Joey Mills Read online

  First published by The Writer’s Coffee Shop, 2011

  Copyright © Joey Mills, 2011

  The right of Joey Mills to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000

  This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part maybe reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Writer’s Coffee Shop

  (Australia) PO Box 2013 Hornsby Westfield NSW 1635

  (USA) PO Box 2116 Waxahachie TX 75168

  Paperback ISBN- 978-1-61213-014-9

  E-book ISBN- 978-1-61213-015-6

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the US Congress Library.

  Cover image by: Editorial

  Cover design by: Jennifer McGuire

  www.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/jmills

  www.joeymills.com

  Joey Mills is a native of the Missouri Ozarks. He was born in Springfield, Missouri in December 1977 and is the oldest of three children. Joey’s first novel, “Crowe”, will be published by TWCS Publishing in early 2011. Joey and his wife Jenny live in Missouri with their three children, Jacob, Julia, and Josie and the family’s two dogs. When he’s not taking care of the house and family, Joey is working on his next project.

  A lot of effort and love went into the creation of this book, both on my part and by others. I want to thank Tish and Mandy at TWCS Publishing House for taking a chance on me, an unpublished and unproven author. I hope that with Crowe I have started to live up to your expectations. I also need to thank Lea at TWCS Publishing House for truing up the format and style.

  I especially need to thank my editor, Lauren, for keeping me honest and making me dig deeper to find the right words to convey the details and emotions of the scenes in this story. I appreciate the work you have done on behalf of these characters and I know that they would thank you as well.

  Of course I need to thank my family and friends for their support of me and my wild dream to become a writer. Thank you, Jacob, Julia, and Josie, for the keeping me grounded and for not being at all impressed that Daddy’s name is on this book. Thank you to my wife, Jenny, for your support throughout this whole process. There wouldn’t be a Crowe without you. I love you.

  Finally, I thank you, the reader. Without you, there wouldn’t be a demand for quality writing. I hope that the words that follow are worthy of your time and attention. Yours is the highest expectation that I can aspire to and the highest praise I can receive. Thank you for picking up Crowe. I look forward to taking this journey together.

  Joey Mills

  February 24, 2011

  “You didn’t really thin you could beat me, did you?”

  The Devil watched as Johnny --- poor, insignificant Johnny --- stood before him, head hung in shame. There had been many through the ages that had been foolish enough to try and stand up to the Devil. They had come in all shapes and sizes and from different walks of life. There had been poets and warriors, fathers and sons, princes and paupers. They all had one thing in common; every one of them had been smarter than Johnny, that’s for sure. Still, few had the courage to stand there, defeated and willing to accept their fate; he had to give the boy credit for that. Johnny was ready for the Devil’s worst, and his worst was downright dreadful.

  He was the Devil, after all.

  “No,” muttered Johnny.

  “That’s right,” the Devil gloated. There was something about the boy that had troubled him, but it was no matter now. The boy was beaten, and the Devil’s victory over the rest of them was all but complete.

  “You can’t beat me. No one can, now that my army is complete. I’m going to take over the world, and I’m going to start right here, in Fiddler’s Picket. In the shadow of that stone prison.” The Devil thumbed over his shoulder toward Devil’s Knob. “Right after I finish you.”

  A sudden unease grew in the Devil’s black heart. Johnny lifted his head and looked past the Devil, his gaze focused on the Knob. Devil’s Knob.

  His head cocked to the side, Johnny listened to a voice that only he could hear, a voice that confirmed what he already knew. The Devil took a hard look at Johnny’s face and realized his mistake. It wasn’t shame at his defeat that caused the boy to hang his head as he had descended the hill, it was acceptance.

  The distress the Devil felt shifted and changed, transformed into something new, something so alien that at first the Devil was stumped by what it was that he felt. Then he remembered. For only the second time in his long life, the Devil was afraid.

  Johnny Crowe sat on the edge of his cart, tossing a fist-sized stone between his hands, his bare feet dangling in front of him. He knew that, by nature, the first market of the spring was more of a social event than a commercial one. The real days of dickering and bargaining didn’t come until late March.

  The boy paused to brush his shaggy, brown bangs away from his face. He might not have been the brightest young man in Fiddler’s Picket, but even Johnny had noticed a different energy in the market square this year. It had been a long and lonesome winter in the Shenandoah Valley, and news of the fighting had frozen up once the cold had set in. For months, farmers and townsfolk sat with their noses pressed against their windows, their breath fogging the glass while they scanned the horizon for any sign of invasion by those blue-coated Federals from the north. The family merchants rolled into town this morning and went about the business of setting up their varied booths and stalls, but their thoughts had drifted elsewhere, beyond the line of blue mountains to the east.

  It seemed to Johnny that everyone at the market this morning was caught up in the nervous tension. Folks huddled together in small groups, sharing what little news they had and filling in the missing details with all manner of speculation. Rumors seemed to carry just as much weight with the crowd as actual facts did. The people were willing to cling to anything that would allay their fears. If a fella could’ve found a way to bottle and sell a little hope and happiness, Johnny thought, watching the people pass by without sparing him a glance, he’d have made a killin’ today.

