The Ridge: The Whisper of the Leaves - Chap. 19

Marshall estimated there were maybe thirty-five people in the camp. All but a couple of the older ones had stopped in the midst of whatever they were doing to eye them as they came into the camp. After an uncomfortable few seconds, one of the old-timers approached Marshall and the Scoggins’.

“Yall c’mon in,” He reached out a hand toward them in welcome. “Can’t offer ya much, but a place to sleep. You’re welcome to do that, though. Creek over there’s got some fine water in it.”

No one else appeared to be as hospitable as this man was. After a moment, though, they all went back to what they had been doing prior to the intrusion.

Marshall watched as Scoggins introduced himself and his family then pointed to him and said that he was a new friend, but not family. They continued to talk, but Marshall was more interested in getting over to the stream. He walked downstream from the camp and knelt at the edge of the water to wash his face. He had been wanting to do this since early that morning.

“What’s your story?”

Marshall turned around and saw a man of twenty or so standing a few feet away. His words were defiant, challenging.

“No story,” Marshall stood up, drying his hands on a rag. “Just tryin’ ta get by like everyone else.”

“Where you from?” The man took a step toward Marshall.

Marshall dropped the rag and turned to square himself up with the man.

“Well, I don’t guess anybody needs to know that, but me, do they?”

“Jake!”

The man had taken another step forward and had opened his mouth to say something else when the voice stopped him. “Jake” didn’t turn around, but Marshall could see it was the old man who had greeted them. He was running up behind Jake, followed by the whole Scoggins family.

“Jake,” The old man continued when he was standing in front of him. He shoved his finger toward his face and continued. “You leave that boy be. He ain’t done nothin’ but come in here to find a place to sleep, just like all these people here. Just like you and me. So don’t you be messin’ with him. Understand?”

Jake continued to look at Marshall, but he visibly began to relax.

“Understand, Jake?” The old man repeated, but a little softer now.

Jake broke his gaze and looked down at the old man.

“Yes, Pa.”

“Good! Now go on back to our tent and get ready for bed.”

Jake nodded and without looking at Marshall again turned and shuffled away. When he was out of earshot, the old man turned to Marshall. Up close Marshall saw that the “old man” wasn’t so old after all. In fact, Jake’s father was probably no older than Carl Bentwood.

“Don’t pay him no mind, son,” the old man said. “Jake’s a good boy, but he’s always been a little to suspicious. Has it in his head that every new face is either a bull or a revenuer or one of Roosevelt’s henchmen. And lately he’s been thinkin’ that one of them Nazi’s of that Hitler fella’s been tailin’ us.”

Marshall grinned, “Well, I’m not one of them.”

“I know, I know and I apologize for my boy. By the way, the name’s Bates, Harry Bates.” Bates held out his hand.

“Marshall.” He shook his hand. “Marshall Bentwood.”

When he said this, he glanced over at Scoggins and grinned. Malcolm returned the grin and said, “We ain’t known Marshall long, but he seems to be a fine boy.”

“I bet he is,” Bates said, then added, “Yall go ahead and find ya a place to throw a tent up. Nobody else will mess with ya. At least not from the camp.”

“You said something about “bulls” a minute ago,” Scoggins said, “have ya see any lately?”

“Not since we been here,” Bates answered. “But Jake and I both got our heads busted up in Memphis a couple a weeks ago. Probably won’t mess with us out here this far from the track. And the man that owns the land said we could stay here for a while.”

“All ya’ll travlin’ together?” Scoggins asked, as they all began walking back toward the blazing campfire.

“Naw,” Bates looked all around the camp. “Probably six bunches here all together includin’ yall. Came in at different times over the last week or so. How long yall gonna stay.”

“Not sure. Probably just a couple of days or so. Marshall, course, speaks for himself.”

Bates turned around and looked at Marshall who was walking beside Bob.

“I’m goin tomorrow mornin’ if I can get a ride out.” Marshall said.

“Ya are?” Ernie whined.

“Well,” Bates said. “Do what ya gotta do, son. You know your situation.”

Marshall stared hard at the back of Bates head for a moment wondering if he knew something somehow. Then he snickered silently. Jake’s not the only paranoid one in the camp, he thought. But, then again, a little paranoia just might keep me alive and out of trouble.

“I’m gonna make my bed over here,” Marshall pointed to a spot at the outer edges of the camp proper. “I’ll say good by if I decide to go ‘fore ya’ll.”

