The trial of the cattle men was set for the first spring term of court. It seemed to Lant the winter would never be done with. He was restless. At his distilling he jumped like a cat at every sound. Zeke visited him occasionally in the swamp, unable to conceal his delight at being out of the trouble. When Zeke had gone again, Lant thought so fiercely about the Streeter business that he forgot Ardis.
Sometimes when he went to see her, the delicious closeness was gone and he came away in despair. He kept away from her as long as he could. Then the thought of her blended with his old torment. There was no more peace until he had rowed across the river to sit beside her at the Mersey hearth and perhaps, if she was in the mood, walk with her down the road and hold her desperately close, kissing her eyes and mouth and throat. The actual touch of her, cool and always faintly withdrawn, relieved his feverishness, as a little water quenches the worst of thirst. When he was away from her, the yellow hair seemed brighter, the unsmiling eyes warmer, the thin mouth and body inviting, even yielding.
Piety asked him, "You think Ardis'll have you?"
He said, "I think she'll have me. I aim to git it settled, time this cattle mess is over." He added, "If I gits out with a whole hide." He laughed shortly. "Here I been worryin' 'bout the moonshine business and then gits into deep water 'bout other folkses' cattle."
She said, "You had to he'p Abner."
"Oh, I ain't begrudgin' bein' in on it. Hit jest make me think the only thing do go right for me, is the whiskey."
"I cain't he'p lettin' it worry me right on."
"Bless Katy, Ma, you got you a decent livin' the first time since I been makin' one. The Prohis ain't goin' to come up with me 'less it's pure acceedent, and now you complainin'."
"I ain't complainin'."
She studied him, as she had once studied Lantry. Her stream of life had joined her son's, she thought, and was indistinguishable from it. She could conceive of no trouble that was not his trouble; no grief that was not his grief. Because his dark face was drawn, and the red-brown eyes a little sunken over the square cheekbones, she hoped the girl Ardis would come to him when he was ready for her. Abner had assured Piety that her son had nothing to fear from the trial, and she believed him. If worst came to worst, he told her, he would take the whole thing on himself.
Lant had money ahead at Christmas. He asked Kezzy's advice about a present for Ardis. Sears Roebuck had a fine pair of ladies' hunting boots that appealed to him. Kezzy sighed.
"Lant, if 'twas me, tromping thu the bogs and all over the way I do, it'd be different. You git that girl a double compact."
He was inclined to take offense at the suggestion.
She said tactfully, "You want her to know you think she's pretty, don't you? Nothin' don't please a young girl more than somethin' to use to make her pretty. Somethin' to put on her face or hair, or perfume to smell sweet on her." She blinked her eyes quickly. She said, choking a little, "I kin remember yit how tickled I were when Cleve come from the dime-store one day with a ol' shiny pin to stick in my hair."
He said, "Kezzy, look at me. Is Cleve workin'?"
She shook her head.
"Uncle Ab quit ridin' range on his herd mighty nigh a month ago," he commented. "Ain't Cleve done nothin' since then?"
"No."
"How you makin' out?"
"We makin' out all right. I butchered six hogs and I got my garden and my chickens and my own meal and 'taters."
"You fixin' to have another young un, ain't you?"
"Lant, I swear you the nosiest somebody."
"Somebody got to keep track of you. Cleve ain't doin' it."
She was silent.
He was buying parts to make a small radio for his mother for Christmas, he told her.
She said, "That ain't as bad as the huntin' boots for Ardis. Your mother's eyes is got to be so bad, I reckon it'll pleasure her to set and listen to a radio."
"What you want for Christmas, Kezzy?"
"I want a gallon o' your best 'shine, dogged if I don't. Time you drink some good 'shine, you don't notice if you've got nothin' else."
Abner and his wife had invited Cleve and Kezzy for Christmas dinner. Zeke and his wife were coming to Piety for the day.
Lant suggested, "How 'bout the day after Christmas, you and Cleve bring Ardis over in the evenin' and set and listen to the radio? I kin take Ardis home agin."
She laughed. "Got that part all figgered out, ain't you? Why yes, that'd be mighty nice."
He went away and she waved after him, smiling.
On Christmas morning Piety said dubiously of the radio, "I reckon I'll git used to it." The raucousness of the human voices distressed her and she did not like the music as well as Lant's banjo. She would rather have had curtains for the windows, she thought. She had never had any, and the shades Willy Jacklin had bought her twenty years before hung over the small panes in ribbons. Yet the old shingled roof leaked so badly that there would be no use in putting up curtains even if Lant would buy them. When it rained, she tugged the piles of heavy quilts from one room to another, and back again. When the rain was heavy enough the high peaked roof was no better than a sieve and the quilts got wet in spite of her. Perhaps another year Lant would re-shingle the roof and then she could have curtains.
