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Son Of The Red Earth
By Ted L. Pittman AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2010 Ted L. Pittman
All right reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4490-7481-4
Chapter One
The Beating
Boggy Depot was a shell of what it had been in its heyday. The General Store served the rural population and the farmers and ranchers of the area. Hardly anybody lived in town anymore. Atoka had taken over as the County seat of Atoka County some years earlier, leaving Boggy Depot as more or less a memory of better times. Still, it was a place to get supplies and maybe learn a little news at the same time. Often the newspapers lying on the table by the door of the store were a week or more old, but it was the latest news available. Atoka County Sheriff, Bill Reynolds, preferred to live in Boggy Depot rather than Atoka. He was close enough to respond to an emergency if needed, but far enough away to not have to deal with the little petty details that came up on a daily basis. He let his deputy take care of those. Besides, he was closer to Maize than if he lived in Atoka. Maize was just about the only good thing in his life. What he did to Budrow still bothered him at times. Mostly just when he saw Maize's and Budrow's kids looking at him with those big eyes. He hadn't really meant for it to happen, things just kind of got out of hand. After it was over, he loaded Budrow's body up in the trunk of the car and hauled it all the way over into Johnston County. He unloaded the body in front of the Blue River Bar and drove back to Boggy Depot. He made a big show of trying to solve the case, but nobody blamed him when he Ànally gave up. There was just no evidence at all. Most everybody Àgured Budrow was just hanging out with the rough crowd that frequented the Blue River Bar and got himself killed. The fact that Budrow never drank, didn't come into the picture at all.
He ran across Budrow coming out of the gate leading up to old man Maxwell's place leading a black and white calf just after dark that day. He stopped the car and was going to ask Budrow about the calf when Budrow took off running. He caught up to him down by the creek and managed to hit him a pretty good lick over the head with his billy club to stop him. Looked like a clear case of Budrow getting caught stealing a calf from old man Maxwell. He handcuffed Budrow where he lay on the ground and walked back to get the car. When he got back a few minutes later, he couldn't get any response at all from him. It appeared he had hit him harder than he thought. He panicked and loaded Budrow in the trunk of the car and started driving. When he got out of the county, he remembered the Blue River Bar. There had been several killings at the Blue River Bar the last few years; one more wasn't likely to cause much alarm. He dumped Budrow's body in the yard out front of the bar and headed back to Boggy Depot.
During the course of the investigation, he spent quite a bit of time over at Maize's just acting like he was working on trying to solve the case. He started taking her a few groceries every time he went out, and sometimes something for the kids. He felt sorry for the kids. He hadn't meant to kill their father, it had just happened. When he learned that old man Maxwell had given Budrow the calf in exchange for plowing up some land for him, he was just sick. Why had Budrow ran when he approached him? He hadn't done anything wrong. Maize figured Budrow had just panicked when he saw the Sheriff's car stop and start backing toward him. If you was a colored man and from Mississippi, you was just naturally a little scared of the law.
Even after the case had officially been closed, Sheriff Bill would still go by every few days and check on Maize and the kids. One thing led to another, and before long, he was sharing her bed. That's the way it had been for the last two years, and Sheriff Bill was contented for it to stay that way.
Sheriff Bill was headed out to see Maize when he spotted young Jorney Wilson headed into town with a basket of eggs. Sure was a shame that boy having to work like he did and not have a decent thing to wear or even shoes on his feet. Old man Wilson was a lazy drunkard and didn't deserve a boy like Jorney. Maize told him about the times Jorney had come to her place after his old man had whipped him to get her to doctor him up with ointment. He had seen Jorney all over the county working for first one then the other just trying to put a little food on the table. Bill didn't figure Jorney to be more than thirteen or fourteen years old. His Ma had been a good woman, but the work had made her old before her time. When she caught the flu about three years back, she just wasn't in good enough health to fight it off. Bill made sure the girl, Francis was her name, didn't have to stay on the place after her Ma died. He wouldn't have trusted old Bodie Wilson to do right by her. He talked Preacher John and Aunt Emily into taking her in. It might not be the best situation in the world, but it was much better than staying on the farm. He wished there was something he could do to help out Jorney's situation. Right now, he just couldn't think of what that might be.
