Free The Run for the Elbertas by James Still Page A

pappy’s sending his young ’uns down to the forks school,” Cain guessed. “Going down to stay awhile and git a mess o’ fool notions.”
    â€œPoppy never sent us,” I said. “We made our own minds.”
    Cain lifted his hat and scratched his head. “I never put much store by all them fotched-on teachings, a-larning quare onnatural things, not a grain o’ good on the Lord’s creation.”
    â€œHain’t nothing wrong with laming to cipher and read writing,” I said. “None I ever heard tell of.”
    â€œI’ve heared they teach the earth is round,” Cain said, “and that goes ag’in’ Scripture. The Book says plime-blank hit’s got four corners. Whoever seed a ball have a corner?”
    Cain patted his nag and scowled. His voice rose. “They’s a powerful mess o’ fancy foolishness they teach a chap these days, a-pouring in till they got no more jedgment than a granny hatchet, a-grinding their brains away with book reading. I allus said, a little larning’s a good thing, sharpening the mind like a sawblade, but too much knocks the edge off o’ the p’ints, and darks a feller’s reckoning.”
    Lark’s mouth opened. He shook his head, agreeing.
    â€œHain’t everybody knows what to swallow, and what to spit out,” Cain warned. “Now, if I was you, young and tenderminded, I’d play hardhead down at the forks, and let nothing but truth git through my skull. Hit takes a heap o’ knocking to git a thing proper anyhow, and the harder hit’s beat in, the longer hit’s liable to stay. I figure the Lord put our brains in a bone box to sort o’ keep the devilment strained out.”
    Cain clucked his nag. She started off, lifting her long chin as the bits tightened in her mouth. Cain called back to us, but his words were lost under the rattle of hoofs.
    â€œI bet what that feller says is the plime-blank gospel,” Lark said, looking after the disappearing nag. “I’m scared I can’t tell what is truth and what hain’t. If’n I was growed up to twelve like you, I’d know. I’m afeared I’ll swallow a lie-tale.”
    â€œCain Griggs don’t know square to the end o’ everything,” I said.
    We went on. The sun-ball reddened, mellowing the sky. Lark trudged beside me, holding to a strap of the saddle-bag, barely lifting his feet above the ruts. His teeth were set against his lower lip, his eyes downcast.
    â€œI knowed you’d get dolesome,” I said.
    Martins flew the valley after the sun was gone, fluttering sharp wings, slicing the air. A whip-poor-will called. Shadows thickened in the laurel patches.
    We came upon the forks in early evening and looked down upon the school from the ridge. Lights were bright in the windows, though shapes of houses were lost against the hills. We rested, listening. No sound came out of all the strange place where the lights were, unblinking and cold.
    I stood up, lifting the saddle-bag once more. Lark arose too, hesitating, dreading the last steps.
    â€œI ought ne’er thought to be a scholar,” Lark said. His voice was small and tight, and the words trembled on his tongue. He caught hold of my hand, and I felt the blunt edge of his palm where the fingers were gone. We started down the ridge, picking our way through stony dark.

On Quicksand Creek
    A ARON Splicer drove a bunch of yearlings into our yard on a March evening. Heifers bawled and young bullies made raw cries. We hurried out into the cold dark of the porch. Aaron rode up to the doorsteps, and Father called to him, not knowing at first who he was. “Hello?” Father spoke, and when he knew it was Aaron, called heartily, “’Light and shake the weather.”
    Aaron opened his fleeced collar, rustling new leather. His breath curled a fog. “If this Shoal Creek mud gets any deeper,” he called,