road till you see the sign Broke-Leg Creek, turn left, second road about a mile or so you turn left again. That takes you right up the hollow where he lives."
The man smiled and it looked strange on his solemn, beard-stubbled face. He said, "Boy, you've been a big help to me." He waited a second and then said, "Hey, you want to see something?"
"What?"
"Something I got here." His big hand unsnapped the canvas cover on one side of the suitcase.
"What is it?"
"Come take a look."
It was strange, Lowell wasn't sure he wante d t o. He felt funny being alone in the room with this man.
"I got it strapped in or I'd take it out," Mr. Long said.
"Strapped in?" Lowell stepped toward the edge of the bed. He didn't know what to expect. Least of all he didn't expect to see a big heavy-looking army gun, polished wood and black metal and bullet clips, the gun broken down and each part tied and packed securely. Laying there on the bed with the overhead light shining on it. God. A real army gun they used in the war right there, he could touch it if he wanted to.
"God," Lowell said.
"You ever see anything like that?"
"Just pictures."
"You know what it is?"
"I think it's a BAR rifle."
"That's right," Mr. Long said. "Browning Automatic Rifle. U. S. Army issue." He let the canvas cover fall over the gun. "I expect not many around here have seen one."
"No sir." Lowell looked up at him now. He hesitated, then said it quickly, before he could change his mind, "What do you use a gun like that for?"
"Hunting," Mr. Long said. "For hunting."
Lowell didn't tell Mrs. Lyons about the gun.
When he went downstairs he thought abou t t elling her, but he didn't. Maybe it woul d m ake her nervous. If he was going to tell anybody, Lowell decided, it would be Mr.
Baylor. Mr. Baylor would know what to do.
About a half hour later Lowell saw Frank Long come out of the dining room. He had his hat on and was lighting a cigar as he walked out of the front entrance. He didn't have the suitcase with him.
Lowell said to Mrs. Lyons, behind the desk, "There sure a lot of people interested in Son Martin lately."
She gave him a strange look. It was the closest he'd ever come to seeing something in her eyes.
Chapter Two.
There were twenty-three men at Son Martin's place that Saturday night. They were inside the house sitting around the table. They were on the porch where a coal oil lantern hung from a post and where Mr. Baylor's deputies had placed their firearms against the wall. Some were out by the cars. But most of them stayed close to the whiskey barrel that was at the edge of the porch, the spigot sticking out, so that from the ground a man would reach up to fill his fruit jar. They were quiet at first, taking their turns with the jars, sipping the whiskey, tasting it, and thinking about the taste as it burned down to their stomachs. The serious drinkers stood and squatted and spit tobacco on the hardpack at the dim edge of the porch light as though they were waiting for a meeting to start, or waiting out front of a mine company hiring shed: men in broad hats and engineer caps and worn-out suitcoats over their Duck Head overalls.
It was a clear night and not too cold and goddamn that Son Martin could run whiskey. He let his mash set a full six or seven days and didn't put a lot of devilment in it, like buckeye beans or carbide or lye, to hurry up the fermentation. Son took his time; he cooked the beer slowly over a low fire; he used pure copper in the works and limestone spring water to condense the vapor and he kept his still clean. The clear moonshine that came out of the flake stand was run again, doubled through the works, and filtered through charcoal before it was put up to age and mellow in charcoal-blackened white oak barrels. Son aged his run two to four months, which he said was bare minimum to give it color. If you weren't willing to wait, you'd have to go somewhere else and drink clear moonshine. It was worth a wait, E . J . Royce said,
The man smiled and it looked strange on his solemn, beard-stubbled face. He said, "Boy, you've been a big help to me." He waited a second and then said, "Hey, you want to see something?"
"What?"
"Something I got here." His big hand unsnapped the canvas cover on one side of the suitcase.
"What is it?"
"Come take a look."
It was strange, Lowell wasn't sure he wante d t o. He felt funny being alone in the room with this man.
"I got it strapped in or I'd take it out," Mr. Long said.
"Strapped in?" Lowell stepped toward the edge of the bed. He didn't know what to expect. Least of all he didn't expect to see a big heavy-looking army gun, polished wood and black metal and bullet clips, the gun broken down and each part tied and packed securely. Laying there on the bed with the overhead light shining on it. God. A real army gun they used in the war right there, he could touch it if he wanted to.
"God," Lowell said.
"You ever see anything like that?"
"Just pictures."
"You know what it is?"
"I think it's a BAR rifle."
"That's right," Mr. Long said. "Browning Automatic Rifle. U. S. Army issue." He let the canvas cover fall over the gun. "I expect not many around here have seen one."
"No sir." Lowell looked up at him now. He hesitated, then said it quickly, before he could change his mind, "What do you use a gun like that for?"
"Hunting," Mr. Long said. "For hunting."
Lowell didn't tell Mrs. Lyons about the gun.
When he went downstairs he thought abou t t elling her, but he didn't. Maybe it woul d m ake her nervous. If he was going to tell anybody, Lowell decided, it would be Mr.
Baylor. Mr. Baylor would know what to do.
About a half hour later Lowell saw Frank Long come out of the dining room. He had his hat on and was lighting a cigar as he walked out of the front entrance. He didn't have the suitcase with him.
Lowell said to Mrs. Lyons, behind the desk, "There sure a lot of people interested in Son Martin lately."
She gave him a strange look. It was the closest he'd ever come to seeing something in her eyes.
Chapter Two.
There were twenty-three men at Son Martin's place that Saturday night. They were inside the house sitting around the table. They were on the porch where a coal oil lantern hung from a post and where Mr. Baylor's deputies had placed their firearms against the wall. Some were out by the cars. But most of them stayed close to the whiskey barrel that was at the edge of the porch, the spigot sticking out, so that from the ground a man would reach up to fill his fruit jar. They were quiet at first, taking their turns with the jars, sipping the whiskey, tasting it, and thinking about the taste as it burned down to their stomachs. The serious drinkers stood and squatted and spit tobacco on the hardpack at the dim edge of the porch light as though they were waiting for a meeting to start, or waiting out front of a mine company hiring shed: men in broad hats and engineer caps and worn-out suitcoats over their Duck Head overalls.
It was a clear night and not too cold and goddamn that Son Martin could run whiskey. He let his mash set a full six or seven days and didn't put a lot of devilment in it, like buckeye beans or carbide or lye, to hurry up the fermentation. Son took his time; he cooked the beer slowly over a low fire; he used pure copper in the works and limestone spring water to condense the vapor and he kept his still clean. The clear moonshine that came out of the flake stand was run again, doubled through the works, and filtered through charcoal before it was put up to age and mellow in charcoal-blackened white oak barrels. Son aged his run two to four months, which he said was bare minimum to give it color. If you weren't willing to wait, you'd have to go somewhere else and drink clear moonshine. It was worth a wait, E . J . Royce said,
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