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"You gonna make us stop, crybaby?" snarled Chester. He moved in closer, hands on chubby hips. "Huh? You gonna make us?"

  Beneath the girl's latent panic, defiance exploded. She returned Chester's sneer with one of her own. "I'll go tell Mrs. Harris!" she retorted. "I swear I'll tell her!"

  Chester's round face flashed crimson with rage. He grabbed a fistful of Cindy's flower print dress and shoved. The girl lost her balance on the seat of the swing and fell backward. Cindy hit the ground hard. For a dizzying moment, she simply laid there, the breath knocked from her lungs.

  "You wanna fight me, witch?" The Martin boy laughed. "Naw, that ain't yer way, is it? You'd just as soon hex me, like you did that Holt baby. Come on and hex me if you can! I dare you to try!"

  Chester's followers had backed away now, having lost their stomach for the cruel game. They fidgeted on the carpet of new spring grass, staring at the two in silence. They all knew what would happen then, for they had experienced enough of Chester's bullying to predict the outcome. The boy would push her around some more, perhaps even hit her, then laugh as she ran crying for the teacher.

  But that was not what happened at all.

  Cindy Ann Biggs sat up from the dust of the playground, her breath heaving raggedly from her chest and tears coursing down her freckled face. But something was missing. All her fear, her cowardice at the threat of the looming bully, had dissipated like smoke in a swift breeze. In its place lurked a peculiar feeling, knowledge of things she should not have known. She stared at Chester Martin, and she instantly knew the boy, knew all his dislikes, his hates, all his ugly emotion. And she also knew his fears.

  Mrs. Harris's fourth-grade class watched intently as the girl stood and faced the schoolyard pest. There was something disturbing in her expression, a calmness that should have been sniveling fear. Her green eyes held none of the shy detachment that usually occupied them. Now they possessed a cold, unnerving boldness that could only be described as a shade short of sinister.

  Chester stepped toward her menacingly, his meaty fist reared back for a blow. "You'd best run, witch, or I'll give you a shiner that'll last you the summer!"

  Cindy only stared at him. Then, in a voice as clipped and cool as frost on a pump handle, she said, "I'd watch where I stepped if I was you, Chester."

  The pudgy boy puzzled over her warning for a second, then directed his eyes downward. There, entwined around his ankles, was the writhing length of a copperhead snake.

  With a squeal of fright, Chester leaped from the spot, his huge face paling at the sight of the auburn serpent. He sprinted a couple of yards, and then turned to look. The place he had stood only a moment before was now vacant. No coiled copperhead, just trampled grass. "Where'd it go?" he yelped, his voice an octave higher than before.

  The other children stared at him in confusion. The bully's actions were totally unlike him. All regarded Chester with puzzlement, some even giggling halfheartedly, thinking that maybe it was one of Chester's weird jokes. The only child that did not seem in the dark was Cindy Ann.

  "Behind you," she hissed with a thin smile that did not match the look in her eyes.

  Chester whirled in time to see the snake again, this time much larger than before, coiled a foot to his right. He jumped away just as the copperhead struck out. He screamed as the snake's fangs snagged the cuff of his faded overalls.

  The next few moments were pure confusion for the gathering of school kids, but pure hell for the swaggering bully. Chester would run a few feet and again encounter another serpent. Sometimes it would be the copperhead waiting there, coiled and on the verge of striking. Other times it would be a rattler or a cottonmouth. No matter how fast he ran to elude the snakes, he would always step into another's path.

  Soon his screams of "Snake! Snake! Snake!" reached the teacher's ears. Mrs. Harris came running, along with Mr. Foster, the school's black custodian. He carried a coal shovel in his dark hands, ready to dispatch the invading reptile.

  By the time they reached the playground, Chester was hurting himself trying to escape the multitude of snakes. He ran head on into several trees, blackening his eyes and bloodying his nose in his blind panic. The spectacle was horrifying to behold, and soon, other grades and their teachers ran to see what was happening.

  "For heaven's sake, Mr. Foster, kill it!" Mrs. Harris yelled. She stared in bewilderment as Chester staggered from tree to tree, screaming his head off, his puffy features bloody and bruised.

  The Negro ran into the grass, the shovel held ready for a swing that would cleave the snake in half. However, search as he may, Foster saw only crab grass and wild flowers. "I don't see no snake, Mrs. Harris."