I burrowed down into the corn shucks until my tortured body came in contact with the rough boards that made up the bottom of the corn crib. This was the worst beating the old man had given me since Ma died three years ago. I had fought him off as best I could, but his strength and size had finally gotten the better of me. When he had finally fallen down in a drunken stupor, I made my way to this corn crib. I could hear him hollering for me for awhile, then silence. I knew, without looking, that he had fallen into an alcohol induced sleep that would likely last up into the next day. I had to get to a better place. A place where I could get some medicine of some kind for the raw flesh that enclosed my body. The heavy rawhide strap had done its job on my back and legs. They would need a good cleaning and a covering with some kind of ointment to ward off the infection, and the sooner the better. But right now, all I could think of was lying in those corn shucks and riding out the waves of pain that racked my beaten body.
It had never been like what I thought a family should be. At least not like any family I knew or had ever heard of. The old man had always been one to pull out the strap too quickly for the smallest infractions, but after Ma passed away, he just got worse and worse. My older sister Francis moved in with Preacher John and Emily, "Aunt Emily" was what everybody called her, shortly after Ma died. I was thankful for that, though I heard she was little more than a maid to the preacher's family.
About a year ago, it started getting to be about more than I could handle. The old man didn't seem to want to do any work at all, and the little money I could come by selling eggs to the General Store over in Boggy Depot and hiring out to first one and then the other for odd jobs, didn't go very far when it come to buying vittles for us. I had taken to hiding what little money I could come by to keep the old man from spending it on liquor. If he caught me hiding money, I was sure to get the worst beating yet and I knew it.
When the pain subsided a little, I climbed out of the corn crib and walked the mile to Maize's shack. This was not the first time she had doctored me, but it was by far the worst shape I had ever been in when I had come to her for help. Maize warmed the ointment up a little to make it easier to spread onto the raw flesh on my back and legs, but I still had to grit my teeth to keep from screaming as she smoothed it on. She used warm water to get what was left of my shirt unstuck from my back before she started with the ointment.
"Jorney," she said. "It beats all I've ever seen how you stay with that old man and him beating you like he does. Have to be a fool to stay in a place like that. Why don't you come and stay with us? You're more than welcome, you know you are."
Maize and the four kids were one of only two colored families in that whole part of the county as far as I knew. I knew she didn't have enough money coming in to keep her and the kids fed, much less taking in the likes of me. Maize and Budrow had come all the way from Mississippi, dragging everything they owned in a two wheeled cart about three years earlier. They intended to go farther north, but when they found the old shack sitting there all by itself, they figured they would stop and rest up for a few days. That was three years ago. Old man Maxwell, who owned the land, agreed to let Budrow farm the bottom land on the halves as long as they wanted to stay. The land was just lying there idle anyway since the horse had fallen with him and broke him all up. Less than a year later, they found Budrow's body in the yard outside of the Blue River Bar, nearly forty miles away. Nobody seemed to know how the body got there, but there was no doubt he was dead. Ever since, Maize had been keeping food in their bellies by taking in washing. Every day, you could see her heading to town pulling that old two wheeled cart loaded down with the laundry she had picked up in town the previous day and now had cleaned and ready to deliver. She would deliver the clean laundry, pick up the dirty laundry and take it back to the shack to wash. Then the next day, she would do it all over again. I had taken to bringing them what little I could every time I got the chance. It usually wasn't much, but Maize always seemed really grateful for whatever it was. Mr. Maxwell let them continue to live in the old shack. It wasn't much of a home, but it was better than nothing.
The only other help Maize got was from Sheriff Bill. Maize was still a young woman and Sheriff Bill filled a void in her life that Budrow could no longer fill. Sheriff Bill had never been married and he liked his little arrangement with Maize just fine. He would usually come by to visit her about twice a week and always after the little ones had long been in bed. He never failed to bring something that Maize could really use, like a side of pork, or a five pound bag of sugar or some salt. He made it a point to keep a supply of little horehound candies as well. He would lay a few of them on the table by the door when he came in. It was the only treat the kids ever got. I never seen a harder worker than Maize. How she did what she did, I'll never know.
I was feeding the chickens from the meager supply of cracked corn when the old truck pulled into the yard. It had been a week since the last beating, and my wounds were started to heal nicely, though they still smarted when the sweat would get in them. The old man had been almost civil the past few days, but I knew better than to let my guard down. I had seen that old truck in town a time or two when I had gone in to sell eggs. A big burley man got out of the truck and walked over to where my old man was sitting on the porch smoking his pipe. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but the big burley man kept looking over in my direction every once in a while. My old man kept waving his arms and nodding his head up and down like he was trying to make a point. Finally, they must have come to some kind of an agreement and the big burley man handed some money over to the old man. Green back money! The kind that was real scarce around these parts. We could sure use that money to buy some vittles and fixings down at the General Store, I thought. If I could just get my hands on some of it before the old man drank it all up, that is.
