FUGITIVES REVENGE By: Buddy Simmons Chapter One The Feud At first light among the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee, a fog covered the lower valleys. The tops of the mountains rose proudly above the clouds. Simple folks lived there in harmony with the Smoky Mountains. They survived by their wits, against often unbearable odds, overcoming hardships and trials that would have devastated and left broken a weaker people. They possessed an uncanny ability to survive the harshness of mountain life, being far removed from physicians or help from any quarter other than themselves. They had fierce personal pride and loyalty to family. This special day was hog killing time, a time when all the members of a family or clan gathered to slaughter the hogs for the approaching harsh winter. This was hard work but also a time of rejoicing, dancing and mountain music after the work was finished. A number of people were gathered behind an ancient cabin built by Scottish ancestors who had immigrated to America in search of new horizons, a land free from the ravages of war. This was a warlike people, believing in an eye for an eye but preferring to live in peace with their fellow man. Wash pots and barrels of water boiled over a roaring fire. Some of the men gathered and chopped wood, while others tended the fires. Still others conversed as they awaited their tasks. They moved to keep warm in the crisp and chilly morning air. As each hog was killed and gutted, it was lowered by means of a rope and pulley into vats of boiling water to loosen the coarse hair, which the women and children scraped off. They carefully avoided cutting the skin, which was used for cracklins and meat skins, a popular delicacy among the mountain and country people. The fat was rendered into lard. The feet, pickled in spices and vinegar, would be eaten as a snack or used to season other foods, such as beans, etc. Nothing usable was ever discarded. Even the ashes of the fire were mixed with lye, and fat for soap, which was used for bathing, washing clothes, and shampooing. * * * Both the Doaks and the Buttress families had inhabited the Smoky Mountains. Their ancestors had settled these mountains together and had lived in peace with each other. Then a bloody feud erupted, ending the peaceful relations between the two families. Because of intermarriages between the Doaks and the Buttress clans, families were split apart and separated. To remain neutral was impossible, each side holding the belief that if you aren’t for us, you must be against us. At times it was family against family. Killing the enemy without losing one’s own life was the ultimate goal; killing from ambush during feuds seemed to be the accepted by this simple folk. As the years passed, the Doaks and the Buttress families were reduced in number until only one young man remained alive on the Buttress side of the feud. Tired of the killing and realizing that the ongoing fight was useless, the young man left the confines of the mountainous region in search of a peaceful area in which to settle. He longed for a life free from death and destruction, a life in which he would no longer be required to kill or to be hunted like the animals of the area. * * * As the men and women went about their appointed chores of the day, a lone rider approached on horseback. They recognized him as an acquaintance from nearby Alabama. His dark eyes and tightly drawn lips warned of the urgency of his news. Old Man Charlie Doaks, the leader of the Doaks clan, stepped toward the rider and invited him to share his news. “What brings you this way, Homer? You act like your seat is on fire. What’s the rush?” Charlie Doaks asked. “The Buttress boy has settled in Lawsontown, just a ways down the road from us, Mr. Doaks. He’s already staked a homestead and built a dugout. It looks like he’s there to stay,” exclaimed the rider. “Well, come on in and bait up, son,” Charlie said. “Thanks for bringing the news. If we don’t get the boy while we can, he’ll come after us when we least expect him.” His wife, Alma, spoke from the rear of the crowd, “We already know, Charlie. Forget the boy. He’s gone from these mountains. What possible harm can he do now? Leave him be. Maybe we’ll never see him again.” Charlie’s voice boomed. “I’ll tell you what harm he can do, woman. He can come in here when we least expect it looking for revenge … unless we take care of him first. And that’s just what I aim to do.” With the men huddled around him, the old man swiftly outlined the preparations for the attack. Chapter Two Meet Roy Buttress I’m Roy Buttress the last surviving member of the Tennessee Buttress family. I’ve heard it said that it doesn’t matter whether you live or die, so long as you get the job done. And my job would be the destruction of the Doaks’ family. It’s the way I’ve been taught ever since I can remember. That seems kind of senseless now. I’ve had to devote what few years I’ve lived on this earth to a war I never wanted. I long for the opportunity to take a wife, and to go about the business of raising a family, if I can find somebody who would wed a reprobate like me. Being kind of a loner, I’m leery of visitors. So when I spied riders, I was naturally cautious of them. Turned out that some of the Doaks clan had found me. I had no doubt what they wanted. I hunkered down under the willow trees that grew along the edge of the water and listened as best I could to their conversation. I had no idea that I was the subject of a manhunt that had been going on since dawn, when I’d first caught a glimpse of them. If they had their way about it, my short life soon would come to a squeaking halt. But since Pa didn’t raise no fools, I didn’t intend to just roll over and play dead for them. Charlie Doaks had found me. In keeping with family pride and genuine feuding tradition, he would try to rid the world of one more Buttress. I’m kind of fond of Mama’s oldest son, so I guess I’ll have to throw a sprag in their wheel. I reckon I just might come up with a few surprises of my own — if I can stay alive long enough, that is. Pa taught me how to take care of myself in a tight spot. He taught me how to shoot and trap with the best of them. My education went a lot farther than book learning, even though Ma put a lot of store