Moonshiner's Son Read online

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First Aladdin Paperbacks edition March 2003

  Originally published in 1993 by Macmillan Publishing Company

  Text copyright © 1993 by Carolyn Reeder

  ALADDIN PAPERBACKS

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster

  Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Printed in the United States of America

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

  Reeder, Carolyn.

  Moonshiner’s son / Carolyn Reeder.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: As he works with his father making moonshine in the remote hills of Virginia during Prohibition, twelve-year-old Tom learns about hard work and independent thinking.

  ISBN 0-02-775805-2

  [1. Fathers and sons—Fiction. 2. Mountain life—Virginia—Fiction. 3. Prohibition—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.R25416Mo 1993

  [Fic]—dc20 92-39570

  ISBN 0-689-85550-8 (Aladdin pbk.)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-689-85550-4

  eISBN-13: 978-1-439-13704-8

  For my daughter, Linda

  1

  Tom lay flat on his stomach in the laurel thicket. He blew at the gnats that had been pestering him all day and tried to ignore the high-pitched hum of the sweat bee hovering around his ear. A towhee scratched in the leaves a few yards away, chirping its “Sweet bird-eeee!” call at regular intervals. The only other sound was the bubbling and spitting of the barrels of mash fermenting beside the creek, screened by the branches of a fallen tree.

  “If they’re comin’, they’d better come soon,” Tom muttered. He didn’t want to spend a third day like this, and Pa couldn’t relish another night hunkered down, waiting to see if whoever had shortened his last run of whiskey by pouring salt into one of the mash barrels was going to do it again.

  Who could it have been? Tom went over the possibilities in his mind for the hundredth time. A revenuer wouldn’t have advertised his presence by tampering with the mash—he’d have kept watch and caught the moonshiner and then destroyed the still. Tom frowned. What kind of man poured salt into a mash barrel, anyway? An angry man would have smashed it open. And a coward—or Eddie Jarvis, who coveted Pa’s customers—would have told the sheriff where to find the still and let the law do his dirty work.

  For a moment Tom wondered if someone could have done it as a joke, but he quickly discarded that idea. Messing around with a man’s still was no joking matter. It wasn’t something you did if you wanted to keep on living.

  Suddenly a squirrel’s scolding chatter made Tom’s heartbeat quicken. Listening now, he heard splashing. Somebody was coming up the creek, and not even trying to be quiet about it!

  Tom blinked in astonishment as a piebald horse came into view, making its way up the gravelly creek bed. Peering through the laurel growing near the bank, Tom could see the rider’s high black boots. He held his breath, hoping the horse would pass him, but it stopped and the rider dismounted.

  Tom’s mouth dropped open. It was a girl! And she was wearing fancy riding pants like the ones in that mail-order catalog he’d seen at the Rigsbys’ house. Tom watched, scarcely breathing, while the girl unbuckled the flap of her saddlebag and lifted something out. Tom raised his head a little. It looked like—it was! It was a five-pound sack of salt.

  Ignoring the branches that scraped along his spine, Tom scuttled backward till he could stand up. Then he forced his way forward through the almost impenetrable greenery until he stood on the low creek bank, looking down at the girl.

  She let the salt fall to the ground and stood facing him, an opened penknife in her hand. Tom grinned. You’d never see a knife like that at Ol’ Man Barnes’s store down in the settlement, he thought, looking at its tiny blade.

  “Don’t you come any closer,” the girl warned. Her dark hair was pulled back into a thick braid, and her wide brown eyes were steady.

  Suddenly conscious of his rumpled shirt and overalls and his unruly mop of sandy hair, Tom slid down the sloping bank and stood on the damp ground, opposite the girl. “You don’t belong here,” he said, trying to sound authoritative, like Pa. “Put away your pretty li’l knife an’ go on back to where you come from.”

  Slowly the girl lowered her arm, but she made no move to leave. The horse, its nostrils quivering, was trying to force its way through the branches of the fallen tree that hid the mash barrels, and Tom quickly took the reins and turned the animal away. “Now git on, an’ git out of here,” he told the girl.

  “I’ll leave when I’ve done what I came to do, and not before,” she said, her chin lifted defiantly.

  In one swift movement, Tom leaned over and scooped up the sack of salt.

  “Give me that. It’s mine!” the girl demanded.

  Tom shook his head. “I’m gonna”—he searched for the word—“confiscate it. Now git!”

  The girl’s eyes blazed with anger, and she didn’t move.

  Tom shrugged and tossed the sack into the shallow creek. “Folks hereabouts don’t take kindly to anybody messin’ ‘round near their stills,” he said sternly, turning back to the girl.

  “Stills are illegal! Haven’t you heard of Prohibition?”

  Tom scowled. He’d heard of Prohibition, all right. How he hated the 1919 law that sent even more law officers into the hills to look for stills to destroy and moonshiners to arrest. Until two years ago, federal revenue agents had searched out moonshiners because they paid no taxes on the whiskey they made in secret. But now the revenuers came to enforce the new law against making or selling alcoholic drinks anywhere in the United States.

  “I’ve heard of Pro’bition, all right,” Tom said, “but maybe you ain’t never heard of trespassin’. Trespassin’s illegal, too,” he said, “an’ you’re on my pa’s land.” He saw a flicker of concern cross the girl’s face and pressed his advantage. “What would your people say if they knew you was trespassin’? An’ if they found out you was foolin’ ‘round somebody’s still?”

  “They aren’t going to find out,” she said, but she didn’t sound so confident now. She turned away from Tom and mounted her horse. “Anyway,” she said, looking over her shoulder, “running a still is a lot worse than trespassing.” With that, she tossed her head and rode downstream without looking back.

  Tom gave the girl a long head start before he set off for home, glad he didn’t have to lie hidden in the laurel thicket any longer. He splashed down the creek until it flowed across a narrow path, where he turned uphill. He was panting by the time the path intersected a wider trail that led further up the mountain.

  As he neared the cabin and saw his father working in the corn patch on the hillside, Tom called, “Pa! Hey, Pa! I found out who spoilt our mash!”

  The burly man leaned on his hoe and said with mock ferocity, “I hope you don’t expect me to believe it was a brown-eyed li’l gal on a piebald horse.”

  “How—how did you know?” Tom stammered.

&nb
sp; Pa threw back his head and laughed. “Set yourself down under that there tree, an’ I’ll tell you.”

  Surprised to find Pa in such good humor, Tom followed him to the shade of the white oak that towered over their cabin. Pa leaned back against its trunk, and Tom sat cross-legged, facing him.

  “Wal,” Pa began, “I thought I’d walk on down to the store to buy a pound of coffee an’ hear the news, an’ while I was there, this li’l gal rode up, wearin’ some of them pants that make ‘em look like their hips has slid halfway to their knees. She marched right into the store and asked for a sack of salt. A bag of salt, she called it.

  “After Ol’ Man Barnes got it for her, he said she was more ‘n welcome to git a drink from the pump over by his house, since she must be mighty thirsty. An’ when she allowed as how she didn’t know what he meant, he said, ‘If your ma’s used up all that salt you bought here last week, I’d think you’d have a powerful thirst.’”

  Tom grinned appreciatively. Pa sure knew how to tell a tale.

  “Then she told him that there salt weren’t for her ma, so I ask, real surprised like, ‘You mean to say it’s for your pa?’ But she shakes her head an’ says she’s buyin’ it for herself, an’ out she goes. Last I seen her, she was ridin’ up the trail.”

  Remembering how the girl had stood up to him, Tom asked, “What’s a girl like her doin’ ‘round here, anyway?”

  “Her pa’s the preacher settin’ up that mission down at the ol’ Ollie Gentry place. He’s the one that’s been ridin’ through Ox Gore Holler talkin’ about the evils of drink,” Pa said contemptuously.

  Tom scowled. Weeks ago, he’d listened while Ol’ Man Barnes had read the newspaper story telling how some city church was planning to set up a mission here in the hills. The storekeeper had repeated the last sentence twice, and Tom hadn’t forgotten it: “It is hoped that the mission will provide a civilizing influence on the lawless and unlettered people in this wild area of the Virginia Blue Ridge.”

  Pa’s voice brought Tom back to the present. “That preacher hired men from Buckton to come out an’ fix up the house, since nobody ‘round here would work for him. Eddie Jarvis tried to run them workmen off, but the preacher was there with ‘em, an’ he stood right up to Eddie—said he was wearin’ the armor of the Lord an’ he wasn’t scared of no shotgun.” Pa paused to let that sink in and then mused, “That man’s either powerful brave, or else he’s a fool.”

  Tom thought he must be a fool if he couldn’t see he wasn’t welcome here. Unless he just plain didn’t care.

  “What I can’t figger out,” Pa said, changing the subject, “is how that slip of a gal happened on my still.”

  “She rode up the creek,” Tom said.

  Pa’s good humor vanished. “Dadburn it, boy! Did you empty the slop from the still into the creek even though I told you to carry it to the hogs?”

  “I carried most of it to the hogs, but—”

  “But some of it you dumped in the creek,” Pa broke in angrily. “Trust you to work by yourself, an’ next thing I know somebody finds their way to my still!”

  Tom didn’t see the connection, but he wasn’t about to ask. When Pa was mad, the best thing to do was keep quiet and stay out of his way.

  “Don’t you know you’re as good as advertisin’ the location of your still if you dump your slop in the creek when you clean it out?”

  Tom shook his head, not daring to speak.

  “Dadburn revenuer’s horse’ll give you away every time. Most of ‘em turn up their noses an’ won’t drink water with the smell of mash in it, but if you git one that likes it, he’ll follow the stream right up to your still. Either way, you’re in trouble. It’s a good thing that piebald horse didn’t have no revenuer on his back.”

  Tom had thought feeding the slop to the hogs was just a way to keep them from going completely wild while they roamed along the mountainside, eating acorns and chestnuts. A way to keep them used to coming to your call so they’d be easier to round up at butchering time in the fall. “I’m sorry, Pa,” he said. “I didn’t know it was important.”

  Before Tom realized what was happening, Pa grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him so close that they were almost nose to nose. “Listen here, boy,” Pa said. “When I tell you to do somethin’, you better figure it’s important. An’ you better do it even if you don’t understand why. You hear me?” Pa’s voice was deadly quiet, and his pale blue eyes were cold.

  “I hear!” Tom choked out. “I hear you, Pa.”

  “Then make sure you remember,” Pa said harshly, releasing him. Miserable, Tom watched his father walk back to the corn patch. Disobeying out of laziness was bad enough, Tom realized, but deliberately not doing what he was told was even worse. When Pa gave orders, he wanted them followed—and he usually found out when they weren’t.

  Tom went into the cabin and took his whittling knife and a small block of maple from the mantel. Already the rough figure of a chipmunk was emerging from the wood. “I could of had this finished by now if Pa hadn’t made me leave it home when I was on watch at the still,” Tom muttered. But then he thought of what could have happened if he’d been concentrating on his carving when the girl on the horse came up the creek. She might have thrown the salt into one of Pa’s mash barrels before he’d been able to stop her! He didn’t even want to think about what Pa would have said if that had happened.

  2

  Tom watched Ol’ Man Barnes pour the lantern fuel into his can and stick a potato on the spout so that none of the liquid would splash out as he walked home. While the storekeeper wrote the price in his ledger book, Tom studied the letters on the man’s large container: K-e-r-o-s-e-n-e spells coal oil, he rehearsed silently.

  It bothered Tom that he was twelve years old and couldn’t read. But at least he wasn’t “unlettered.” Ma had taught him to make his letters before she’d taken his two little sisters and gone off, leaving a note that said, “This is no life for a woman.” Ever since then, it had been just him and Pa, and Pa wouldn’t teach him to read. He said a moonshiner didn’t need book learning.

  Ol’ Man Barnes interrupted Tom’s thoughts. “Tell your pa a stranger was hangin’ ‘round here yesterday. Never really said where he come from, just that he spent a lot of time in the hills.”

  “You’d think a revenuer would have him some kind of a story,” Tom mused, “but like Pa says, you can’t be too careful.” As he left the store, Tom glanced around, hoping to see his friends Lonny and Harry, but no one was in sight. Disappointed, he set off for home to tell Pa what Ol’ Man Barnes had said.

  Tom wasn’t surprised at the storekeeper’s news. Yesterday afternoon he’d heard someone fire two widely spaced shots—the signal that a stranger was in the area—and he’d relayed the warning up the hollow with Pa’s rifle. That was why he’d filled both the lamps this morning, emptying the fuel can so he’d have an excuse to walk down to the little settlement at Nathan’s Mill and see what was going on. After what he’d learned, he knew that this afternoon he’d have the tiresome duty of keeping watch while Pa finished setting up the still under the rocky overhang he’d chosen for the new location.

  Strangers came into Bad Camp Hollow for only two reasons: to buy moonshine, or to catch the men who made it. If this stranger wanted to buy moonshine, he could buy Pa’s whiskey at Ol’ Man Barnes’s store, provided he knew what to say when he asked for it. If he was a revenuer—well, Pa was always careful, but it helped to know when your enemy was around.

  Tom thought of the girl he’d met two days before. Pitching his voice high, he mimicked her, “Stills are il-le-gal.” If she thought stills were so bad, she should have stayed wherever it was she’d come from. Shifting the can of lantern fuel to his other hand, Tom began the steepest part of his climb up the mountain. Suddenly, a piercing scream brought him to a halt and made the hairs on his arms stand on end. When he heard the frightened neighing of a horse, he left his can and ran back down the trail. He rounded the bend and saw t
he piebald horse rearing and the girl clinging to its mane. And beneath the horse’s hooves was what was left of the biggest rattlesnake Tom had ever seen. His stomach turned at the thought of how recently he’d passed that very spot, his mind a mile away.

  Tearing his eyes from the mangled snake, Tom grabbed the reins, pulled the horse around, and led it a short distance downhill. It pranced about, flanks heaving, but Tom’s firm hand on the reins kept it from rearing.

  “I’ll lead him past that snake so he don’t spook again an’ throw you,” Tom said, looking up at the girl.

  “I can manage my own horse, thank you very much,” she said, yanking the reins out of his hand.

  Tom saw that her face was pale and her eyes were still dark with fear. Or was it anger? Rebuffed, he turned away, and she maneuvered the horse so that it was facing uphill again.

  “What are you doing?” she asked when Tom bent over the trampled snake.

  He wiped off the blade of his knife and snapped it shut. “Don’t you want these?” he asked, holding up the snake’s rattles. “Listen,” he said, shaking them.

  At that, the horse snorted and tossed its head, but the girl handled it skillfully. “You can have them,” she said with distaste.

  Pleased, Tom put the rattles in his pocket and started up the hill. But before he came to his can of lantern fuel, the girl called to him.

  “Hey! Hey, you!”

  Tom hesitated, and she called again, louder this time. “Hey, you!” And then after a brief pause, “Can you please come back here for a minute?”

  Tom retraced his steps. “Thought you could manage your own horse,” he said when he saw it shying and refusing to pass the mangled snake.

  “I can! But I need you to move that snake.”

  Tom took the reins again, and raising the horse’s head slightly, he led the animal several yards beyond the snake. Then he stepped aside to let the girl ride past. But to his surprise she swung down from the saddle and stood facing him.

  “My name’s Amy,” she said. “Amy Taylor.”