Chapter 4
Hell hath no Fury like a Store-keeper scorned
Written March 6,1998
Uploaded May 26,1998
Any resemblance to any person living or dead is probably intentional, but probably not malicious.
Bart grew up in the little community with many kids his age. He
attended the small school run by Miss Daykey and managed to avoid
too many contacts with the oft-wielded rod, studying just enough to
avoid punishment but not enough to impinge on his leisure time. His
friends included Archie Clark as well as all the boys who used to
hang around the lake. The lake lost a lot of its attraction once
Dick Sexton had left the area with his skiff, but there was still
fishing and swimming and trapping, as well as the usual games
involving getting dirty and wrestling and telling stories and lies.
Most of the kids that Bart spent time with had home chores to steal
part of their time, but Bart was lucky. His two older siblings were
girls and of course the bulk of the housework fell to them,
including fetching water into the kitchen cistern and splitting
kindling for the stove. Occasionally he had to cut wood or help dig
a new cesspit for the outhouse but mostly he was a free agent. And
it was with Bart in mind that the ancient philosopher had stated
"The Devil finds work for idle hands to do". Bart attracted trouble
like horses attract flies, not with any evil intent but just as a
side-effect of their normal activites.
All the other boys busy with chores? Bart could always entertain
himself with his slingshot, practicing his aim in preparation for
rabbit hunting. Never mind that his practice target happened to be
the rear end of the travelling preacher's horse, or that the
preacher was on it at the time, or that this particular horse was
skitish at any time, or that the preacher was at best a nervous
horseman. Lots of local folks got a kick out of the preacher having
to be revived after baptizing himself in the muck-heap out the back
of the livery stable when his horse tried to climb the six foot
rails after a taste of Bart's slingshot in the rear-end. God knew
the preacher hadn't been too choosey when he had dunked a few of
them in Spring-melt water in the name of the Father, Son and Holy
Ghost.
But there are always those particular people who can find a
cloud wrapped around every silver lining and they thought that the
preacher had every right to be mighty peeved at his mud-bath,
especially since most of what he got bathed in wasn't mud. A
delegation of these right-thinking folk had in fact recently made an
offer to this preacher to set up permanant habitation in Selbyville,
to cater to the souls of the local folks and legitimize a few of the
convenient couplings that had occured over the years. These same
upright citizens didn't take kindly to their selected God contact
being brought low by that no-good Bart, son of that no-good Clay and
his fancy woman from Seattle mother. And it wasn't as if this was
the first time that young Bart had come to their attention. Remember
that time when that no-good child had led those boys to hide and
scare the good folks half to death, and then lied about being on the
island in the lake all the time when everybody knew that Dick Sexton
had been on the island the whole time, having been kidnapped by
those no-good Indians and dumped there to starve, and he hadn't seen
the boys. He'd prove it, too, just you ask him, if he hadn't left
town real soon after that and sure haven't seen too many Indians in
this area for a good few years either.
(To read Chapter 3, the story of the lake escapade, Click here)
Well, this time, those town-folks had had enough, so after they were
sure that the preacher was revived alright and with enough hot water
was going to smell fine again, they decided a delegation needed to
attend on Bart's parents to see to sorting out the boy.
Now Bart's father, Clay, he'd been a bit of an adventurer in his
time. Came from Georgia originally, saw enough of the war with the
North to know that he didn't want a whole lot of it, and travelled
the Seven Seas for a few years keeping out of most folks way. One
thing that a sailor on a sailing ship learns pretty soon, is react
real fast to a situation as you might not get time to re-consider.
He also learnt that the best method of defence is attack, what is
known politically as pre-emptive retaliation.
Michael Cotton was the local store-keeper and about as close to a
mayor that Selbyville had at that time, and he had been elected
-from a field of one- to head the delegation. Michael wasn't a big
man, in fact, he stood about shoulder height to most of his
companions and he would have weighed one hundred pounds in his
Sunday suit. Being a small man isn't necessarily an impediment to a
man of good will, but couple his stature with a sharp voice and
pursed lips raised in a semi-smile that in a later age would
immediately suggest 'Parking Inspector' and it will be seen that he
was perhaps not the best person to open the door on.