"Hey kid! Get in there and gather up your stuff. You're going with Mr. Baldwin here for a while to give him a hand around his place. He's going to give you a place to sleep and feed you and everything. Just a couple of weeks, that's all. Don't worry about your old man, I'll make out."
He was sliding that wad of greenbacks into the pocket of his old dirty overalls. So it had come to this, had it? Sold off like a slave to Mr. Baldwin. I figured it couldn't be much worse than it was around here, and it was just a couple of weeks anyway. I could see the old man heading out for town as Mr. Baldwin's truck went around the bend in the road with me sitting in the back. He'd likely have all those greenbacks spent on liquor and women by dark. I felt a tear slide down my cheek as I realized there just wasn't a thing I could do about it.
"Hey kid! Get a move on. We ain't got time to be lollygagging around. Get that hay in the barn before it starts to rain if you know what's good for you."
It was the second week of my endenturement to Mr. Baldwin. The place to sleep turned out to be an empty stall in the barn, and the food turned out to be what was left over after the family had gotten through eating, and most times it was mighty little. The work started before dawn and quit when it was too dark to see. Most nights I just fell down on the straw in that stall too tired to eat and slept the sleep of the truly weary until Mr. Baldwin kicked me out of there the next morning. Only two more days left of the two weeks though, and I could go back home. Wasn't any chance of the old man having any of that money left, but at least I could get a little rest and get my aching body back to where it didn't hurt all the time. Just two more days, that's what kept me going.
"Where do you think you're going?"
We were standing in the yard between the barn and the haystack. I had my few belongings in a gunny sack and was ready to go home, having put in the two weeks like my old man said. Mr. Baldwin had come out of the house with a couple of biscuits for my breakfast and found me standing there with the gunny sack on the ground in front of me.
"You ain't going nowhere," he said. "I paid good money for you and you ain't going nowhere."
What was he talking about? I couldn't make no sense of it. My old man had hired me out for two weeks and I had done the two weeks. Now I was going home whether Mr. Baldwin liked it or not.
"My two weeks are up Mr. Baldwin," I said. "I'm going home now."
"What two weeks?" he screamed! "I bought you! Do you hear me boy? Bought you fair and square off your old man for fifty dollars. You're mine to do with as it pleases me and it pleases me for you to get out to that bottom forty and get to plowing. Now git!"
He threw the biscuits at my feet and turned to walk away.
"I ain't gonna do it!"
The words were there, but I didn't remember saying them. Must have though, sure sounded like my voice. Mr. Baldwin just stopped and stood there with his back to me for a few seconds. Then he reached down and started to take off the heavy leather belt he kept cinched around his overalls. When he turned around and looked at me, I felt the fear start in the bottom of my throat and move up until it had all my air choked off. I tried to say something, but a faint little squeak was all that came out. I knew one thing, I wasn't about to take a beating from Mr. Baldwin for something I hadn't done. I didn't quite know how I was gonna stop it, but I wasn't taking no beating.
"Come here boy, I'm gonna teach you not to sass me."
I started slowly backing away as he moved toward me, then turned to run just as he grabbed for me. I felt my ankle twist as I stepped on the pitchfork handle lying beside the haystack. The handle broke with a loud snap as I went down, my twisted ankle not able to support my weight. The heavy leather belt caught me fair across the back as Mr. Baldwin came in swinging. The searing pain drove me up to my knees just as the belt came cutting down again. As I fell for a second time, my arm fell across the pitchfork handle lying on the ground where it had fallen. I sensed, more than felt, my fingers wrap around the handle and as I came up off the ground, I took a big swipe with it in the area where I figured Mr. Baldwin's head ought to be. There was a solid thunk, like if you hit a watermelon with a two by four, and Mr. Baldwin hit the ground on his face and just lay there. I was too stunned to run or do anything. Then the screaming started. Mrs. Baldwin and one of the little Baldwin girls had ventured out onto the front porch to see what the ruckus was about. When they saw Mr. Baldwin stretched out on the ground and me standing there holding the pitchfork handle, they just naturally commenced to wailing and screaming. When Mrs. Baldwin started running toward me, screaming and waving that cast iron frying pan she had in her hands, I took off as fast as I could run with that twisted ankle. As I went around the corner of the barn, and headed for the timber running along the creek, I could still hear her screaming in the distance.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Son Of The Red Earth by Ted L. Pittman Copyright © 2010 by Ted L. Pittman. Excerpted by permission.
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