IN CLARY'S GROVE
The evening of the day the imprisoned flat boat made its way
successfully out of New Salem, the Clary Grove gang had a meeting.
Windy Batts was expected to return from Springfield, where he had
gone to prove his fitness for fellowship with the Clary Grove Boys
by thrashing a Springfield strong man who had cast aspersions on his
character as a pugilist.
Clary Grove was a settlement of a few log houses near New Salem, so
called for Bill Clary, the owner of the grove where the select met to
swap stories, discuss news and partake of real liquor.
Every new-comer to the vicinity was sized up. If Clary Grove was
friendly, so much the better for the new-comer. He might not become a
member of the gang. Indeed few were allowed to sit in close fellowship
about the fire with the gang, but he would at least be let alone.
Windy Batts had expressed a desire to be of the gang. He was, however,
looked upon with a degree of suspicion, as he had done some exhorting
for the Hard Shells, and Clary Grove looked askance at religion in any
form, and while he had boasted of "dingblasting the daylights out of
them shoutin' Methodists," Clary Grove was not satisfied that he was
proper stuff to fellowship with them and their whiskey.
They awaited his return from Springfield, where he was to prove his
pugilistic ability, with some interest.
The cool, spring air with the tang of frost not yet safely out of it,
made a fire comfortable, and a bright blaze burned between the two
smooth logs on which the gang roosted.
Buck Thompson, the luckiest horse-trader in that section, and Ole Bar
were the first to arrive. Ole Bar sat beside the fire, his jaws working
industriously and his one good eye shining like a spark. No one of the
gang had ever been able to learn what misfortune had befallen the lost
eye of Ole Bar.
That he had been "cleaned of it right and proper" all agreed. Opinion
was divided, however, as to the cause or method, one portion believing
a bear had clawed it out, because of his familiarity with bears, and
others holding to the opinion that some specimen of womankind was
responsible for the loss, because of his oft-expressed unfriendly
feeling toward women.
Jo Kelsy, a fat and favorite brother of the clan, who was always ready
with a new story about a ghost or a witch from his one treasure, an
inherited copy of Shakespeare, was the third to arrive.
His usual costume was varied slightly. He came hobbling in, one foot
encased in a moccasin. Ole Bar glanced at his mismated feet.
"What's bit ye, Jo?" he asked.
"My wife she dropped a five-gallon crock on my foot," he answered.
"Good thing it wasn't your head, for be it known by man and bars, them
as mixes up with wimmen has heads softer than their feet."
Jo laughed good naturedly. Then the three talked of the raft and the
ungainly youth who had resorted to the homely but efficient expedient
of boring a hole.
"I've seen some legs in my day," Jo Kelsy observed, "but none long as
his'n."
"Ain't no longer than yours is, Dumplin'," said Old Bar. "Yours reaches
to the ground and his'n don't go no further. According to my way of
figgerin' his legs wasn't so numerous when it comes to length as his
head. That galoot's got a long head."
A couple more of the gang dropped in, and the talk continued about the
raft and the head raftsman. "Ever see anything like it? Wouldn't think
a backwoodsman could tell such stories as he did last night, would ye?"
"Nor know enough to get an ark floating when she was stuck so tight
that God hisself couldn't stick her no tighter."
"McNeil was figgerin' on her cargo to see what it was worth."
"Trust McNeil for figgerin' the worth of a cargo--or anything else."
"Ann Rutledge--eh?"
They laughed. Then one said, "I heard him tellin' Hill him and Ann was
goin' to marry and have a big infare. But her Pappy won't let her till
next year. She has to git more schoolin'."
"He better git while gittin's good. John Rutledge is fixed, and he sets
more store by Ann than the whole other eight of 'em."
"McNeil knows all that. But here comes Kit Parsons. Wonder what's kept
him late? Kit, you're late."
"Yeh," and he sat down by the fire.
"What's extry? Been stealin' anything or gettin' religion?"
"Same thing as gettin' religion," he said. "Been fulfillin' the
Scripture injunction."
"Which one?"
"Been replenishin' and multiplyin'."
"Mollie got another litter?" Ole Bar asked with a show of interest.
"Just one this year. But I calculate that a man what grubs for three
which arrives in two years is somewhat religious."
"Bars is that religious," the one-eyed man observed, "only when they
pursue the course of Nature they don't blame it on religion."
After a laugh Ole Bar said solemnly to Kit, "If you young fellers knew
what was good fer you you'd let wimmin alone."
"Where'd you learn so much about wimmin?" Jo asked.
"From bars. Bars rub noses at matin' time and tears the ears offen each
other when the cubs has to be fed. Let wimmin alone and save the wear
on your noses and ears."
"How's a body going to leave any ancestry if he don't never git no
place near a woman?" Buck Thompson asked.
