Chapter Twenty-five

On Friday, Serena told Jesse she needed to stop by the bank and would come home as soon as she’d finished. She left at eight sharp so as to be at the bank when it opened its doors.

He was a little taken aback when she didn’t return until after nine. “Where you been? I thought you was to the bank and then straight back here?”

“I was, and here I am. I got caught up in a conversation with the teller and he couldn’t answer my question, so he called the manager, and he didn’t know either. Finally, I managed to track down Mister Babcock, the president, and he knew. He didn’t want to share at first. He said it wasn’t a woman’s place, but he did finally.”

“Did what?”

“Tell me what their discount rate was.”

“The disc…the what?”

“We need to have a talk about our money in the bank, Jess, but not now. Looky here, I have a fist full of five- and ten-dollar bills. We are ready to do business.”

“What are we going to do with all that money? I thought we were going to market day tomorrow to get folks to agree to give us first rights to their timber.”

“We are. This is earnest money.”

“What kind of money? Earnest?”

“When they sign, we give them a five-dollar or a ten-dollar pre-payment. That way they will know we are serious. Also, we let them know that if we don’t exercise the option, they get to keep the money.”

“Serena, a handshake and my word has always been fine and dandy up on the mountains. Them folks know I wouldn’t ever stiff them. We don’t need it.”

“Do you really think you are the only person who has figured out that the hills need a haircut? Do you think you are the only one out here looking to pick up the rights?”

“You’ve heard something?”

“Like I told you, women talk. Now look. We are the ones they will come to as soon as they hear about the money. And then there is the other thing.”

“What other thing?”

“Jesse, most of them come to town on market day to buy necessities. A bag of salt, a pound of sugar, maybe. Most will settle for molasses, and such, but they’re here to get the basics. Most of them don’t have much in cash money, and they will scrimp and even go halves with a neighbor to get what they need. When they understand that the five or ten dollars we give them is forever theirs, well, what do you think? They are going to remember Jesse Sutherlin, who was the one that gave them the best market day they ever had. There’s needles and fabric or maybe a new poke that they’ll get that wasn’t anywhere near to being on their list, and they will remember you.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“It’s time we moved into the world of business. Times have changed. You can still get by on a handshake here and there, but not everybody is so set on that way of doing things as before. There’s them that will forget that handshake in a minute if they get leaned on or figure there’s a better deal to be had. You know what the man said. ‘Money talks.’”

“What man said that?”

“I don’t know, but he did. Now let’s get to work. Small acreage gets five dollars as soon as they sign. Big acreage gets ten. And no more! Don’t you get all soft in the head if one of them tells you a sad story.”

“I won’t. Hey, where did you come up with all this, anyway?”

“I read books, Jess. I read and I learn. That’s why I asked about the bank’s discount rate. There’s things you need to know if you don’t want to be in the poor house or back on the mountain sharing your porch with the pigs.”

Market day Saturday—the one day in the month when mountain folk and townspeople were likely to mix and mingle. It would be a misapprehension to assume the mixing carried with it a sense of community or even cordiality. They bartered, traded, bought, and sold, and when they were done, went home. The few words exchanged were connected to the transactions, not any effort to connect or socialize. At the same time, there would be no confrontations or angry words. A fight was rare, and if it occurred, would be fueled by moonshine, like as not.

By three in the afternoon, Jesse had corralled almost all of the good timber in the area. There were a few more tracts he’d like to have, but the owners did not show. Tomorrow was Sunday and there were laws about doing business on that day. That said, Jesse also knew that the law stopped where the mountain sloped up and the trees began. He reckoned after church he’d take another trip. First, however, he’d need the friend Serene insisted on, the sidekick, someone to watch his back. He’d agreed, if only to keep her happy. Hell, he got through a whole war. Why’d he need a nursemaid now?

Serena had collected the children from the playground and gone home. Jesse lingered, hoping he might land one more client.

“So, Jesse, here we are.” William Kick held out his hand. Jesse shook it and looked the mechanic hard in the eye.

“Willie, this is going to sound odd, but do you happen to own a gun?”

“Me? Is there a law? What should I say?”

“I ain’t concerned about no law. I need to know if you own one. If you do, I have a proposition for you.”

“Okay, then, I do. It is German Luger I bring home from the war. Only just now I find ammunition for it, though.”

“Really? Where’d you find it?”

“You know that place where the man was stabbed? Terrible thing, it was. So, I hear he has things like that for sale and I go there and buy what he has. It was lucky I find him when I did, yes?”

“When was that?”

“Now dat’s funny. Now I think of it, it was the day he is killed.”

“Think a minute, Willie. Was there anybody else in the store then?”

“Just some man in a worn-out suit that don’t fit so good anymore. The west was not able to be buttoned and the knees was out. He was looking at…oh, mine Gott. He was with the rifles and the—”

“Bayonets?”

“Ja. You think he is the killer?”

“Probably. So, that’s why I asked you about the gun.” Jesse explained his situation, Serena’s insistence he have a trusted friend with him and would he, Willie, be willing to be that person? Willie said that Jesse saved him from a life as a bum, gave him a job and respectability, so, yes, he would be happy to be Jesse’s “Fuzzy.”

“Be my Fuzzy?”

“You know, Tom Mix has this funny man who helps him in the moving pictures, yes?”

“If you say so. I don’t get to the pictures much. Fuzzy, huh? Well, okay then. Tomorrow after church, you and me are heading up the mountain for an hour or so. Is that alright with you?”

“Sure.”

“I got to git. I’ll meet you at the sawmill at one, okay? And you can fill me in on the man in the shop.”

“Maybe I should tell the sheriff?”

“Don’t bother. He ain’t interested.”