At that moment, he suddenly heard music. It was a lone guitar and a single resonate, high-pitched voice. Out of curiosity, Marshall walked back toward the main part of the camp. He saw a gaunt man seven or eight years older than himself standing with one leg propped on a stump and a guitar nestled on his knee.

Marshall came into the campfire light and the man nodded a greeting to him which he returned. Marshall stood a while and listened. He liked the music, but the words made him sad. In fact, the sadness of the words was reflected in the man’s eyes. They had a lifetime of living in them that belied his twenty-five or so years.

The man finished the song with a guitar flourish, and someone immediately called out from the group around him.

“Sing anothern’, Woodie.”

“Well, alright,” Woodie said in a nasally voice. “Let’s see how ya like ‘is.”

Woodie kicked into a rousing song that ended up getting everyone singing the chorus, even Marshall.

Once had a home, ain’t there no more cause......

Dust took the house, bank took the dust,

So, I’ll just bank on this road of dust,

And keep on down that road.

After that song, he went on to sing stories of the dust bowl and the poor and farming and hopping trains. Through his words, everyone relived their sorrows and joys of the past days and years.

With some, there was laughter as a certain lyric would bring a long-forgotten memory to the surface. But there were also tears for the same reasons.

But regardless of what emotion was evoked, when he was finished, maybe a hour later, everyone seemed satisfied. Satisfied in the way a person feels to get something off their chest. Guess he’s just speaking for everybody here, Marshall thought.

Many of the people in the camp went up to Woodie afterward to thank him, to pat him of the back, or to offer encouragement. Marshall didn’t, but some fifteen minutes after going back to his area, Woodie came to him.

“How ya doin’, pal?” The singer grinned and reached out his hand to Marshall.

“Fine, sir,” Marshall smiled back. “How’re you.”

“Good Gracious, friend,” Woodie feigned insult. “Don’t call me ‘sir’. I can’t be much older’n you. Just do like everybody else and call me Woodie, please.”

“Okay, Woodie.” Marshall said, grinning. “I’m Marshall.”

“Well, it’s sure good to know ya, Marshall. Where ya from, if I ain’t bein’ too personal?”

“Eastern part of Arkansas, over close to Memphis.”

“Memphis,” Woodie said, scratching the stubble on his chin. “Now that’s one place I ain’t been yet. Heard they got some good music there, though.”

Marshall smiled and nodded, not knowing or caring, but simply being polite.

“Where you from?” Marshall asked, continuing the politeness.

“Born in Oklahoma. From Texas most recently, though. Why you on the road, you alone or with someone?”

“Naw, it’s just me, and, well, I guess it was just time for me to go.”

“Trouble?”

Marshall hesitated when he asked this, but then, for some reason decided he could be open with this man.

“Yea,” He looked around to see if anyone was listening. “These guys, these, uh, bootleggers, they, uh, they killed my brother. I guess you could say I made it right?”

Woodie nodded in understanding.

“Life’s tough.” Woodie said with real compassion. “Seems like bein’ right ain’t enough for this world anymore.”

Marshall nodded and hung his head down when he felt his eyes tearing up.

“Cops lookin’ for ya?”

“Don’t know,” Marshall looked at Woodie, suddenly not caring if he saw the tears. “Probably are by now.”

“Headed anywhere in particular?”

“West.”

Woodie nodded then they both remained silent for a moment.

“Well, I tell ya what,” Woodie said. “There’s some people out there who’d just as soon see to it that I don’t have no more birthdays. So, well, I guess what I’m sayin’ is I could use somebody to watch my back, and from the sound of it so could you. So, do ya want ta go with me? I’m tryin’ to get out to California like a lot of other folks.”

Marshall stared at the man for a moment and was about to say yes, but then thought better of it and said, “Uh, I don’t know. I always wanted to see Texas and, well, uh, how ‘bout ya let me sleep on it. Let me let ya know tomorrow.”

“At’s fine,” Woodie said and stood up. “I’m gonna head out tomorrow. If ya with me, fine, if not well then I wish ya well.”

With that, he stuck out his hand again and Marshall shook it.

“G’dnight,” Woodie said.

“Nite,” Marshall answered to Woodie’s back as he was already walking away. He then made area on the ground and laid down, using his poke for a pillow. The sky was clear, so he put his hands behind his head and stared at the stars for a long time.

It was Marshall’s second night away from home, from his family, from his friends, from the Ridge. For the first time, he wondered if he would ever see any of them again. The aching in his stomach was still there, but there was now an aching higher up as well. An aching in his heart. That was the ache that worried him because that was the ache which felt as if it would be there forever.