went in the Army." "Was she from around here? Somebod y y ou knew awhile?"
"From Corbin. I knew her a few years. The n w e seemed to get married all of a sudden." "I know how that is," Frank grinned. "Elizabeth never had any children, which I guess is a good thing."
He could picture her; he could see the dark-haired girl with freckles, a strong and healthy-looking girl, who had never been sick in her life until the influenza came to Marlett and spread up into the hollows. Son did not see her in the casket. He got home from Camp Taylor the morning of the funeral and went directly to the funeral home where everyone was standing around waiting for him, and the undertaker was wishing they would hurry and get done with expressing their sorrow, because he needed this parlor for somebody else. So they buried Elizabeth Hartley Martin, 1898-1919, in the churchyard. Son got on the train to Camp Taylor and was back in Marlett seven days later for his mother's funeral and burial in the cemetery, next to his wife.
Son could picture her, the twenty-year-old girl he had married, but he seldom thought of her as his wife; he could see her smile and her nice even white teeth with the freckles across her nose, a pretty girl he had taken to dances and out riding in a buggy. He didn't think of her as his wife and it gave him a start sometimes when he remembered he had once been married. He would probably marry again. It seemed natural, though it wasn't a simple thing to do now--with Frank Long standing with his hands in his pocket squinting down the slope at the little house where Son Martin worked his still. Son watched. He said, "You want to look at the still?"
Frank Long turned, looking past Son, up the slope and to the dark ridges beyond. "Well, as you know, I'm more interested in old whiskey than new stuff. I'm interested to know where an old man would hide a hundred and fifty barrels." His gaze roamed over the slope studying the thickets and trees and the outcroppings of sandstone.
"Where'd the old man dig his coal at?" "All over here," Son answered.
"I see where there might be some shafts. He worked all alone?"
"Usually. Sometimes Aaron helped him when he wasn't working the farm."
Long nodded. "The old man dug coal, Aaron farmed, and the both of them made whiskey. What I want to know, was the old man digging for coal or digging hiding places?"
Son was working a cigarette out of the packet in his shirt pocket. "There's only one way to find that out, isn't there? Go look in all the holes you come across, peer in and poke around and see what you find."
"That would take me some time, wouldn't it?"
"I don't know. Twenty years."
"Less I had some help."
"You think they can spare the men? I understand you Prohibition people are awful busy."
"I was thinking," Long said, "of getting people around here to help me, like the Black-wells and the Worthmans. I mentioned to Mr. Baylor this morning it might be the way to do it."
Son drew on his cigarette. "What'd Mr. Baylor say to that?"
"He said he'd like to be there when I as k t hem"
"I would too."
"Then I told Mr. Baylor I wasn't going to ask them. I was going to tell them."
"I see. Just order them."
"That's right. I say to them, 'You go out and find me Son Martin's hundred and fifty barrels. Find it or get him to tell where it's at, I don't care which. Because if you don't I'm going to start busting your stills one at a time, and I'm going to put all you boys out of business.' "
"Now you're telling me."
"Yes, now I'm telling you. Mr. Baylor said they need their stills to make a living and without the stills their families would go hungry and said something about the kids getting rickets and scurvy. You believe that?"
Son nodded. "They rely on their stills, that's the truth, with the good farmland washed into the creeks and river. I don't know anything about what would happen to the kids."
"But without money to buy food it would seem those folks would go hungry," Long said.
"It
"From Corbin. I knew her a few years. The n w e seemed to get married all of a sudden." "I know how that is," Frank grinned. "Elizabeth never had any children, which I guess is a good thing."
He could picture her; he could see the dark-haired girl with freckles, a strong and healthy-looking girl, who had never been sick in her life until the influenza came to Marlett and spread up into the hollows. Son did not see her in the casket. He got home from Camp Taylor the morning of the funeral and went directly to the funeral home where everyone was standing around waiting for him, and the undertaker was wishing they would hurry and get done with expressing their sorrow, because he needed this parlor for somebody else. So they buried Elizabeth Hartley Martin, 1898-1919, in the churchyard. Son got on the train to Camp Taylor and was back in Marlett seven days later for his mother's funeral and burial in the cemetery, next to his wife.
Son could picture her, the twenty-year-old girl he had married, but he seldom thought of her as his wife; he could see her smile and her nice even white teeth with the freckles across her nose, a pretty girl he had taken to dances and out riding in a buggy. He didn't think of her as his wife and it gave him a start sometimes when he remembered he had once been married. He would probably marry again. It seemed natural, though it wasn't a simple thing to do now--with Frank Long standing with his hands in his pocket squinting down the slope at the little house where Son Martin worked his still. Son watched. He said, "You want to look at the still?"
Frank Long turned, looking past Son, up the slope and to the dark ridges beyond. "Well, as you know, I'm more interested in old whiskey than new stuff. I'm interested to know where an old man would hide a hundred and fifty barrels." His gaze roamed over the slope studying the thickets and trees and the outcroppings of sandstone.
"Where'd the old man dig his coal at?" "All over here," Son answered.
"I see where there might be some shafts. He worked all alone?"
"Usually. Sometimes Aaron helped him when he wasn't working the farm."
Long nodded. "The old man dug coal, Aaron farmed, and the both of them made whiskey. What I want to know, was the old man digging for coal or digging hiding places?"
Son was working a cigarette out of the packet in his shirt pocket. "There's only one way to find that out, isn't there? Go look in all the holes you come across, peer in and poke around and see what you find."
"That would take me some time, wouldn't it?"
"I don't know. Twenty years."
"Less I had some help."
"You think they can spare the men? I understand you Prohibition people are awful busy."
"I was thinking," Long said, "of getting people around here to help me, like the Black-wells and the Worthmans. I mentioned to Mr. Baylor this morning it might be the way to do it."
Son drew on his cigarette. "What'd Mr. Baylor say to that?"
"He said he'd like to be there when I as k t hem"
"I would too."
"Then I told Mr. Baylor I wasn't going to ask them. I was going to tell them."
"I see. Just order them."
"That's right. I say to them, 'You go out and find me Son Martin's hundred and fifty barrels. Find it or get him to tell where it's at, I don't care which. Because if you don't I'm going to start busting your stills one at a time, and I'm going to put all you boys out of business.' "
"Now you're telling me."
"Yes, now I'm telling you. Mr. Baylor said they need their stills to make a living and without the stills their families would go hungry and said something about the kids getting rickets and scurvy. You believe that?"
Son nodded. "They rely on their stills, that's the truth, with the good farmland washed into the creeks and river. I don't know anything about what would happen to the kids."
"But without money to buy food it would seem those folks would go hungry," Long said.
"It
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