When R.C. Cole spotted me late Wednesday morning, he raised his arm, let out a whoop atop the tower railing, and flew down the steps barefoot like a bald hornet had lit after him, the steel stairs trumpeting an echo across Hogtail Mountain that clanged against rock face.
At the bottom, he absently shoved me his loan, practically dancing for the envelope while tucking the newspaper I handed him under a sweaty arm without even a glance.
“I found an article about a forest fire,” I said, and gave him the letter from Mr. Beck and went over to mount Junia, leaving him to his privacy.
He ripped open the envelope. I heard a hiss, turned, and saw his paling face, the tears blurring and reddening his eyes.
“He done said no,” R.C. murmured, swiping the back of his hand across his lids. “No. Said I wasn’t good enough for Ruth, and my work ain’t honorable, an’ I ain’t got myself a proper home for his daughter.” R.C. rattled the letter. “He aims to have her take a coal miner for a husband.” He thrust a fisted letter into the air. “A coal miner.”
I whisked out a sorry for him.
“I get good pay, and I’ll get more when I’m a ranger. I’ll build her a fine home, finer than any coal miner could.” He slapped the letter against his leg. “I will!”
“I know’d you can do it, R.C. Just keep reading, and I’ll keep bringing the books.”
“Look.” He lifted the paper and tapped the page. “He says he won’t give her hand to anyone in the We Poke Along program. Calls it lazy work.”
I winced. That’s what some folks called the WPA program. A lot of men around these parts would rather starve than participate. They thought it was charity, dishonorable, and downright sinful to take the 75 cents a day the government offered to erect simple outdoor privies for folks who had none, build access roads into the hills and around, or lay split-timber bridges across creeks. Lazy work, the prouder hillmen claimed.
R.C. stretched his neck up to the watchtower, misery rippling across his freckled brow. “But I love her…”
He slowly folded the letter and rolled it into the newspaper, tucking it all into his loose waistband. “I ain’t letting her go. Ain’t letting a dirt digger have my girl.”
I cringed thinking about Pa and the other miners, but know’d the young boy was hurting and didn’t mean it.
“I’ve got to get to the train depot. Get my bride,” he said and clenched his jaw and took off down the mountain, his feet pounding the declaration into the red-dirt path.
I didn’t know a lick about matters of the heart other than what I’d read in books, but my hand curled into a tight fist and lifted up his declaration for a victory.