in school. Ma and Pa never did learn to read and write, so I reckon that’s why they were so proud of the fact that I went all the way to the fifth grade. “Roy, she’d say, “learn all you can while you’re young. This country won’t always be as wild as it is now. Someday things will have to get better. Just you wait and see”. I might’ve gotten farther in school, but the Doaks ambushed Pa. After that, Ma just sort of withered away and died. That ended my schooling. I’d left Tennessee in hopes of settling down and having a little peace in my life. I never had knowed what it felt like not having to look over my shoulder or wondering when a bullet would take me between the shoulder blades. So after Pa and Ma died, I figured I’d go see me a little more healthy country. I’d wandered around from place to place, until I settled down in a little place called Lawsontown, Alabama. You couldn’t really call it a town, since there wasn’t even a store within twenty miles. Seeing it was so far removed from any other settlements, maybe I could make a living running a freight line on a shoestring. All I had to my name was a pair of wore out overhauls, a flannel shirt Ma had made me, and a pair of clodhoppers that I’d fixed the soles on so many times I wondered how much longer they would last. My pride and joy was the old repeating Winchester rifle Pa had given me and the skinning knife he’d had in his belt when he departed this life, courtesy of old man Charlie Doaks. * * * I had me an old mule that I called “Charlie,” named out of spite to old man Charlie Doaks. Never have I seen a more stubborn animal than Charlie. Just when I needed him the most, he’d always sulk up on me every time. But I finally broke him from sulking by using something I’d learned from Pa a long time before. It was a dandy! One day old Charlie decided he’d traveled far enough for a day’s work, even though it was only about noontime. So when he lay down, I got me some pine straw, raised his tail, stuck a bunch of the straw under his tail and set it on fire. For a few seconds, he just lay there with both ears kind of drooping down on his head, looking sad like he was so wore out and just couldn’t go another step. All at once he rose up on both front legs, laid them long ears of his back and let out the funniest bray I ever did hear, like he didn’t quite know what to make out of it. But it didn’t take long until he figured out what he had better do … and in a hurry. I’d always thought old Charlie was just naturally slow, but that old mule got perked up in a hurry. (If my rear end was on fire, I reckon I’d try to outrun it, too.) Never has a mule run any faster than old Charlie did that day. Only thing wrong with that was, the faster he ran, the hotter the wind fanned the flames until his rear end was covered with fire and smoke. Breaking wind every time he jumped didn’t help matters a whole lot, either. Every time he farted, the flames got a little higher. I liked to have busted a gut laughing at him. It may seem cruel what I done to old Charlie, but he never balked on me again. From then on whenever he started to balk, I’d just reach in my pocket, pull out some straw and show it to the old fool. He’d be up and running before you knew it. They say a mule is just a dumb animal, but I reckon Old Charlie was smart enough to know when I meant business from then on. * * * I’d traded some work for an old wagon with a broken axle and some wore out harness. After I replaced the axle with one I had made myself in my spare time, I figured I was ready to make my mark on the world. Being a Buttress, I’d learned at an early age that you don’t beg for anything, no matter how bad times get. So I set about to find some freight to haul. Nobody needed any freight hauled, but I was told that if I would go to the town of Marvel, Alabama or Black Diamond — both about twenty miles away — they’d take all the groceries and short goods I could bring back to Lawsontown. It must’ve been during my trip to Marvel that somebody had seen me and got word back to old man Charlie Doaks that a real, living, and breathing Buttress was here, in spite of all they had done to rid the world of ma and my kind. I’d homesteaded a little piece of land, which I was extremely proud of. I built a dugout in the side of the hill, near enough to the creek to have water handy. It was a sweet setup for me. I’d cleared out enough timber to build three big corrals. I hoped to get into the horse-trading business on the side, and I’d also hired me a boy named Tommy to help me around the place now and then, whenever I needed him. I didn’t think much more about old man Doaks or his men until a shot rang out as I bent down to pick up a pole for the fence. Tommy made a choking racket. He grabbed his chest and his eyes got real wide with fear. He took a little half step backwards and fell without saying a word. The bullet meant for me had caught the boy right in the brisket. Now a young man’s life was gone, just that quick. Unless I did something in a hurry, mine would be short-lived, as well. Grabbing up my rifle, which I always kept close at hand, I ran for the creek like my tail was on fire. I heard them yelping and laughing, expecting to carry a Buttress scalp back to Tennessee. But I made up my mind that if they got me, they’d have to pay dearly. I recognized old man Doaks right off. He and his oldest boy, Buck, were right out in front of the pack. I set about to even up the odds a little more in my favor. Four other men were coming at a hard run, as fast as their horses could move. Two of them were from the Raney clan — Chester and Ike Raney, who’d, made life miserable for me until I left Tennessee. They never did have enough nerve to jump me without help, but they always could be trusted to pile on if the odds were in their favor. The old man stood tall in the stirrups, a rifle to his shoulder. He aimed at me as I ran for my life. Once in the timber, I took cover and began to return their fire with every intention of killing me a Doaks. I’d left Tennessee because I was tired of the killing. Now here they were, bringing it to me, whether I wanted it or not. So as far as I was concerned, I had no choice in the matter.
Posted on: Sat, 11 Oct 2014 18:54:20 +0000
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