There are a number of good ways to initiate a conversation with
someone, especially if you have differences of opinion with them.
"Now see here, Shay.." is not one of them. Bart's father grinned
through his tobacco-stained moustache and laid Michael Cotton out
flat on his back with a left upper-cut that started about down by
his knees and finished halfway through Cotton's back teeth. In the
process of finishing up flat on his back, Michael Cotton passed
through the ranks of like-minded folks behind him, with the result
that when he finally came to rest on the muddy path he was laid out
with half-a-dozen others like sardines in a freshly opened can.
It's comforting to children to grow up in the knowledge that they
have the support of their families and in this regard, Bart was well
at ease. He had watched this intercourse from the kitchen table and
was impressed by the force of his father's argument. The coup de
gras was his father taking down the old Winchester from its pegs
above the door and inviting the delegation to kindly leave his patch
of land before he admitted air into various parts of their
anatomies.
Now most folks when presented with the choice between a rock and a
hard place will choose to be in the spectators seats instead, but in
every crowd there is always one whose mouth is several seconds
ahead of his brain. Such was the case here. Jack Olson was a thin
Swede who had become a member of the preacher's flock after forceful
and convincing argument from his wife, the strongest of her
arguments being the with-holding of all marital privileges from
non-members of the preacher's flock. This argument has been used
with great effect down through the ages and is best summed up by a
former US President when he said that when you have them by the
regenerative appendages their hearts and minds will follow. Olson
saw what had befallen the spokesman for their group and without
further thought stepped forward to remonstrate with the recalcitrant
Clay Shay. Now Clay had been the victim of a classical education in
his youth, and so without delay he placed the business end of the
Winchester to the place between Jack Olson's nostrils and uttered
the Latin motto of his family,- FABRICATI DIEM, PUNC.
Forceful argument has a powerful effect on sensible people so
rapidly the rest of the delegation followed Jack town-ward, bearing
the limp form of Michael Cotton between them.
Did the confrontation end there? It did not. The preacher was a
tall, gangly red-headed Iowan by the name of Jeremiah Little.
Reverend Little had had numerous occupations in his lifetime, from
selling insurance to painting houses, but he had heard the call of
the Lord in his middle years and had travelled to the Far West in
pursuit of God's Will. Incidentally leaving three wives in three
different Mid-West towns and three unserviced overdrafts. There are
preachers of God's love and there are preachers of fire and
brimstone, and Jeremiah Little was definitely of the latter
category. He roared of an eye for an eye and enemies smitten and
generally, in the words of the classically educated Clay Shay,
exercized the jawbone of an ass.
On hearing of the fate that had befallen Michael Cotton, great was
the wrath and ire of Reverend Little. Loud was his oration damning
the Shay clan unto the third and fourth generations. Mighty was the
vehemence of his righteous anger over the afront to his Servant and
therfore of course, to God Almighty Himself!
Little had taken as his chapel the derelict bank that Emmett Selby
had abandoned years before when he absconded with the contents of
its safe and the life savings of most of the inhabitants of the
valley.See Chapter 2
Like most congregations, the real believers were of the female sex
and their men attended purely to maintain peace and harmony in their
abodes. Bitter in its chill is the cold shoulder of the wife whose
husband will not accompany her to prayer meeting on Sunday! Cold is
the Sunday dinner of the man who would rather go fishing while the
godly are about their weekly duties! The head of the family may have
stood strong in his pants, but the power in the family was the one
that could boycott access to the pants. So it was that Little's
imprecations were repeated in kitchens all over the valley and
around the perimeter of the lake. Conversation over supper dwelt on
the evil in the community. Pillow talk after the lamp was
extinguished and the children asleep was not of hearts and flowers,
or even birds and bees, but rather Sodom and Gomorrah and the ill
effects that certain families were having on their neighbors.