She spent the morning after Christmas cleaning the house because Ardis was coming. She scrubbed the old pine floors until they were the colour of Jersey cream. She put fresh crimped paper over the mantel. She cut a picture from a magazine Lant had brought home from one of the hunting camps and pinned it on the board wall between a 'gator hide and his rifle. The fur company's calendar hung on the kitchen door. The cover this year was handsome. Lant still kept a few traps going through the winter season. She looked about. The Merseys had always had plenty to do with.
She said, "I wisht I had me a good house with somethin' in it, and then keep it nice."
Lant said absently, "This un's good enough."
She looked at him critically. He was ready to go to the still. His blue chambray shirt was ragged and he wore a cloth cap that was no more than a visor. His red-brown hair hung in back from under the naked band and stuck in straight spikes through the remnants of the front. He was most contented, she thought, when his elbows stuck out of his sleeves and his ribs showed white through long cool gashes in his shirt.
She said, "I jest as good to hold my breath, for you don't keer what you wear. You'll go to the outfit in a new shirt or new breeches and come back plumb ragged and better satisfied."
"I'll put on a white shirt this evenin'," he said.
"If 'twa'n't for Ardis, you'd go this-a-way all the time."
"I had me a white shirt 'fore I ever knowed her."
"Yes, and put it on mighty seldom."
She reached behind him and picked off the fragment of cap from his head and moved quickly to the hearth and threw it on the fire.
"I'll jest not look at that thing no longer."
He was forced to take from its hook the black felt that had been his Sunday best since he had been grown. Its wide brim annoyed him. He slapped it on the back of his head and went to his work.
He found one barrel of mash ready to run and decided not to risk waiting for the next barrel. He was out of ash and had to take time to cut fresh wood. It was after dark when he came to the house and Cleve and Kezzy and Ardis were ahead of him. He came in whistling. On his big head was perched the crown of the black felt hat.
Piety asked, exasperated, "Now where's the brim?"
"I made me a lantern wick outen the brim," he said complacently. "That-a-way I got me a extry benefit."
He washed and went to his room and put on clean clothes. Piety and Kezzy were talking in the bedroom where Kezzy had put the baby to sleep and Cleve was in the smoke-house getting a drink. Ardis stood alone in front of the hearth. He came from his room and stood beside her and watched her gravely. He said, "Le's go walk a piece" and took her arm and led her from the house and down the lane.
Piety said, "Kezzy, I'm like not to git a chancet with you alone agin. What you think of Lant's girl?"
"Well, I wouldn't say it to nobody but you—nor to you, if you hadn't asked me. Aunt Py-tee, she ain't got too much sense. She's pretty and soft-life. I reckon that's all a man wants."
The older woman said stoutly, "Well, 'tain't all a man needs. Pertickler a man fixed like Lant. She's too fine-haired. That's what she is."
"It's his business, Aunt Py-tee."
Cleve came in and in a short while Lant and Ardis were back again. Lant had little to say.
Piety said, "You've had no supper, Lant. Don't you want somethin'?"
He said, "I reckon."
They followed him to the kitchen and sat around the table while Piety gave him a cold supper.
She asked, "Cain't the rest of you eat?"
Cleve poked in the dish of meat.
"Any squirrel meat in here?"
Lant said, "I ain't shot none all week, Cleve. It's been blowin' too hard for 'em."
Ardis said brightly, "I suppose their tails are so big they can't balance when it blows."
Kezzy said, "I hope I ain't got to take to stayin' in on windy days."
Lant heard Ardis catch her breath. He looked at her. She stared wide-eyed at Kezzy, picking a chicken-wing, and flushed. She dropped her eyes and twisted her fingers in her lap.
Lant said sharply, "Kezzy, you quit talkin' so rough." He added, "Ardis ain't used to it."
"Ain't she? Mebbe you and I kin learn her somethin' she don't know."
Piety brushed some crumbs from the worn oilcloth cover on the table. Ardis watched her furtively.
Piety said, "I've got a white cloth."
"It's a good time to think of it," Lant said.
Kezzy's black eyes were on the girl.
She said hotly, "Oilcloth's good enough for anybody, I don't keer who 'tis."
Piety agreed, "I've always thought it was good enough."
