The whack upside Davy’s head was a distant memory when they arrived in Gerardstown in the shadow of the Blue Ridge Mountains. He waited for Meyers to come out of the mercantile building where he bargained a good price for his barrels of flannel. Eventually the man came out the door with a satisfied smile on his face.
“God has favored us,” he said, holding out his hand to Davy. “You did good work, Master Crockett.”
Davy grinned as he felt coins fall into his palm. He quickly put them away in his pocket without counting them. Meyers might be insulted if he counted them in front of him.
“When can we start back home, sir?”
Meyers’ smile disappeared, and his eyes went off to the side. Davy knew bad news was coming.
“This is a tough business,” he started. “I need to transport cargo to make money. I can’t make money taking a boy home to his mama. Right now, somebody wants me to take a load of tobacco to Washington. No one wants anything moved to Tennessee right now so we can’t go there.”
Air escaped Davy’s lips, but he maintained his bright smile. “Well, I ain’t never been to Washington.”
“It’d be better if you stayed here. I know a farmer who can use help. He’s an old man. It’ll be a blessing to him.”
John Gray had gray hair that hung sparsely around his ears, framing a round, red face. His eyes were kind but sad and weary. Wrinkles surrounded his mouth that seemed too tired to turn up. His thick hand patted Davy gently on the back when Meyers rode off with a wagon filled with barrels of cured tobacco leaves.
“Well, boy, a new stack of hay needs to be spread in the barn,” Gray said before he turned to walk to his house where he took a nap.
Davy went to work in the barn. When Gray awoke in a couple of hours he told the boy to steal a bucket of honey from the bee-infest sourwood tree nestled under a growth of oaks and hickories on the far side of the field. Gray told Davy he was going to combine the honey with cider vinegar and water to make a batch of switchell. At the end of the day as they ate pinto beans and mustard greens from a wooden trencher and drank a tankard of the switchell, Gray scooted a quarter across the table toward Davy.
“Good work.”
He slept on the floor on a feather mattress near the fireplace as the old man took to his bed and snored through the night. When the sun peeked through his windows the next morning Gray fixed a breakfast of bacon and biscuits. Gray then told Davy to go out into the woods to pick yarrow leaves, walk into town and sell them to travelers. The leaves, after they had been put in shoes, relieved blisters on the travelers’ feet. That evening he returned with a pocket filled with coins—for he found he had a natural talent for convincing folks they needed something he had to sell. Gray nodded with approval as Davy handed him the coins, and he gave one back to the boy.
Weeks passed before Meyers’ return from Washington. Davy stood on Gray’s porch as Meyers came down the road.
“Hello, sir,” he said, smiling. “I missed you.”
“It was a profitable trip.”
“When are we leavin’ for home?”
“When I get a load to take home.”
However, like weeks earlier, Meyers did not find merchandise needed in Tennessee, but found barrels of pelts that had buyers waiting in Alexandria, so he left Davy again on the farm with Gray. Fall came and went as Meyers continued to find only loads for the East coast and not south to the mountains. One night in January as snow fell like ghost particles on rough cedar shingles Davy settled on his feather mattress by a crackling fire, listening to Gray moan as he slipped into his bed.
“Mr. Gray, sir?”
“Yes, boy?”
“Do most folks beat their boys?”
“Do most boys need a beatin’?”
“Don’t know. Depends, I guess.” Davy paused. “Suppose a boy should be whupped but his pa don’t ‘cause he’s so drunk he can’t rightly stand up. Then there’s this other boy who maybe should lose his supper but not git a whuppin’, and his pa is drunk as a skunk but can still stand good enough to whup his boy. It ain’t fair, the way some men beat good boys and some bad boys never git whupped.”
“Ah, there’s where you make your mistake,” Gray said. “Life ain’t fair. Forgit fair. It ain’t whether you beat a youngin’ or you git beat, it’s what you learn.”
“Is there anythin’ a boy can do to keep from gittin’ beat?”
“Jest grow up.”
“I don’t think I know what that means—grow up.”
“Git big. A pa never hit a boy who was bigger than him.”
“Thank you, sir.” Davy rolled over on his side. He decided he would wait until he was about sixteen to return to Morristown. Then he would be too big to hit.

***

Sam Houston’s words echoed in David’s mind as he rode back to his farm after the court hearing. Abner rode by his side.