  Johnny alone, was unaffected by the cloud of worry and doubt that hung over the town. All this talk of people he had never heard of and places he had never been didn’t matter at all to him. So there was a little fighting going on back east. From what Johnny understood of human nature, it was a good bet that there was always fighting going on somewhere. Sure, the fighting last summer had been closer to home, but Virginia was a big state and he had never been any further than Farmer Dugan’s western field. Besides from what he had heard, ol’ Stonewall Jackson had ran the Federals all the way back to Washington D.C.; who was to say that there had been any more fighting since then?

  I know that if I’d been sent runnin’ with my tail tucked between my legs that I’d be hard pressed to want to pick another fight with that same dog again. Johnny leaned back against the pile of rocks in the back of his cart, soaking up what he could of the early March sunshine. Getting worked up over nothin’. Seems that’s what folks do best around here.

  There was only one thing that got Johnny worked up, and that was Anna Lee. He didn’t know whether it was the sun or whether it was thinking about her that did it, but Johnny felt his face grow hot as he remembered the last time he had seen the
young woman. That had been up on the hill, right before the first big snowfall almost three months earlier. Johnny remembered, the pink roses that bloomed high on her pale cheeks, the way her breath had come out in white puffs while they sat holding hands watching the sun set in the early afternoon. That’s a long time for a fella that’s in love. Johnny wondered whether she would come down to the market today.

  Johnny’s stomach rumbled, reminding him that there were other things to think about besides Anna Lee. Foremost among them being the reason he had hauled all these rocks down to market in the first place; to sell enough of these stones to be able to pick up something to eat. His winter garden had never amounted to much, but the cold had taken a much harder toll on it this year, leaving many nights where Johnny went to bed cold, hungry, and miserable. His prospects for making a sale were already bleak at best. In the two full years that he had hauled rocks down to market Johnny hadn’t managed to sell a single stone. On occasion, one of the other vendors would take pity on him and trade Johnny a piece of fruit or a vegetable that had been picked over and was bruised or about to spoil, or maybe a stringy-looking hen that never had laid an egg. In exchange, Johnny would give them a handful of gravel or a good-sized doorstop. But as for actually selling one of his stones, Johnny had never accomplished that yet.

  This’ll be my third year down here, Johnny thought, his stomach rumbling once more. Things have gotta change. I just know it.

  With the sun shining down on him, Johnny dozed off. He dreamed about eggs - two of them - sizzling in the frying pan, popping and turning brown around the edges while they floated in a thin layer of bacon grease. His mouth watered. He could almost smell them cooking. The eggs now done, dream-Johnny forked them out of the pan and was about to sit down and eat when, all at once, Bart let out a loud bray that shattered the illusion and brought Johnny back to reality.

  Johnny sat up and his stomach rumbled its protest at having been denied the rest of the dream. He rounded to scold the old flop-eared mule, but the words caught in his throat. All around him, everyone in the market stood in silence, their eyes fixed to the west. Now that his head was cleared of the dream, Johnny heard what had caught their attention. It was a low, thundering sound that grew as the soldiers closed in on the town. An army was on the march and it was headed for Fiddler’s Picket.

  Movement at the far end of town caught Johnny’s eye. While his mind had wandered, a group had congregated outside of Doc Lawson’s clinic, no doubt there to ask the Doc about what he had heard of the fighting back east. And why not? Doc was the most educated man in town, a fact that he had no qualms about flaunting every chance he could. If anyone knew what was going on to the east it would be the Doc. Sure enough, there he stood on the top step, looking like he had been turned to stone mid-speech. A few of the folks there shuffled forward to get a better look down the main street that ran through the heart of the town. It was on alongside this road that the army was marching, keeping to one side to avoid the muddy ruts that scarred the lane every spring.

  To the relief of everyone assembled, these men weren’t wearing the dark blue Federal uniforms. The soldiers drew closer and those on the west end of the market were able to make out the two flags at the head of the procession. The new flag of the Commonwealth of Virginia flew alongside the Stars and Bars of the Confederacy, and together they led the soldiers into town.

  Those closest to Johnny on the west end of the market square were the first to raise a whooping and hollering. Fear was erased and joy was written onto the faces of the crowd as folks scattered about the square to watch the troops march to a halt in the center of town. The soldiers stood at attention while the men waved their hats and the ladies their handkerchiefs. Shouts of “Give ‘em hell!” and “Run ‘em out!” were heard over the general commotion. The soldiers smiled, looking about and basking in the glad tidings of the town.

  The commanding officer, a Major by the symbol he wore on his coat, waved to the crowd, which fell silent once again in order to hear the Major’s command. The officer instructed his men to stack arms and fall out, allowing them a brief rest from on their trek. The men did as they were ordered, stacking their weapons and packs just off of the main road, then wandered among the booths and stalls where merchant and customer alike greeted them with warm smiles and open arms. The Major watched his men interact with the locals, knowing that the men would need to remember scenes like this in the weeks and months ahead.

