony’s bound to stick her noggin into places,” the drummer said. His face wrinkled happily. The crown of his head shone. “Now, what do you reckon she found this morning? A chap’s playhouse. Leave it to a long-nose beast to sniff things out. Me and my wife looked, and what we saw we couldn’t believe, but thar it was to prove.”
    â€œI’d give a pretty to know,” I pleaded. “I’ve got to larn.”
    The drummer frowned. “For a good reason I don’t want that place disturbed till we leave.” He scratched his headtop, undecided whether to tell. “Swear you won’t take a look till we’re on the road and gone?”
    â€ ’Pon my word and deed.”
    â€œHit’s yonder then,” he said, pointing to the lower side of the millhouse where the floor rested on high pillars. “I can’t blame your sister for trying to scare us with talk o’ spiders and lizards. Oh, she’s a wild ’un.”
    The drummer’s woman brought a bowl capped with a lid. The plaits of her hair tipped her shoulders, and her eyes were sad as a ewe’s. “Reckon we could steal a child off these folks?” she joked her man. “Five in their house. One wouldn’t be missed.” She handed the bowl to me. “Take this cobbler to your mother. Tell her every berry’s been split; tell it’s safe to eat.”
    I ran home, and my heart pounded as I