“So what do you think, Abner? Was I wrong to tell Elizabeth I wasn’t thinkin’ about goin’ to Texas?”
“Don’t worry about it none.”
Texas meant another chance to be in politics, another chance to make a fortune. David had to admit there was not have much left in Tennessee. Relatives hated him. Neighbors rejected him. Elizabeth and the children left him long ago. David had no choice but to go to Texas.
“Abner, I’m sure I’m right. I’m goin’ ahead.”
“I know. Jest make sure you make your proper good-byes to everyone before you go.”
In the next few weeks David put out word he was hosting a big party at his place on Rutherford Fork before going to Texas. For days before the big event he dug a pit south of the house, lining it with large stones and laying in tree limbs cut from hickories. He hunted bear and deer and dressed them for cooking over an open fire. For games, he felled several poplars, stripped their branches and bark, readying them for oiling and rolling. It was great fun, keeping his mind occupied and away for the reason for the party. He filled barrels with ale, run and whiskey, and hired women to cook the meat roast ears of green corn and bake potatoes.
Men from Gibson County and as far away as Memphis and Nashville arrived the day of the cookout, all laughing and slapping each other on the backs. The younger men were the first to attach the greasy logs and roll them across the field. David guffawed as William came away from the game smeared with bear grease.
“Good job, William!” David roared, drinking from a gourd filled with whiskey.
“Why don’t you see if you can still roll a log?” a young voice called out.
David dipped his carved gourd into the whiskey barrel again. He did not have to put up with any defense about his age or his loss to Adam Huntsman to anyone now.
“I’m goin’ to Texas!” David almost did not recognize his own voice. It blared. It was coarse. It was angry.
“What’s in Texas?” A man in his twenties could only just hide his joy at prodding the defeated congressman.
“Land! Money! Power!” he bellowed.
Before he could continue the women rang a cowbell, and the men rushed the tables, grabbing trenchers and filled them with food. Abner walked up to David and put his arm around his shoulder.
“Don’t let ‘em bother you.”
“Nobody’s botherin’ me.” David took another sip from the gourd.
“Is John Wesley comin’?”
“No. He knew I was goin’ to have the barrels. He said he didn’t want to be around a bunch of drunks.” He slurped from the gourd. “Sometimes a man’s got to have a drink or he’ll bust.”
Eating and drinking continued through the afternoon and as the sun began to disappear behind the trees, voices for David to attempt to roll the greased pole across the field increased. Instead he talked about joining Sam Houston in Texas, exploring the hills, forests and plains and building a new political coalition among transplants from Tennessee, North Carolina and Alabama. Ultimately David could not ignore the swell of challenges for him to roll the log. He looked around and took one last swig from the gourd.
“I’ll do it,” he said at full volume and with determination.
“You don’t have to do this,” Abner whispered.
Pulling away and throwing down the gourd, he wiped his mouth on his buckskin sleeve and assaulted one of the greased poles to hoots and howls. Abner and William led a chorus of encouragement while drunken young voices shouted in derision. David started it moving easily across the field, inciting huzzahs. His heart raced; he was energized to show the young dogs he still could run with the best of them. Then a rut appeared, and the pole slid in. As David pushed, his hands slipped on the grease, hitting his chest against the log. He put his arms under it to try to boost the pole out of the run. The extended day took its toll on him, and he could not budge it, no matter how much he grunted.
“Whoa!” several of the young men yelled.
“Come on, Uncle David! You can do it!” William shouted.
Sounds of encouragement and taunts blurred in his ears as he concentrated on shoving the log, but the harder he pushed and lifted the more his strength ebbed away. For the first time since he grew up, David was not able to overcome a physical hurdle. He felt his anger burning in the pit of his stomach and rising from his chest to his head. He erupted when he realized the pole was intractable. Standing, David turned toward the crowd.
“Give up?” a man in his twenties shouted.
“I never give up!” he replied in a bellow. “That log ain’t nothin’!”
“That’s right!” Abner agreed in the loudest voice he could muster.
“I ain’t givin’ up on life! I’m goin’ to Texas! I’m goin’ to make a new life!” He heard laughter and shouts, not knowing if they were laughing at him and shouting for him, which made him even angrier. “I’m goin’ to Texas! You can go to hell! I’m goin’ to Texas!”
All shouts stopped. David could not make out their faces in the fading evening light, whether they were shocked by what he said, angry at him, or felt sorry for him. The thought that he had become an object of pity made him rage even more.
