Evening Star Newspaper, June 2, 1929, Page 105

Suddenly he finds Tab Daniels at his side again. The tall woodcutter from Pennyroyal leans against the other side of the elm tree and looks indifferently toward Five Corners, looks away from the picnic grove. “Know that hoss-rider, Floyd?” “Trying fo place him,” says the sheriff, “Seems like I ought to know him.” . “Brant Valentine,” whispers Tab Daniels. “Huh! Brant Valentine. So that’s Brant. Don't believe I ever saw him before. Before my time, must be. Been away a long time, hasn’t he?” “Brant air a killer.” “Murder on his head?"” “Three-four, I reckon. Brant he kilt ol’ man Pelton an’ his boy. Kilt pro’bition man, too. While Federal man war a-goin’ down moun- tain Brant he kilt him. Never ketched Brant kase he went West. Heerd he held up steam train in Arizony. Arizony sheriffs ketched the Flame. ANHAM. We are the makers of citics, Byzantium, Babylon, Tyre! The wind and the rain and the tempest Shake not our pillar of fire. We are the keepers of battles, Austerlitz, Marathon, Tours! O Toilers in light and in darkness All that we build is yours. o the broken ., ., beaten with rods .. . o o the merciless .. gods. 18- ¥ Stories —-B b ARG ‘A few seconds tick off while the country officer and the bad man eye each other. Jett sees Brandt's eyes rise, close, then open again. Double wink. Signal. Brant. Sent Brant up. Been 15-16 year sn'neo Brant war hyar. Afore yore time, Floyd.” “Heard a song about Brant and the steam train the other day,” said Jett. ‘“Heard it sev= eral times. Other day when we went up to Porky to raid still everybody we met was sing- ing that song. All the Valentines were singing it. The song should have tipped me off to something. Funny I didn’t think of something then.” “Meanin’ what, Floyd?” ¥ “Well, if I'd have thought, I'd expected Brant, No difference though. I expected somebody. Funny I never thought of Brant!” Jett looks abstractedly across the road. Tab Daniels’ eyes turn toward the picnic grove. He see the Valentine boy training his stick on the sheriff and himself. The youngest of the Porky Ridge feudists is reacting to the conspiracy talk of his people gathered near his feet, carrying out their talk, making a panto- mime of killing. “Look yander, Floyd. Picnic grove!” When Jett turns his head to look he sees the boy suddenly tripped by one of his uncles, sent sprawling, and smacked in the face by another of his kin as he rises. The boy betray- ing their plot receives cuffs all around. HE sheriff sees that some of the folks In the grove, under the porticos and in the courthouse yard have seen the signs, have read them. Some of the men and women be- gin to fidget. Some rise, stretch and walk leisurely up toward Five Corners, rit down on the edge of a field, Jett looks at his watch. It's 3 o'clock. Four hours yet until the voting closes. Probably not half the votes in. Hillmen come to town on election day not only to vote, but to shop, see things, talk. They're never in a hurry to vote, Some wait for a chance to slip into the voting place in the courthouse after the field is cleared of enemies. Some want to argue politics first. Some wait for other members of their families, wait for cousins and uncles, wait for third and fourth cousins, prefer going in to vote with their full strength. “Air a-goin’ tuh be trouble, Floyd,” says Tab Daniels. “Brant's the cat’s paw,” says Jett, “Maybe he’s been hidden in the hills for months. Brought out today to help force his brother Mark into office.” “Thar’'s Mark now,” says Tab Daniels. “Jes’ come out harness shop.” Jett looks down Main street again and sees his opponent for election stop on the board- walk and talk to a group of horse traders who gather around a team of sleek, fat mules. He sees that he's talking about mules feeling mules over. The sheriff’s eyes nnce more Sly 1 to the grove. The Valentines are not whisper- ? ing any more. All look up Main street. When Jett’s eyes look up and down the street he sees ! that everybody under the porticos has eyes on him. Everybody knows he’s got to act. The long spell of whispering in the grove has be- come a defiance. o Suddenly from across the street, from under the shadowed bank portico, singing comes. A Valentine boy, fourth in line from Mark Valen- tine, the moonshiner, and his Kkiller brother Brant, lets out his voice: “ ‘What air yuh a-waitin’ fer, Brant Val- entine?’ ‘I air a-waitin’ fer steam tiain a-tearin’ tha night.’ ‘O what yuh a-goin’ ter do, Brant Valen- tine?’ ‘Air a-goin’ through train like hell in sight.’ “‘Hain't tha law a-goin’ git yuh, Brant Valentine?’ ‘Hain't afeared o’ varmints er men, lit- tle er big.’ ‘What steam train a-goin’ tuh give yuh, Brant Valentine?’ ‘Give me bags o’ gold fer my Arizony gal's rig.”” Sheriff Jett bites off the end of his stogie. “Riding high,” he says to himself. ‘“Heroics. Hero worship. Wanted for murder. Yellow hide at liberty. Yellow as hell. Know he's yellow. All bad men, all killers are yellow. Got to arrest him, of course. Right away. He's got to be jugged and tried, but he ought to be wiped out. More of this business than putting him behind bars. Problem’s to get him there and keep him there without adding any glory to his mecan hide. Huh. A ballad sung to a skunk!” Jett’s mind dwells for a minute on the old habit of song making in his hills, in his, the “singingdest” county, where the flight of Lind- bergh is kept alive with song. Where the hor- rors of the Titanic are preserved in ballads made when the first news trickled into the hills. Where dark as well as uplifilng deeds find records in song. Genius for ballads unweak- ened by time. King Alfred to the present, minstrelsy kept alive. History recorded in song! A man doesn’'t have to read to know the drama local and world-wide, from Chaucer’s time on down. A page from Chaucer in every stark hill! Full understanding is in Jett’s mind. Full appreciation of his ticklish job., When he goes after Brant his kin will rise to a man. And Jett’s kin will rise to a man. Then only the militia can settle things. Settle Jett, too. State troops always give a black eye to a peace officer in the hills. Show weakness. IF he, Jett, calls for the militia to ride into town and take charge, station itself on the street, in the grove, in the courthouse; if he, Jett, surrenders to the militia and lets the troopers, “fotched-in-men,” preserve order at the voting place and tell hillmen what to do and what not to do, the neutrals are going to resent it. “Scmebody’s geing to be killed,” says Jett to himself. “Sure as the Romans were way back that a victim would spill his blood in the arena, somebody’s going to be killed in this town.” A horse tied to the rack in front of the har- ness thop squeals and plunges. Breaks his hitch strap. Gallops down the mud road squealing. Men laugh and watch him, Some leave the porticos and stand by the heads of their mules or horses. Two hillwomen mount their mules and sit. Down by the restaurant two young hillmen approach a bony horse, a sway-back old plug. They pour something on his rump that seems to lift him up in the air. Old plug horse rears, jerks backward, kicks and breaks the paling off the hitch rack. His stiff legs stumble when he tries to gallop. The pal- ing lashes the ground, whips the mud as his head swings it on the end of the hitch rein. “High life,” that liquid fire that sears and mad- dens, that hell-burning that gives a few min- utes of renewed youth to the oldest of beasts, is starting horses and mules up and down the line. Men dash from under porticos after their beasts. A hillman grabs one of the “high life” throwers and tosses him into the mud, then starts after his disappearing mule. The county officer walks down the board walk to the restaurant. He grabs two young hillmen by the shoulders who are leaning against the hitching rack, Searches them. Finds two bottles and dumps the contents on the road. Then he marches them to the court- house. They are sullen and purse their lips as he puts them into a cage at the end of the courthouse hall. Voters and loungers in the hallway lean against the walls in the hallway and whisper. Voting stops in the county clerk’s office. Election officials and voters appear in the doorway of the office and peer down the dark hallway. The squeal of a horse and the pounding of hoofs come from outside. Jett on the run reaches the front door in time to see his white horse tear across the courthouse yard and down the road toward Five Corners, swinging a broken halter strap. Somebody's been in the stable and touched his horse with “fire.” Some- body’'s turned a pure-bred blue grass horse into a maddened beast that will run until it drops. Jett’s lips close tight and his face grows livid as his eyes survey the folks in the courthouse yard. Everybody's sitting still. Everybody's gulet. Men continue to whittle, Women nurse their young or knit “kivers” with their backs against the tree trunks. All eyes are on Jett. A young hillman walks leisurely across the yard, whistling and whittling. He looks back over his shoulder two or three times. Jett has a hunch. It's weak at first, but as he watches the faces of folks it grows stronger, Every- body’s looking from the young hillman to Jett now. Looking back and forth. Two women whisper and look first at the young hillman, then at Jett. Jett sees the signs and reads. He cuts across the yard after the whistling hill- Fiswoode Tarleton’ man, who increases his pace. Keeps ahead of Jett, not by swinging his legs faster, but by .: taking up more ground with each step. When théy reach the business stores both men are almost running. The hillman suddenly slips in between