Zeke Lantry called from the front door. They left the kitchen and went in by the hearth-fire. Zeke had slipped away from his wife to hear the radio. Lant sat by it and turned the dials. He stole a look now and then at Ardis, sitting stiffly between Kezzy and his mother. The girl's face was pale and clear beside the weather-beaten and serviceable hide that was his mother's skin. Ardis was no fairer than Kezzy. Or perhaps Kezzy's skin seemed so milk-white against the smooth blackness of her eyes and hair.
The radio was a disappointment. Its irritations outweighed its pleasures. The static was bad.
Lant said, "It sounds like a dirt-dauber in a tin can."
For a little time he had a jug band coming in. Many of the tunes were familiar. A stringed orchestra played sweetly and they listened with a deep pleasure. Suddenly a man's voice broke in harshly.
Piety shrilled indignantly, "Now that Jessie had to put his bill in it!"
The stringed orchestra disappeared entirely and a "blues" singer began to wail. He lamented, "Why was I ever born?" They chuckled.
"He's in a bad fix," Kezzy said.
They were amused by the sorrowful songs that whimpered through the home-made loud speaker. After a time Zeke shuffled his feet and spat in the fireplace.
"Lant," he said, "turn that thing off and git out your banjo. Hit's a sight better'n that mess."
Piety said with enthusiasm, "That's what I say."
Lant clicked off the radio and brought his banjo from Piety's trunk. He sat by the fire and tuned it, his ear against the strings. Zeke looked hopeful, and Lant played his uncle's favourite piece, "Come all you Georgia boys." Zeke clapped his hands as Lant played and sang in his high nasal whine.
"Come all you Georgia boys and listen to my noise.
Don't be deceived by the Deep Creek boys.
For if you do, your portion it will be,
Workin' in the cypress swamps is all you can see."
There was a Deep Creek, north of the scrub, that flowed into the Ocklawaha. Zeke did not know whether that was the one named in the song, or not. A song was a song, and it made no difference where it came from.
"Go over to your neighbour's house, they'll set you out a chair.
First thing you hear, 'Daddy killed a bear.'
Draw up to the fire-place, pass the 'baccy 'roun'.
'Mama, ain't your johnny-cake bakin' too brown?'
"They'll go off to dress and put on their best—
Daddy's ol' huntin' shirt—for that is their best.
Ol' sock leg they wear the winter 'roun',
Ol' palmetto hat, more rim than crown.
"They go to the cow-pen and milk in a gourd,
Set it in the jamb and kiver it with a board.
That is the way they used for to do—
For I was raised in the backwoods too!"
Zeke listened to the words as intently as though he had never heard them before. He slapped his leg and shook his head and gave his sister a push.
"Ol' palmetto hat, more rim than crown, eh, Py-tee?"
She said, laughing, "Don't th'ow off on a palmetto hat to me. I got one on the nail right on."
There was no question about it. A banjo playing the old pieces had more satisfaction in it than all the radios in the county.
Zeke went home early for fear his wife would follow him.
Lant said bluntly, "I better git you home, Ardis. Let's go."
When he had gone with the girl, Piety said, "What you reckon ails him?"
Kezzy shook her head.
"I cain't quite figger. First I thought things jest wa'n't goin' right between the two of 'em, but I got a idee they's more to it than that."
Cleve stretched his legs to the fire. He said sleepily, "I been hearin' tell Tom and Bill Mersey is right thick with the Streeters."
Kezzy said, "I hated to say it."
Lant was home from the river in a short time. Cleve and Kezzy were ready to go. Kezzy was putting on her coat. Lant stormed at her.
"You wa'n't nice to my girl," he raged. He turned to include his mother. "Nor you neither. You was both throwin' off on her. I won't never take her around neither of you agin."
Piety put one hand half over her mouth and blinked her deep eyelids at him. He pushed past Kezzy to the front room. She followed him.
She said, "Lant—oh, Lant—"
He looked at her. Her head was thrown back and her eyes were closed. Her face was wax-white, like a palm-heart. Tears dropped slowly from under her long lashes. She lifted her arms from her sides and dropped them hopelessly.
She said, "I'd cut off my hands 'fore I'd mean to hurt you."
He remembered her hands the evening of the Big Burn when she had rowed across the river with word for Ardis from him. They had been blackened and raw. He took them and turned them over. They were square and strong. The palms were healed.
He said, "Kezzy, don't forgive me if it's too hard to do."
He tightened his hold and burst out, "I think I'm 'bout to go crazy. I don't know what-all's the matter."
She said, "I wisht I could he'p you."