River Of Earth by James Still

Author:James Still
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The University Press of Kentucky
Published: 1978-03-14T16:00:00+00:00

“I BORE eight chaps, and not one died of a bullet,” JL Grandma said. She sat on a three-legged stool beside the hair trunk, speaking of Grandpa Middleton and times past, speaking and looking the while for a piece of cloth to make a coat. My pea jacket had greened with wear, the elbows shredded beyond patching, worn to a sorry cloth broomstraws could be pitched through.

“Eight me and Boone brought into this world, and every one a wanted child. Four died young, and natural. Three boys and one girl we raised. My boys were a mite stubheaded, as growing ones air. But nary a son I had pleasured himself with shooting off guns, a-rim-recking at Hardin Town and in the camps, a-playing at cards and mixing in knife scrapes, traipsing thar and yon, weaving drunk. Nor they never drew blood for doing’s sake, as I’ve got knowing of. Feisty though, and ready to fight fair fist if the other feller wanted it that a way. I allus said, times come when a feller’s got to fight. Come that time let him strike hard where it’ll do the most good, a-measuring stick with stone, best battler win. The devil can’t be fit lessen you use fire.”

Grandma stirred old garments with her hands. A mellow smell came out of the trunk. It swept the room. She lifted a white cotton shirt, crackling with starch. The collar was stiff as a harness.

“Boone’s. I saved it a-purpose for recollection. It punishes me to look, though there’s comfort in the keeping, a punishing comfort.”

Two bags of quilt pieces were lifted next; and then a pair of socks, gray and woolly, and old.

“Boone wore them on his dying day, on the day Aus Coggins tuck his life for no reason on God’s square earth.”

“Shot Grandpa plumb through?” I asked, hungry to hear more.

“Shot so his life’s blood flowed a river. Yonder, up Lean Neck where the road comes off the hill and crosses the creek, years ago. The spot is marked, I hear. Marked peculiar. A locust post was driv on the spot, and I hear it tuck root. I’ve never been thar to see. Never.”

“Fired his rifle-gun for no reason a-tall?”

“Boone sold Aus Coggins a nag and it died with bloats the night after. Et cribfeed till her belly smothered her heart. Aus went crazy mad, saying the nag was sick a’ready when bought, saying she’d been doctored to die. He was allus one to scatter blame. Aus bushwhacked the road, waylaying Boone as he came home from Whitesburg. Boone had been yon side Rockhouse Creek to sell my weave work. They had hard words, I reckon, and Aus up and shot. Up and shot out of his hurt pride, and for no reason earthy.”

“Died sudden, or strung out?”

“His coming to death I never inquired. I never asked, child.”

I remembered Oates Brannon’s accusing. His words grew loud in my ears. “Aus Coggins killed yore grand-pap . . . living free as wind . . .

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