  The teacher watched as Chester continued to collide with trees, crying and screaming as he went. "Well, keep on looking. It must be around here somewhere."

  The janitor shrugged and kept up his search, however futile. The man would step back whenever the hysterical youngster ran near, eyeing him like someone possessed by the devil.

  Mrs. Harris turned when one of her students tugged on her sleeve. "It's Cindy Biggs," piped Eddie Forbes, a towheaded boy with a chipped front tooth. "She's done put a hex on him."

  At the explanation, she regarded Cindy Ann. The red-haired girl stood serenely beside the swings, watching Chester tear wildly from one tree to the next, to the seesaw and back again.

  Reluctantly, the teacher laid a hand on the girl's shoulder, "Cindy Ann?"

  The girl pulled her attention from the boy long enough to look up at her teacher. The woman was struck speechless by the change in the shy, little girl. A strange satisfaction filled Cindy's freckled face; a smugness born of some underlying emotion that Mrs. Harris could not quite place. It almost seemed as if Cindy was causing the source of the boy's frightful agitation.

  "Stop it, Cindy," she told the child sharply, feeling foolish for actually believing that the girl had anything to do with Chester's erratic behavior.

  Cindy ignored her. She continued to watch as the custodian finally grabbed the screaming boy and held his flailing arms.

  "What's going on here?" asked Ralph Davis, the bespectacled principal of Bedloe County's only public school.

  "I'm not exactly sure," the teacher admitted. Her eyes swept the neighboring class and spotted Cindy's pigtailed sister. "Polly Biggs, come here a minute."

  Polly went to where Mrs. Harris crouched by her little sister. "Yes, ma'am? What's wrong?"

  "You've got to make her stop, Polly."

  The twelve-year-old eyed the teacher skeptically. "Stop her from doing what? She's just standing there."

  The woman was irritated by Polly's impudence. "I don't know. She's done something to Chester. I don't know how, but she has!"

  Mr. Foster yelped in pain as Chester sank his teeth into the man's forearm. Struggling from his grasp, Chester ran a few paces and then tripped. The boy fell sprawling into a mud puddle. Chester Martin screamed bloody murder, a dozen imaginary water moccasins squirming around his thrashing body.

  Polly knelt before Cindy. She placed her hands on her sister's rigid shoulders and shook her gently. "Come on, Cindy Ann, snap out of it." Polly's usually spunky voice now stammered with a cold, inexplicable fear. "Please, Cindy, you've got to!"

  Then, as Polly began to shake her roughly, Cindy's eyes lost their glazed look, and she peered around in frightened confusion. "What's wrong?" she breathed. "What'd I do?"

  "Nothing, Cindy," assured Polly, pulling her baby sister close to her side. The older girl gave Mrs. Harris a withering glare. "You didn't do nothing a'tall."

  The teacher turned her eyes from the two, a deep blush reddening her cheeks. She walked to where the janitor was helping Chester Martin out of the puddle. The squalling boy stood there, mud-splattered and trembling, the profusion of serpents completely stricken from his mind.

  Cindy's tears soaked through Polly's drab pink dress as she sobbed. "I wanna go home!"

  The principal glanced at his pocket watch and then nodded to Polly. "Go ahead and
take her on home," he allowed. Mr. Davis stared at Cindy, looked over at Chester, then walked back to his office, shaking his head.

  For the Biggs children, the last day of school had not turned out to be the time of rejoicing that usually preceded summer vacation. They all walked home quietly; Polly, Cindy, and Josh, all bewildered at what had taken place. Before they reached Old Newsome Road, the three agreed to say nothing about the incident to their parents. It was safe to say that Maudie and Clay would hear about it soon enough, from the wagging tongues of Coleman's town gossips.

  Chapter Six

  After leaving the Biggs house that morning, Johnny and his buddies neglected to hitch a ride to Nashville and take the afternoon bus like they had first planned to do. "Let's play hooky one last time," insisted C.J. with a sparkle of sly mischief in his beady eyes. Not wanting to put Potts into one of his cranky moods, Johnny and Billy conceded. The remainder of that breezy spring day was spent doing the things they had enjoyed as kids: swiping apples, skinny-dipping in Weaver's Pond, and teasing the girls outside Jenson's Drugstore in town.

