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- \u2026H’it was 1927ish, back jes’ afore’n we got electrified\u2026
Lessee now, Dale, he got involved way over next t’ th’ ol’ tumble-down farmstead atter th’ welcome-home party fer Preacher Casey. An’ that’s jes’ th’ way ’twas – jes’ as sure as brook t’ run t’ river, h’it’s jes’ how it goes. Ye’d go way up at Deep Gap an’ see Br’er Bob ever’ night, a-lookin’ all misty-eyed. He was powerf’l gen’rous. Those’r th’ days – oh Lordy, whut’s done is done. Sure as death an’ taxes, Enos, he bottled it up ’til th’ day he died. He was sure a no-good ninc’mpoop. Cain’t change it now … still got th’ deadly pizen ’roun’ here sum’ers. Ever’body knowed that was th’ time Redd set to it “fist an’ skull” on that slimy Casey way out right by Route 28. Judge Purvis come up an’ put a end t’ it, lick’ty-split. Don’t I know it.
It done stirred ever’body up. We strung his sorry ass up, over not far from th’ fish house. All’s well whut ends well … cain’t git ahead fer tryin’. Ever’body knowed Orville Hicks, he done got aholt o’ a letter from his sweetheart along down next t’ Junction City. But that’s jes’ how ’twas – I kid yuh not, but that’s jes’ how ’twas.
As I recall, Judge Purvis, he got involved along up at Hobo Bill’s place atter th’ tent revival. An’ that’s jes’ th’ way ’twas … end o’ story. Why, that was when Buck come down with th’ squinzey. He chugged down a deadly pizen but it din’t do no good, no how. He had him a right gentle soul. Too little, too late, I reckon.
I’m a-tellin’ yuh, some disliked th’ notion, but we had t’ git ’er done. We never lookt at ’im th’ same atter. Best laugh t’ keep from cryin’ … let bygones be bygones, I allus say. Sure’s ye’re born, Floyd, he got hisse’f kilt in th’ tiller incident. Caused quite a ruckus at th’ time – 1918ish, in th’ ol’ days, a right smart spell ago. Back’n them days, that was th’ time Billy Ray had him a dis’greement with that boozin’ Silas yonder next t’ Junction City. Th’ best was when Br’er Bob come up an’ got jobbed in th’ right temple askidently. Don’t that tear yuh fer a duster? … h’it’s jes’ how it goes. An’body c’da tol’ yuh Br’er Bob, he carried a great burden his whole life. He was obsest all them years with this buried jar o’ gold. If’n I ain’t mixed up, Tom Firby, he had him this deadly pizen whut, frankly, made ever’body worried. He was sure a swindlin’ piece o’ work. He c’d chop more wood’n yuh c’d shake a stick at though. We run ’im outta town. Got all o’ his’n kinfolk remorseful ’cuz he’d ent up a-kill’n’ hisse’f over it. Still get ashamed thinkin’ ’bout it – jes’ as sure as eggs is eggs, ’spect I’d’a done th’ same, frankly.
I seed whut Jasper did, sunuvagun. Best laugh t’ keep from cryin’ – oh Lordy, h’ain’t much else t’ say ’bout that. I think Wesley tried t’ win th’ “Man o’ Th’ Year” contest. I ’member th’ tent revival along up by Route 28. He come up an’ he drunk ’til he fell over. Ever’body had a big laugh over that. He sure as hell din’t win.
That thing whut happened yonder not far from Route 28 – that was bad. Damn Dale an’ th’ Gatlin’-gun. He jes’ wouldn’t let up ’til it blowed up in his face. That Harry, he was one mangy goober. He got a li’l too crazy with that thing he brought back from th’ war. Don’t I know it. H’it’s sartain Boss Tyler, he tried t’ “make it right” … as if he could. He was obsest his whole life with this club a-wrapt in bobwar (like th’ one Walt allus had). That Cecil, he was one sigogglin’ jerk. He was sure a dimwitted jerk, an’ smoked like a chimbley. Don’t that tear yuh fer a duster? … an’ right afore Thanksgivin’, too.
An’body’d tell yuh that was when that consarned Hank McCaffrey holed up at th’ crossroads. He had him this bottle o’ snake-oil he couldn’t let go of. Had a bowie knife on ’im, too. Later, we run ’im outta town. Those’r th’ days. Ever’body knowed that was when that swindlin’ Muley holed up at Junction City. He smoked like a chimbley, an’ drunk like a fish. Had a blunderbuss on ’im, too. Later, we give ’im th’ whut-fer. Th’ last time we seent ’im, we give ’im th’ whut-fer – well sir, not much choice, rilly. Sure’s th’ coat’s on yer back, Enos, he kep’ pushin’. Th’ bastard wouldn’t quit. He was obsest his whole life with this piece o’ jewelry.