"Ancestry?" repeated Ole Bar. "Well, what under heaven is these little,
wet-nosed ancestry good fer anyhow? Never had no ancestry myself
and I'm gettin' along all right--got along all right while I was in
Arkansas, and anybody that can do that don't need to worry about
leavin' no ancestry."
"Tell us about Arkansas," was the next demand.
Ole Bar shifted his cud into its receptacle and said, "Wall, as you all
know, in bar hunts I've been numerous, but I hain't never seen no such
bars as grow in Arkansas. The bars in Arkansas is the most promiscuous
I've ever seen and don't give a damn for nobody. But, Squire, lets
licker up. I'm gettin' so dry I'm takin' the rattles," and he reached
for the bottle which was passed around.
"Bars in Arkansas grows so fat they can't wobble. You fellers here that
think you're gettin' the real thing when you bag the chipper-growlers
and shite pokers of these parts don't know nothin' about what's growing
in Arkansas. Them bars rear up into the heavens high as that feller
that plugged the ark."
"That smells rather tall," Buck Thompson observed, but Ole Bar paid no
attention.
"The woods in Arkansas is ankle deep with acorns and berries and other
bar food. Everybody there eats bar, bar-ham and bar-sassage. The beds
is covered with bar-skins. They don't use small skins like wild cat fer
nothin' 'cept piller covers."
"Do they have hoss tradin' in them parts?" Buck Thompson inquired.
"Hoss tradin'? Well, I should say 'Yeh.' You galoots think you swap
hosses, but in Arkansas----"
"Hallo, fellers," shouted someone in the outer circle of light.
"It's Windy Batts," several declared at once, and immediately the man
whose qualifications to become a member of the charmed group had been
put to the test, entered the circle of light.
He was scrutinized and with not an altogether approving eye. His arm
was done up in a sling. The forefinger of his right hand was wrapped
in a red, calico handkerchief. Something like a knob stuck out back
of one ear which was covered with a square of muslin, giving it the
appearance of a pat of butter. One eye was black and both legs seemed
to be stiff. Greetings were brief. The main question was. "Who whipped?"
"Yeh--who hollered?" was asked.
Windy drew near the fire. "It was a great fight," he began. "The
greatest fight that was ever fought in Springfield. We rolled over and
over, him sometimes on top and me sometimes under. It was a fearful
fight. Court turned out to see it and an Indian Chief was there. He
said he never seen nothing like it."
"Who whipped?" was again asked.
"Yeh--who hollered?"
Ignoring these questions, Windy continued.
"The big Indian and the Judge of the Court both said they hadn't never
seen such sledge-hammer blows as I hit. It was them blows that put my
shoulder out of joint. But I fixed his eye. You couldn't have told it
from a knot-hole in a burnt tree. Time he aimed a second socdologer at
me I was ready. The crowd roared like a camp-meeting. We fell to it. He
got a straddle of my head and chawed my finger. There wasn't no place
for me to git holt owing to the fact my head was pinned in twix his
legs. Jean britches didn't taste well and was ungodly tough. But I was
resolute. I found the right place and I chawed like hell. But would he
let go of my finger? No, and I finally had to knock half his teeth out
to git my finger out his mouth."
"You tanned him--hey?"
"You mauled him, Windy?"
"You beat the Springfield stuffing out of him?"
"And nobody parted you?"
Ignoring these questions, Windy took a fresh start. "And there's
no telling how long it might have lasted, us two going 'round and
'round and up and down and every which way. I was eternally mauling
the ding-blasted daylights out of him when the Judge got hold of me
and asked as a favor if I wouldn't put off the finish till next day.
He said he couldn't get nobody into court if I didn't and so I--I
hollered."
There was a moment of profound silence. Windy shifted his weight from
one stiff leg to the other, stroked his bandaged arm and sighed.
"Spit in his ashes!"
It was the voice of Jack Armstrong that broke the painful stillness.
Immediately every man emptied the contents of his mouth, with no small
force, into the fire, which voiced its protest by a vigorous spitting
and sputtering.
Then Windy was given some advice.
"This ain't no place fer you. You go join them Hard Shells that's
fixin' fer a ten days' fightin' match with the devil. They have the
same runnin' off at the mouth as you have, but they hain't never drawed
no devil's blood yet, and that's your crowd."
Windy's lips moved as if to speak.
"Roll in your molasses sucker and trampoose," was the order.
"Yeh--trampoose," was the repeated order. "Go fight the devil."
"The devil--that's the Clary Grove gang," he muttered as he turned away.
"Devil-fighter," some one said as his limping figure disappeared in the
darkness.
"If the devil pays any more heed to him than he would to a skit-fly
he's a blame bigger ass than I've ever took him to be," Ole Bar
observed. "Let's licker up."