  As the evening drew on and storm clouds darkened the vast Tennessee sky, C.J.'s cravings turned to more adult pleasures. Reluctant to refuse their cocky friend's request, Johnny and Billy agreed to accompany him to Coleman's only beer joint.

  The Bloody Bucket was located across the railroad tracks from the town square. After passing the water tower and a gathering of shabby tin and tarpaper shacks, the tavern sat back from the roadway. It was a low, seedy building, its windows flashing brilliant with neon beer signs and its interior constantly thrumming with the feisty beat of honky-tonk music. The Bloody Bucket had been named such for its violent reputation. Numerous fistfights and knifings had tarnished the saloon's history, as had the shady dealings of its owner, Otis Schofield. Vices such as illegal whiskey, prostitution, and backroom gambling had plagued Schofield's reputation with the local townsfolk. During the long stretch of Prohibition, the roadhouse had been forced to close its doors, but Schofield had remained busy. He faded from public life, manufacturing and transporting bootleg whiskey under the noses of federal agents. When the 18th amendment was repealed in '33, Otis reopened the Bloody Bucket and had enjoyed a brisk business ever since.

  It was because of the joint's sleazy reputation that Johnny Biggs and Billy Longcreek were reluctant to set foot inside the Bloody Bucket. Neither had ever darkened its doorway, having the good sense to avoid its seamy temptations. C.J. Potts, however, claimed to be a regular patron of the establishment. He led the way boldly as the three walked inside and strolled up to the long bar lined with padded stools.

  It was a Friday night and the joint was jumping. The tavern was packed, echoing with the clink of beer bottles, the dry shuffle of playing cards, and the fast-paced picking and singing of hillbilly music. The lighting was muted a murky, golden orange by the heavy pall of cigarette smoke that lingered among the tables. A gathering of poker players guffawed loudly about something that had happened at the school that day. Something about snakes that weren't really there, from what Johnny could make out. The four ceased their laughter after receiving a cold glare from Sonny Martin, who stood over his fifth beer at the end of the bar.

  "Bartender, three beers for my pals and I," demanded C.J. with a flourish of bogus authority. His flat cap was perched at a cocky angle, and his scruffy, pencil-thin mustache suggested a hint of Douglas Fairbanks, despite his weasely features.

  Otis Schofield regarded the boy wearily, a bit ruffled by his brashness. "You boys think you're old enough to set foot in here? I mean you hardly look like you've been weaned from your mama's teat, let alone deserving of strong drink."

  C.J. was indignant at Schofield's insinuation. "Why, I'll have you know we're on our way to Cherokee National Forest. We're gonna be working the CCC there for the next year."

  Otis raised his bushy brows in mock respect. "Why, that's mighty commendable, boys! In fact, that surely deserves a drink on the house. Jasper, bring out three mugs of that special beer."

  "Special beer?" C.J. asked curiously.

  "A special German blend imported from overseas," boasted the burly saloon owner. Jasper Berle, Schofield's bartender and right-hand man, slid three mugs of foamy, golden brew down the polished length of the bar. "Enjoy, boys!" Otis grinned, his massive, tattooed forearms crossed before his barrel chest.

  "Much obliged." C.J. grabbed the mug and took a big swig. Billy was about to drink his, when he noticed that Johnny was making no move toward the beer. Johnny could see something awful untrustworthy in Schofield's gold-crowned grin.

  "Gaggh!" sputtered C. J., dropping his mug on the sawdust floor. He hacked and gasped until he was red in the face. "What the hell is this stuff? It tastes like horse piss!"

  Otis and his cronies cackled wildly. "I reckon that's because that's what it is! I wasn't lying to you, though. It did come from a German horse!" Laughter erupted down the bar, soon joined by those at the surrounding tables.

  C.J. choked angrily and shook a fist over the bar. "Why, you dumb bastard! I oughta whip your fat ass for that!"

  Schofield suddenly produced a Louisville Slugger from under the counter. He waved the baseball bat at C.J., the humor now absent from his hard eyes. "You'd best skedaddle outta here, boy, before I lay this upside your ugly head!"

  Johnny and Billy pulled their buddy away from the bar, despite his eagerness to fight. Johnny noticed that the heavy wood column of Schofield's bat was dark at its widest point and realized that the stains were blood.