  From the back of his cart, Johnny watched the farmers and townsfolk rushing over to greet the soldiers. Among the enlisted men, Johnny saw every age and shape imaginable. Some wore the hard look of a veteran who had seen fighting before; these were men who had left careers in the army of the United States in order to protect their homes. Something in their eyes, the lines etched on their faces spoke that they knew all too well of the bloody work that lay ahead. Others had the wind-beaten look of farmers and farmhands, which Johnny knew and saw in the farmers who patted the men on their backs and shook their hands.

  Only difference ‘tween ‘em is that some are wearin’ bib overalls and some are wearin’ uniforms.

  What caught Johnny off guard was the number of young faces among the soldiers, men about his own age. Folks brought them ladles of water and vendors stuffed their pockets full of tobacco and baked goods, whatever they had to give, until the men laughed and waved them off, unable to carry any more. People asked the soldiers where they were from and where they were headed; had they seen any action on their way here? Off to the side, Susie Anderson, who many considered the prettiest girl in the whole Valley, entertained a group of the younger men, even going so far as to lean in and plant a kiss on one of the soldiers, which would be talked about in hushed, scandalous tones for weeks to come.

  The festive atmosphere spread throughout the town, and for a time, those dark clouds of worry and fear lifted. Still, Johnny couldn’t shake the feelings of jealousy and anger that had taken root in his gut

  “I’ve been here my whole life,” he murmured, a frown creasing his brow. “Ain’t no one ever been that nice to me.”

  Johnny knew that wasn’t entirely true. Farmer Dugan had offered him a job, clothed him, and even offered him a place to stay after Grandpa died, even when the rest of the town had been content to let him starve or freeze to death all alone up on top Devil’s Knob.

  Over the noise of the crowd, the church bells rang out in celebration. Johnny craned his neck and watched Reverend Henderson throw open the doors to church and welcome the soldiers. The troops gathered around and the noise of the crowd died down while the Reverend bowed his head and asked the Lord’s blessing on the soldiers and their families.

  Seeing the Reverend in prayer and hearing his words cooled the fire in Johnny’s belly. He felt the heat return to his face, not out of passion this time but from shame.

  Guess there’s one or two other folks that’s done me a solid, Johnny scolded himself. Still… the only difference ‘tween me and ‘em boys is that they’s enlisted men and I’m just sittin’ here on a pile of rocks.

  Another voice spoke up in Johnny’s head, one that sounded an awful lot like Grandpa Crowe.

  Really, ain’t that all the difference in the world?

  With the rest of the crowd preoccupied, Doc stepped down from the clinic’s porch and managed to pull the Major aside. Johnny leaned forward, hoping that he might be able to hear what they were saying but knowing it was useless. They were just too far away. No reason I can’t go over there and listen in, Johnny tried to convince himself, though he remained seated right where he was.

  There was a good reason for Johnny to avoid the Doc. It had been a cold and cheerless night some thirteen years ago when the Doc had been roused from his bed by Gus Sewell. Gus had been one of Grandpa Crowe’s drinking buddies and the two had spent the evening in town boozing, gambling, and Lord knows what else. Grandpa had left the Bull Ox, the only inn in
town, an hour or so ahead of Gus, stumbling his way across town in the dark. By the time Gus had left the Bull Ox, he was so soused that he almost tripped and fell over Grandpa’s lifeless body at the foot of Devil’s Knob. When Grandpa didn’t respond to repeated attempts at getting him on his feet, Gus went and fetched the Doc. By the time the Gus was able to convince the Doc to come with him and the unlikely pair made it out to Devil’s Knob, Grandpa was long expired.

  Doc Lawson still seemed to hold the intrusion on that night’s sleep against Johnny, the only surviving Crowe up on Devil’s Knob. Johnny didn’t think the Doc would care much for him listening in on his conversation with the Major.

  Why you getting worked up over ‘em soldiers, anyhow? Grandpa’s voice asked. You don’t care nothin’ about no war.

  That seemed true enough, except seeing the soldiers march into town and watching how the townsfolk greeted them had caused something inside of Johnny to shift, falling off of the dusty top shelf of the closet where it had laid hidden all these years and clicking into place. He could sit here and let the soldiers march on and forget it ever happened. He could go back to busting rocks on top of the Knob and hauling them down here in hopes of getting a little something in his stomach so he didn’t have to go to bed with it empty. He could sit here on the outside of society, forgotten and fearful of what people like Doc Lawson thought of him, until one day he stopped showing up and no one noticed. As sad as it was, there was some comfort in the familiar.

  Or, Johnny thought, I could do somethin’ about it. If I was to join up with the army, these folk would have to accept me, wouldn’t they? I mean, they’ve accepted these fellas, and they’re just strangers passin’ through.

  Was that really all it would take to change his fortunes in this town? Didn’t he deserve better than the life he had? Didn’t Anna Lee deserve better?

  Johnny hopped down from the back of the cart. “Keep an eye on things,” he instructed Bart, who was busy nosing his way under the tarp that covered the stall next to them, snatching mouthfuls of hay. Dusting the seat of his britches as he went, Johnny crossed the square while the Reverend ended his benediction and the crowd noise pick up once more.