Wednesday, March 10, 1937
The 6X scope let him pick up sweat droplets on the man's neck. A kerosene lantern hung on a nearby Elm branch along with the fire under the 100 gallon still lit the scene. It was cool that March night, so the sweat came from the closest thing to working the man had ever done.
He was oblivious to the boy some 75 yards away and continued to load the boxed Mason jars into the pickup. The jars appeared empty, but were filled completely with the product.
The wind died for a moment and the boy wished he chambered his first shell back in the woods. But the wind came back up and he got the 30.06 ready then dismounted from the bay, the saddle creaking far louder than he'd ever heard. He wrapped a rein around a stray branch, tighter than he normally would, not wanting the mare to bolt with the report.
She had spooked earlier in the afternoon with the other man. In fact, she had nearly jerked free of her bridle ....especially when he fired a second time….and a third. He calmed her, though, stroking her neck as he watched the car from a more respectable 200 yards.
It was black and shiny new, the kind the boy wished to have some day. And it had been moving slow, maybe 30 mph. When it began entering a long curve below him, the boy began sighting him in.
The first shot was low by maybe six inches, but still hit the target. The second was nearly perfect and the third, unnecessary now, found its mark as well.
When the car came to a stop, he sighted through the scope trying to see the man. From the car's angle, though, he could only see a right hand. It was hanging between the front seat and the dashboard. There was no movement.....only blood dripping from the fingertips.
He remounted the bay and turned her south along the Ridge. The pair's still was seven miles away and it would be after dark by the time he got there. He had seen it often while hunting on the Ridge. Those times he had thought nothing of it or who ran it. People had to make a living. But things had changed in the last few days.
Finished with his chores, the boy slung the Springfield back over his shoulder, mounted the bay and rode back into the woods.
The wind was kicking up more now. The boy let the mare find her own footing in the moonless blackness. He was glad no one was around to see the tears in his eyes.
Five days earlier
Friday, March 5
It was as straight and true a throw as he he'd ever made. When it hit the back of Maude's head it exploded with a satisfying thud. Marshall Bentwood smiled, thinking he'd finally gotten his point across. The only reaction from the mule, though, was to flick and swivel its ears a couple of times. As old as Maude was, it probably just slowed her down.
"Giddup, mule!" Marshall hollered. As he said this, he slapped the right plow line on Maude's sweaty rump. The resounding "crack" and accompanying sharp pain caused the animal to "giddup." But only slightly and only for a few seconds. Maude had plowed too many rows to let dirt clods or slapping leather reins disturb her.
Marshall knew the increased performance was only temporary. But he'd settle for anything different to break up his day.
He adjusted the knotted reins then continued his stumbling, staggering trek across the half-mile long stretch of delta gumbo. He glanced at the sun and frowned seeing there were still a good two hours of daylight left.
Marshall mumbled something his mother would have slapped his wrist for, then reared back and shot a tobacco filled stream of spittle onto Maud's horsefly-fighting tail. It had no more effect than the dirt clod. At least it made him feel better.
"S'matter, Marsh? Maude givin' ya a hard time?"
Marshall's 20-year-old brother Thomas was three rows over walking beside his horse-drawn harrow. The younger Bentwood wanted to respond to his brother's taunt, but knew his father was close by and didn't tolerate such "foolery". So, he just locked his eyes on the other end of the row and kept plowing. And Marshall hated plowing!
He hated having to hang onto the two handles of a middle buster as a 1500-pound mule drug him through dust and mire and manure across a seemingly endless field. At seventeen and five foot ten, he was old enough, big enough and strong enough to handle the job. Plus, since he began working the fields when he was nine, he had the experience.
But, regardless of the ability or the aptitude he possessed, Marshall hated plowing... and disking and seeding and chopping and picking and everything else that had to do with farming in general and farming cotton in particular. Now, though, he didn't have a lot of options, with the depression going full blast.
It was times like these when he thought about where he should have been.....in school finishing up his eleventh-grade year. He had quit three years before. He would never admit to anyone that he wished he was still there, though. At the time it seemed like the most logical thing he could ever do.