And so, over a period of a few weeks, even those men of good cheer
who had had a good cheer when the Reverend had been deposited
face-first in the livery stable left-overs, found themselves being
indoctrinated towards bearing hard thoughts to the Shays and some of
the other folk who had lived in their midst for decades.
Like most young boys, Bart was largely unaware of the feelings
flowing around him. His friends were still his friends and his town
was still his town. A couple of the boys had received stern commands
from those who must be obeyed that they were not to fraternise with
that no-good Bart Shay, but they didn't know what that word meant so
not a lot changed there. Older sisters sneered down their noses when
they saw young Bart, for there is nothing in the world more
self-righteous than a pre-pubescent teenage female, unless it's a
preacher from Iowa, or any politician, but none of it impinged
directly on our young man. He attended Miss Daykey's class at the
school-house and spent his leisure time with his compatriots at the
train yards or the lake.
On the odd occasion that he found himself in possession of a nickel
and entered the General Store to boost the local economy,
it didn't
impinge on his consciousness particularly that Michael Cotton didn't
speak to him or serve him directly, rather that worthy retreated
behind his roll-top desk and with hand signs directed one of his
brood to part his money from the young Shay. These hand signals were
not only because he didn't want to draw Bart's attention, but also
since his close personal communication with Bart's father, Michael
had found that even with numerous consultations with the dentist
over in Rowell, his teeth still didn't quite fit his face the way
that God had originally intended and this mis-match in his chewing
equipment lent to his usually waspish voice a sibilance that sounded
like air escaping from the blacksmith's bellows. Naturally Cotton
found this annoying as he knew he was a born orator, but it also
irked him greatly that the boys of the town seemed to develop
stomach cramps and difficulty breathing whenever he addressed them
directly. They would clasp their stomachs and gasp with rapidly
reddening faces as his every "S" sent a spray of saliva swiftly
soaring skyward.
Some people can find laughter in the most melancholy of subjects,
others couldn't find humor in a dictionary. And the target of his hate was
Clay Shay.
Now Cotton was a realist in this sense, he knew that he had no hope
of besting Clay Shay physically, and because Shay worked for the
Toenail Ridge Shortline, Cotton couldn't intimidate him financially.
And that meant the target shifted to Bart.
The Next Chapter in the saga of
So when the good
towns-folk's delegation came knocking on the door of his cabin,
right about when he was in the middle of his beans and bacon, he
summed up real quick that he wasn't about to be presented with some
civic award. He'd already heard about that preacher taking a
nose-dive into the rakings from the stables and he approved
thoroughly, even going so far as to give his son a pat on the head.
It wasn't unusual for Bart to get a pat on the head but they were
usually delivered with considerably more force.
This may be
loosely translated as- Go ahead, Make my day, being of a lower
order. At this stage even Swedes gain deep philosophical insights
and with the speed granted to those whose visions of eternity
include millennia spent in the company of his wife and the preacher,
Olson back-pedalled with alacrity and grace until he had cleared the
fence and was halfway back to town.
Being the only building in Selbyville that was built of
bricks, it was still in good repair and the ladies of the parson's
flock - known as Little's women - soon had their other halves busy
with paint and mortar and woodworking tools restoring the bank to
some semblance of its former glory. From the confines of this
chapel, Little raised his voice to his congregation, exhorting them
to drive from their midst the ungodly, the sinful, and above all,
the Shays.
One of these latter was
Michael Cotton. He looked at life from the dark corridors of a man
who resented his fellow men for being taller and stronger.
He
disapproved of womenfolk because they had forbidden fruits that were
always at his eyelevel and he knew he wasn't allowed to look.
He
frowned on children because they had a joy of life he had never
experienced, and he loathed achievers in any field because he was a
bureaucratic cog born in an age where no bureaucracy existed to take
him in.
In a later age this man would have made employee of the
month in any Taxation Department in the world. So in his heart of
hearts burned a hate and drive for revenge that even eclipsed that of
the God-botherer Jeremiah Little.
So that left vicarious revenge.
The Toenail Ridge Shortline!