It was early morning down at the little country store where the liars circle held court. Not that early morning was a good time to meet, but it was the coming of daylight that put a great deal of their nefarious operations to rest. Some of them were illegal trappers, one or two poachers, a chicken thief and most general reprobates. Most of the decent folk who passed by the Jenkins country store just referred to it as that den of no-goods. On this particular morning Bill Harding was badly hung over, and was nursing a coffee in his seat by the pot belly stove. Being the most senior and esteemed member of the liars circle, he had a reserved seat by the stove. Other members grabbed what chairs there were, and local boys who hoped to learn something from the members of the liars circle were permitted to pull up a wooded crate and listen in respectful silence.
Matt Rankin sat in a chair on the other side of the stove on this cold winter morning, slowly stroking the blade of his leather handle sheath knife on a small pocket stone. Matt was a professional poacher, and had a lucrative business selling game to the restaurants in town for the rich sports that came from Baltimore and Washington D.C. A tall lean man, Rankin was the best shot on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. His skill with his silenced .22 rifle could drop a nice size deer with a clean head shot as easy as Bill Harding could kill a bottle of whiskey. Stroke by easy stroke, Rankin touched up the edge of his hunting knife, pausing now and then to gently feel the keen edge and how it grabbed the ridges of his thumbprint while staring off in the middle distance with his piercing green eyes that could stare a hole through a man.
The morning settled in, and customers came and went while the liars circle talked and solved most of the problems of the world. Old Bill Harding went about trying to fix a fishing lure, carefully threading the split ring through the eye of the treble hook, with shaking fingers. Matt Rankin looked on with an amused expression on his otherwise impassive face.
"Don't slip Billy boy, else you'll catch yourself real good." Matt said quietly.
Bill was about to reply, when the strip of bells that hung on the store door jingled and the door opened admitting the rare customer. The sudden disturbance jared the hung over Bill's concentration enough that he jabbed the barbed hook right into his left middle finger. This of course caused a stream of blue curses to be yelled in pain. The members of the liars circle listened in admiration to Bill's artful cussing, and only looked at who had disturbed the peace and quiet after a long string. A silence fell over the liars circle. There in the doorway stood the Reverend Harding. A compact built man in a dark suit, with silver in his hair at the temples, the reverend had a quiet dignity that clashed with the atmosphere in the Jenkins Country store, let alone with the personality of his semi outlaw brother, the trapper Bill.
In the following silence, the good reverend walked to the counter of the store, where Mrs. Jenkins stood waiting.
"A pouch of the Half and Half tobacco, if you please." said the Reverend.
Mrs. Jenkins reached back and got the pouch of pipe tobacco off the shelf in back of her, while the Reverend glanced around at the gathering of the liars circle. His gaze rested on Bill standing there, holding his left hand in a tight grasp with his right, the fishing lure dangling from the pieced finger and droplets of blood slowly dripping on the floor.
"You've got yourself in a difficulty, William," the reverend said to his brother.
"No sh…, yeah, a bit. I gotta get this hook outa my finger and it's buried up past the barb."
The Reverend paid for the pipe tobacco, and then stepped over to his brother. Bending over and looking closely at the problem, he smiled a funny ironic grin.
"Remember that time on the creek when we were kids, and you were teaching me to fish and I got a hook in my finger? We may have to do that again." the reverend said with a chuckle.
"Aw Chr…heck. I'm gonna need a drink." replied Bill with fearful grimace.
Old man Jenkins reached under the counter and took out the bottle of whiskey he kept there for what he called medicinal use, and handed it to Bill. Bill took no note of his brother the Reverend's disapproving look, and swallowed deeply several times.
"Okay brother, do what you must." he said.
The Reverend reached into his vest pocket and took out his pen knife. It was his Sunday go-to-meeting knife, with the beautiful iridescent pearl scales and scalloped bolsters. The base of the blade was stamped with the IXL brand of the maker. He opened the smaller of the two blades, and felt the edge. Then he took the bottle of whisky and dribbled a little of it over the knife blade.
"I remember when father gave you that, the day you graduated from the Seminary. It's a pretty thing, and I hope you have it nice and sharp." