Chapter 4: Busted

 



     "Hold your horses," shouts James Reed in front of the still in the chill of a late October morning up in the back hollow. 

"You...ain't...seen...the evil," his father coughs, his right hand smoothly lifting a hatchet even as his speech is interrupted by hacking.



     Benjamin Reed had felt triply ill after his visit to the Cane Hill trading post. Some of the Cherokee risking their lives for a sip of whiskey had been sickening enough. It was made worse by the realization that back country distillers like himself had been preying on hopelessness. Then there was the cough that had now brought out sores in his mouth and throat. 

     Having lived his entire life on the remote frontiers of western Virginia and mountainous Kentucky, Benjamin hadn't been exposed to all of the European diseases that had rampaged through the eastern Native American communities. Being immune-naive to Orthopox and other viruses meant that the illness would be much more severe if he was exposed. By the time he got to Arkansas in the 1830s, old Benny had sense enough to keep a worsening cough away from friends and family. 



    "Don't you go ruining our livelihood," pleads the son holding his arms up to shield the giant pot. 

"I'll ask...one more...time," Benjamin warns as he hefts the hatchet handle behind his right ear.

"You ain't no William Tell," laughs James as the first shafts of sunlight beaming over the hillside glint off the still to appear to Benjamin as a copper apple sitting above his son's left shoulder.



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