Like many adolescents, he could think of no practical use for these subjects in the real world for Math and English and American History. He could cipher better than anyone in the family and spoke the language as well as anyone he knew. And as far as history was concerned, it had already happened, no one could change it, so what was the point of even thinking about it much less studying it?
The simple fact was that Marshall had looked upon formal education as a total waste of time. But, the intervening years had altered his opinion considerably. So now, compared to looking at the back end of a mule from first light to sundown, "schoolin'" was much more appealing than it had ever been.
"Hey, Marsh," Thomas shouted as they passed again. "If ya can't handle Maude, maybe you'd be better at cookin' and haulin' water. Why don-cha go ask Daddy if ya can help momma or sissy with that?"
Marshall decided enough was enough and grabbed up a second clod. He sent it sailing toward Thomas who ducked and laughed when it missed him by at least three feet.
"Shut ya mouth, Tom." He said as he reached down for more ammunition. As he did, his plow leaned to the side and began cutting off course.
"Marshall, git that plow goin right." Carl Bentwood, the boys' father, yelled as he came up from behind and four rows to the left bouncing on a four-blade disk. "Quit playn' and git ta work. Look't those clouds there. Gonna be rainin' 'fore long and these fields gotta git finished. Now hurry up."
Like all teenagers, Marshall thought his father was a heartless, all business taskmaster. In reality, Carl was all work during the daylight hours, but he was not beyond having fun after the sun went down. In fact, he was known to play a "pretty mean" fiddle when called upon. Especially when he was "in the sauce."
"Maybe ya shoulda stayed in school, lil' brother." Thomas threw the words over his shoulder as he pulled away.
"Don't remind me," Marshall mumbled as he dodged a pile of Maude's manure.
"And Thomas, you quit pickin' at 'im," Carl added, then turned back to his disking.
It was after dark by the time Marshall had fed, watered, and curried Maude....and he was famished. His throat ached from the smell of cornbread drifting from his mother's kitchen. He would have immediately run in and grab a slice, but his mama would have slapped him away from her table if he came to it filthy from the field.
The cold water felt good to his tight, tanned face and neck. He was bare-chested having unlatched the straps of his overalls so he could wash his muscled upper torso fully. Finished, he combed his wet hands through his thick, ebony hair and refastened the overalls.
"Marsh!"
Marshall turned around and saw George Borden walking up the road. George was his best friend.
"Marsh," George repeated when he got closer. "Goin' ta town tonight?"
George was bigger than Marshall, weighing over two-hundred pounds on a six-foot frame. Naturally, he was a farm boy, too.
"Hadn't thought about it much," Marshall answered through the threadbare towel he was drying his face with. "Just want somethin' to eat right now. Ya' had supper."
"Yea, just ate," George seemed anxious. "Well, do ya wanna go ta town or not?"
"Uh, yea, I guess so," Marshall draped the towel over the pump and trotted toward the house.
"C'mon in while I eat," He yelled back at him. "then we'll go."
By the time George walked into the kitchen, Marshall was already seated and mounding white beans onto a half-moon of cornbread. The rest of the family was also at the table at various points in their meals.
"Hungry, George?" Edna Bentwood, Marshall's mother asked the teen. "Sit down and get ya some beans."
"Thanks, Mz Bentwood. Ate a little while ago. I'll just wait on Marsh."
"Well," She smiled and went back to eating. "It's there if ya want it."
George watched as the family of two parents, five boys, three girls and one daughter in law ate the meal of beans, ham hock, cornbread, white onion and pickled "chow-chow." It was all washed down with, variously, "sweet" milk, water, or coffee.
Marshall finished quickly, drowning the last bite with a half glass of milk.
"Lemme get a shirt and coat and I'll be ready," He said to George as he wiped his bare arm across his mouth and stepped over the bench seat of the table.
In the room he shared with one of his brothers, he quickly slipped the shirt on under the overalls and grabbed his coat.
"Ya ready?" Marshall asked his friend as he came out of the bedroom and strode toward the door.
"Don't you be out too late, Son." Edna said.
"Won't, Momma," Marshall said and kissed her on the forehead as he walked by.
"And I better not hear about any fightin', again," Carl Bentwood said, eyes leveled at his son.
His father's words caused Marshall to hesitate at the door. He turned, nodded, "Yessir." Then he and George were gone.