“Everett! Oh, Everett!” my grandmother implored. “There’ll be violence. You’ve been spoiling for a fight with that man for years. Can’t you leave it to the sheriff’s office? That’s his duty. Not yours!”
“Mama, Crawford is a deputy. He’s been deputized since I don’t know when. And that’s your brother up there! His land and our land, too! I’ll be damned if we need to give it to him. No sir. Come on, Marion. We’ll take Mama’s horses. How’s Olan traveling?”
“By car. He’ll never make it up the lane, will he?”
“Not this time of year.”
Everett leaned down and kissed Grandmother on the cheek. “Don’t worry, Mama. Marion and I know what to do. Do you have a pistol?” he asked the banker.
“I’d rather not answer. We just need to talk to him.”
“Not without a pistol,” Uncle Everett replied. “I’ve got one in the truck. Let’s head on.”
We followed them to the front door and watched them walk toward the barn. While my mother and grandmother returned to the living room, I waited in the hallway. I was afraid and excited, both at the same time. Just then I happened to glance up at the old Captain. He seemed to be staring at me with disapprobation and profound disgust. At that, I slipped on my coat and cap, scooted out the door and down the front steps, and hurried toward the barn. Any fear had dissipated, totally.
Uncle Everett and Mr. Chappels had already saddled the horses and were about to mount.
“Please, Uncle Everett. Let me go!”
The men swung into the saddles and goaded the horses forward.
“Close the barn door, Tommy,” Uncle Everett directed. “Run on back in the house. Your mama will skin you alive, if she catches you out here. Now run on.”
The horses trotted past the door and down the road. They were headed toward the lane that led back to the Knobs. I closed the big door and began running behind them. I climbed the gate that fenced off a stubble-littered cornfield and raced across it. They could see me running and trying to catch up with them. At the end of the field, another gate would open almost where they would turn. Suddenly, Uncle Everett stopped his horse and waited for me.
“Hell, boy! Get on!” he grinned, as I climbed that last gate and hopped down. He rode toward me, put his arm out for me to grab, and swung me up behind his saddle. “Hang on!” Then, off we galloped.
A light drizzle fell about us, but my uncle and Mr. Chappels paid it no attention and spurred their horses on at a quick trot. Soon we were climbing the muddy road toward my great-uncle’s farm. We had scarcely begun the ascent when we passed Crawford’s Packard. It had slid into a ditch. Thick brush and undergrowth were all that had prevented it from toppling down the slope. The men paused their horses; then pressed on. We could see Crawford’s footprints in the clay.
“Damn, but he’s determined,” grunted Mr. Chappels. “He’ll reach there before we do.”
Uncle Everett remained silent, as he leaned forward in the saddle. “It won’t matter, ’cause he’ll not get out of here without facing us. Hold tight, boy!” he glanced back at me, “It’s going to be slippery climbing for a while. OK?”
“Yes, sir!”
It took well over an hour to reach the hilltop that looked down across the Holston’s Middle Fork and Uncle Jim and Aunt Viola’s place. We could see the couple sitting on their porch, bundled in coats and shawls. They were in their rockers and stood up as we approached. Uncle Jim clutched a sheath of papers in his hands. His fingers shook badly. His eyes—almost obscured by his long white hair and day-old beard—glowed pale blue. Aunt Viola was crying.
“This ain’t right,” the old man whimpered. His hands were trembling and his lips quivered as he spoke. “Just one more tobacco crop. That’s all I needed, Everett,” he coughed, unable to suppress his disparagement, as he held the papers aloft.
“Nothin’s gonna happen to you!” assured Uncle Everett. “Where’s Crawford? Where’s the son-of-a-bitch hiding?”
Mr. Chappels inhaled a deep breath and drew his horse closer to ours. “Don’t’ be hasty, Everett. We’re not authorized to cause trouble.”
“Where is he?” my uncle repeated, as he fidgeted in the saddle, turning the horse this way and that.
Uncle Jim nodded toward the cabin. “Inside,” he motioned with his head.
“Marion, watch the boy,” Uncle Everett stated in a low but calm voice. He swung quietly out of the saddle and walked toward the steps.
Just then a large man in a dark suit, with red clay splattered on his trouser bottoms, appeared at the door. He pointed a rifle barrel at my uncle’s chest. “One step, Everett Edmonds, and you’ll regret it the rest of your life.” His voice was thin and quavering. The barrel waved unsteadily in his hands. “I’m warning you. This is legal and proper. Just back off and get on out of here. You aren’t the big important man you think you are.”
“Olan! Cut the rot!” Mr. Chappels interrupted. “Deputized or not, there’s nothing binding about that foreclosure. You’re nothing but a greedy ass. I denounce you. Once we’re back in town, I’ll have you arrested.”
“Well, well, Mr. High and Mighty, aren’t you one to talk! And just how did you accumulate your wealth?” Crawford sneered.
“Not your way. That’s for sure.”
Uncle Everett lunged for the gun barrel and yanked the rifle forcefully out of Crawford’s hands. He pulled Crawford out of the cabin and hit him hard with his right fist. Blood oozed from the man’s nose, as he reeled backward against the cabin.
Suddenly Crawford sprang for my uncle and, butting him with his head, knocked the wind out of his chest. He retrieved his rifle and aimed it, this time, in Uncle Everett’s face.
All the while, Mr. Chappels had been reaching quietly across Uncle Everett’s horse. He glanced secretly at me and secured its reins. Then, as stealthily as possible, he produced a small pistol from his coat pocket, and, without flinching an eyelash, shot the big man, squarely in the chest. Crawford sank to the floor, looked up in shock, collapsed, rolled to one side and stared off into space. A rattling sound escaped from his throat. Blood poured out of his mouth. He groaned and stretched out his legs; then grew silent. He was dead.
My lips parted in surprise. How wide my eyes were, I can only imagine. I began trembling. Suddenly I stopped and broke out in a nervous laughter.
“Quiet, Tommy,” Uncle Everett said. He rose to his feet and wiped the mud off his pants. He slipped the papers out of Uncle Jim’s hand, hugged the old man, and tore up the eviction. He kissed Aunt Viola on her neck and hugged her, too.
“Uncle Jim, find me a rope,” said Uncle Everett.
The old man shuffled around the side of his house to his barn. He soon returned with a heavy length of hemp twine and ten feet or so of rope. Uncle Everett tied the twine about Crawford’s body and secured him to a tobacco pallet, which we dragged behind Mr. Chappels’ horse, all the way down the road and back to the barn.
Upon our arrival at the house, my mother vented her frustration on all three of us. You could see the exasperation on her face. “You simpleton!” she wagged her head in disbelief at Uncle Everett. “You could have gotten the boy killed! As well as yourself and Marion!”
He turned away with rebuffed sadness, but not before rubbing my head with his hand.
“Your son’s a fine lad, a man,” he said to my mother. “My God, woman! Time will bear me out.”
She began to cry. He glanced toward Mr. Chappels, shrugged his shoulders; then he bent forward and kissed her.
Neither man was ever charged