“You can go to hell! You can all go to hell!” He looked down and tried to rub the grease from his shirt. “I’m goin’ to Texas.” His voice softened and whimpered a bit. “I’m goin’ to Texas.”

***

“Uh? What?” Lonnie stirred from his slumber, looking around. His watery brown eyes focused on Dave. “Oh. It’s you, Puppy. Well, sit down.”
Dave sat on the edge of their worn faded green divan and looked at his father. He decided his father looked smaller than the last time he visited. Maybe it was just like with Davy Crockett. Dave finally got bigger, and that’s why he could come home.
“Sure, Dad.” Dave’s hand ran across the arm of the old divan. He could not remember when it was new. He did remember the day his father bought his now broken recliner. Lonnie bragged that he had gotten a good price for it from a neighborhood widow. Now it looked like trash, ripped and caked with disgusting filth.
“Do you know what inning it is? I fell asleep and lost track. It’s those Texas Rangers. They ain’t worth nothing, but I watch them anyway. I don’t think they’ve scored.”
“How have you been feeling, Dad?” Dave was surprised how thin and white his father’s hair was. Lonnie’s massive chest and shoulders sagged.
“Uh? Me?” Lonnie coughed. “Oh, I’m fine.”
“Have you stopped smoking? The doctor said it wasn’t good for your heart.”
“Aww, son, I don’t believe none of that.” He screwed up his face. “Anyway, I don’t think I could stop if I wanted to.”
“Mrs. Dody wrote me you’re still having angina attacks.”
Lonnie frowned and pursed his lips, a sign he was not happy with the turn of conversation. When he was a child Dave could expect an explosion of curse words, and even now he steeled himself for a violent reaction.
“You still married to that li’l gal?”
Dave sighed in relief that his father chose to change the subject. He knew Lonnie did not approve of his divorce and remarriage. “Tiffany? Yes. We’re very happy.”
“You still see the boys, don’t you?”
“Yeah, we’re real pals.”
“First divorce in the family,” Lonnie said with a sigh. “I couldn’t believe it.”
Dave could not believe it himself. Linda had been his girlfriend in college. Linda never said no to anything, never lost her temper and never let him down in any way. The only thing she could not do was make Dave like himself. Tiffany gave him self-esteem and passion. He never fell out of love with Linda; he just never had the passion and lust he wanted.
“Sometimes things just don’t work out,” he said.
If mother had lived she’d divorced him.
Dave turned his head sharply when he heard Allan’s voice again. He did not want to remember that voice, always tinged with sarcasm and madness.
When the kids are raised, I don’t see why people have to stay together. Allan puffed on a cigarette, his arm doing pirouettes. That’s what she always said.
If he could ignore his brother and focus on their father he could maintain his sanity. “What time is the funeral tomorrow?”
“Ten o’clock.” Lonnie looked at the television screen. “Well, if those Rangers ain’t ahead.”
Dave walked over to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. “Didn’t the church send over any food?”
Good Baptist church members always arrived on the doorstep of homes of the bereaved. Dave remembered when his mother died women came in with bowls of vegetables and platters of fried chicken.
“Which church is that?”
Dave recognized the tone in his father’s voice—flat, tense and explosive.
“Our church. Mother’s church.”
I used to believe in God, but I don’t any more.
“As much food as mother fixed for other people, I’d think—“
“That was a long time ago, son. If you don’t go, they don’t think about you anymore.”
He would never go to church, the old devil. Allan stood over Lonnie’s chair and blew smoke through his lips down at his father. Then he clasped his hands in front of his face and contorted his features as though he were a heroine in an old melodrama. I used to pray oh please God, please let daddy go to church so we can be a happy family. His hands fell to his sides, and his voice shook as he spoke in despair. He didn’t, so I don’t believe in God anymore.
“But I thought you’d been going to church with Mrs. Dody.”
“I said they didn’t bring nothing.”
I wish they had so I could poison it, you old devil.
“Now, if you’re hungry I can fix you somethin’,” Lonnie said.
“No, that’s all right,” Dave said. “I was just wondering.”
“Triple play! Well, that blew it!”
I wish I had a baseball bat. I’d bop you on the head, you old devil.
“Is Vince coming over?”
Sounds of violent vomiting in the bathroom down the hall drew Dave’s attention.
“Oh,” Lonnie said, “he’s already here.”