a team of mules, disappears for an *- | instant; then the sheriff sees him running for . * the grove. Jett sees the Valentines rise in the grove. Sees Brant whispering to them all. Brant’s. arms are folded. His right hand is inside his coat. “Gun in his shoulder holster,” says Jett to himself. The sheriff keeps on going toward the grove, his thumbs hooked in his belt. d . ’[‘HE tension’s tight under the porticos. Everys ¥ body but the Valentines leave the gro Mountain men and women and their young leave their victuals to burn over the wood fires’ and move back to the deep timber. The crowd under the porticos thins out fast. Folks hustle into_business stores. Some go into the bank and look out the long window with the cashier. Some climb the stairway to the Argus printing office. Hillmen untie their mules and lead them- up to Five Corners. Windows up and down the street frame faces, and doorways are filled with mountain and town men who stick out only heads. And Jett keeps going, keeps straight for the grove, his thumbs hooked in his belt. He’s only 15 seconds in crossing the road, but a lot of things are observed by him during this time. The forbidding grove, 12 dark-expressioned men eyeing him. The lips of Brant Valentine, Bad Brant, move in whisper. Ned Shakespeare, first cousin to Brant, first cousin to Mark Valentine who's running against Jett for elec- tion, Ned who's been in prison twice for moon- shining, is whispering and nodding to Brant. The sheriff sees the faces way back on the hill- side beyond the grove looking over the tops of the tight laurel. The sorrel horse of Brant ¥ Valentine champs his bit, the sheriff’s boots ** rmhake a sucking sound as he lifts them from the mud. Nothing else is audible as Jeit crosses the road. 2 “Somebody’s going to be killed in this town,” says the sheriff to himself as he reaches the grove. “Going to be bodies laid down her It's in the air, in souls.” % When he reaches Brant Valentine he grabs ! his right arm quickly. It comes forth empty. A few seconds tick off while the county officer and the bad man eye each other. He sees Brant's eyes rise, close, then open again. Double wink. Signal. Jett reaches inside Brant's eoat with his right hand, reaches for the gun care ried Western fashion. A yell comes, loud yell from somewhere ume der the porticos, warning yell, yell from a friend. peculiar note in it that makes Jett turn his head. A curtain seems to drop in front of Jett's eyes, black curtain but hot black curtain that burns, that sags into his eyes and sears, makes him throw his hands to his eyes to push the curtain away. He hears a report, and his left leg loses its feeling. Only one leg to support him—and the strange curtain that’s hot and doesn’t glow, that shuts out everything. He can't stand on one leg, got to go down. He feels the ground, but he seems to keep going down. Way down into a pit, going slow but going down. He hears gunfire, shouts, yells, An uproar above him where ft's light. Where the world is, above the sod, there is war, Pretty soon others will lay their bodies dowm. Pretty soon he’ll have company going down. “Nothing to see. Nothing! Maybe something to feel,” thinks Jett. His hands feel around slowly. Glide over something soft—covers. His fingers step up his chest, to his face, to the place where his eyes should be. Still a curtain, This time a curtain he can feel. “Don’t, Floyd! Lie still. Can’t take it o#l yet.” Woman's voice says it—his woman., “Be all right by an’ by.” “What happened?” he asks feebly. “Who-all was killed in this town?” “Musn’t talk, must lie still, Floyd.” The slow stepping of a mule comes from the street. “Must be night,” says the sheriff. “Yes, it's night,” says the voice of his woman, “See if you can't sleep.” A voice suddenly rises in song; hillman going home. Hillman singing and mule stepping through the mud. “High Sheriff Jett braved 12 bad men, Jett afeared o’ nothin’ we-uns could see, Stood alone like Daniel in ol’ lions’ den, Faced Killer Brant purty as yuh please. “‘High life’ flung in Sheriff’s eyes, Sheriff as blind as bats kin be. Oh, what did Brant do when Sheriff can't see? T air a-tellin’ yuh all, lissen tuh me, “Brant war yaller, big yaller streak Made him shoot Sheriff blind as a bat. Oh, what did men do a-hidin’ in street When they seed High Sheriff shot by a rat? “Guns an’ knives come out o’ wagons an’ sleds Sod began a-runnin’ with blood an’ gore. Men fotched Sheriff tuh home an’ bed, An’ men fotched rope from gen’'al store. “Mob kilt Brant's kin ‘at didn't flee. Ketched Bad Brant, hung him to a Jimb; Pulled him up quick on a big elm tree, Then went tuh co'tehouse an’ voted Jett in, “Bad Brant's body air a-swingin’ from tree, Body up high an’ soul gone down. Hit’s a blacky night, but Lord kin see; Lord fotched kiver fer bloody groun’.” (Copyright, 1929.)