  "Come on, C.J., cool down. It was just a stupid joke. No need to get yourself killed over it."

  As the three ducked through the tavern door, Otis rapped his bat loudly on the bar top. "I don't wanna see you young'uns back in here tonight, you hear me?"

  The fresh night air hit their senses as they walked across the congested parking lot, away from the stifling pall of tobacco smoke and the sweet-sour stench of hard liquor. Johnny and Billy were relieved to be away from the place, but C.J. still fumed over the incident. He acted as if his manhood had been questioned just because of his inability to get them all a snootful of good drinking liquor.

  They went to the tree they had stashed their gear under, then started through the crowded parking lot toward the main highway. "I think we'd better find us a ride to Nashville tonight," suggested Johnny. "Maybe catch a bus tomorrow morning to the mountains."

  Billy agreed wholeheartedly. "Yeah, we're supposed to report for work on Monday. That doesn't leave us much time to get settled once we get there."

  C.J. seemed disgusted by their sensible talk. "Hey, you clowns sound like a couple of shawl-knitting grannies. We're finally free, boys. Free from eighteen years of being bossed around. Let's celebrate! Find us a shot of booze and then get on to Nashville."

  "I believe we might be able to help you fellas out on both them counts."

  The voice came from a beat-up truck parked in the inky shadows of a black walnut tree. From the darkness emerged two men. Something about the pair bothered Johnny, almost frightened him. It was almost like having a couple of fiddleback spiders crawl up your arm while rummaging through a woodpile.

  "Do we know you?" asked C.J., shifting his bedroll to his shoulder.

  "Maybe . . . maybe not," said the larger of the two. He was a hulking bear of a man with sandy blond hair and a chaw of tobacco stuck in one side of his jaw. "Who we are ain't all that important anyway, is it? All that matters to you is a drink of top-grade hooch."

  "You're on the right track . . . if you ain't pulling our legs."

  The big man nodded to his sidekick, a lanky individual with goofy, rodent like features. The other produced a silver flask from his back pocket and tossed it to Potts. "Try a swig of that. Genuine white mule."

  C.J. uncapped the flask and took a swallow. He stood there, unaffected for a moment. Then the alcohol hit him like a slap in the face. "Whoeee!" the boy exclaimed. "That's prime stuff! Where'd you get it?"

  "Made it ourse
lves," bragged the big man leaning back on the grill of his rattletrap pickup. "For a dollar apiece you boys can drink your fill."

  "Hot dog!" whooped C.J. He fumbled in his pocket and produced a sizable money roll. He peeled off a single bill. "You just hand that jug right over."

  The man laughed. His eyes ignored the dollar and settled on the wad of greenbacks instead. "Now, you don't think I'd be fool enough to tote it around in the truck with me, do ya? I ain't that daring!"

  "We can take you to where it is, though," said the skinny fellow. His oily hair hung lankily over his forehead, and he had crooked buckteeth. "Ain't too far from here and it'd be well worth the ride."

  "Well, what're we waiting for? Let's go!" C.J. exclaimed.

  Johnny grabbed his friend's elbow. "I don't know if we should or not. We really need to get to Nashville tonight."

  "Well, you're in luck then." The big fellow beamed. "We were planning on heading up there for the weekend. You're welcome to ride along if you want."

  Johnny was not a bit fooled by the man's sudden friendliness. He had noticed the way he had eyed C.J.'s bankroll. He did not trust the two strangers and their harmless proposition. He and Billy both carried a few dollars each, but C.J. had close to forty dollars on him. If the two men got them drunk with poison rotgut, there was more than a good chance they would wake up in a ditch the next morning, their pockets emptied and their heads aching like rotten teeth.

  But Potts would have no part of Johnny's hesitation. "What in tarnation is the matter with you, Biggs? You're acting like a damned sissy. We got us a chance at some gut-burning moonshine and at a dollar a head. Hell, man, we can't pass that up!"

  Thick clouds rumbled with thunder overhead. "You fellas better make your minds up fast. Looks like it might pour down rain any minute now."

  Johnny cussed himself for giving in, but he had known C.J. since the first grade and knew there would be no living with him if he didn't get his way. "All right, but just one drink. Then we head for Nashville."