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

shake the drummer’s hand in farewell. Fern, Lark, and Zard were staring.
    I crept to the lower side of the mill where the floor stood high. I crawdabbed under. Nothing I saw in Fern’s playhouse, nothing save four stone pillars growing up, and an empty pan sitting. “Humph,” I thought.
    I heard footsteps. I sprang behind a pillar. Fern came underneath the floor bringing a cup of milk and meat crumbs; she brought the bait from Father’s traps. Her hair was combed slick and two plaits tipped her shoulders, woven like the drummer-woman’s. My mouth fell open.
    The milk was poured into the pan. Fern squatted beside it, calling, “Biddy, biddy, biddy,” and four little polecats came walking to lap the milk, and three big varmints began tonibble the meat. I blinked, shivering with fright, and of a sudden the critters knew I was there, and Fern knew. The polecats vanished like weasel smoke.
    I recollect Fern’s anger. She didn’t cry. She sat pale as any blossom, narrowing her eyes at me. But not a mad or meany word she spoke. The thing she said came measured and cold between tight lips.
    â€œYou hain’t heard the baby’s been tuck,” she said. “Poppy give it to the drummer.”
    I stood frozen, more frightened than any varmint scare. When I could move I ran toward the house, running with loss aching inside of me.
    I thrust my head in at the door. Father was carving spool pipes for Lark and Zard. Mother ate soup out of a bowl, and her lap and arms were empty. Mother was saying, “Now this is the best soup ever I did eat. Hit’s seasoned just right.”
    Father grinned. “You can allus tell when a body’s getting well. They’ll eat a feller out o’ house and home.” He saw me standing breathlessly in the door; he laughed, not trying to keep his face grave. “Well, well,” he said, “I’ve closed the books on that mare. A colt’s due tomorrow or the next day. That’s a shore fact.”
    â€œThe baby!” I choked. “She’s been tuck!”
    â€œBaby?” Father asked, puzzled. “Why, thar she kicks on the bed, a-blowing bubbles and growing bigger’n the government.”
    I turned, running away in shame and joy. I ran out to the mulberry tree. The fruit had fallen and the ground was like a great pie. I drew the medicine bottle from my pocket; I swallowed the last dose. I ate a bellyful of mulberries.

Journey to the Forks
    â€œH IT’S a far piece,” Lark said. “I’m afraid we won’t make it afore dusty dark.” We squatted down in the road and rested on the edge of a clay rut. Lark set his poke on the crust of a nag’s track, and I lifted the saddle-bags off my shoulder. The leather was damp underneath.
    â€œWe ought ne’er thought to be scholars,” Lark said.
    The sun-ball had turned over the hill above Riddle Hargin’s farm and it was hot in the valley. Grackles walked the top rail of a fence, breathing with open beaks. They halted and looked at us, their legs wide apart and rusty backs arched.
    â€œI knowed you’d get dolesome ere we reached Troublesome Creek,” I said. “I knowed it was a-coming.”
    Lark drew his thin legs together and rested his chin on his knees. “If’n I was growed up to twelve like you,” he said, “I’d go along peart. I’d not mind my hand.”
    â€œWriting hain’t done with your left hand,” I said. “It won’t be ag’in’ you larning.”
    â€œI oughtn’t to tried busting that dinnymite cap,” Lark said. “Hit’s a hurting sight to see my left hand with two fingers gone.”
    â€œBefore long it’ll seem plumb natural,” I said. “In a little spell they’ll never give a thought to it.”
    The grackles called harshly from the rail fence.
    â€œWe’d better eat the apples while we’re setting,” I said.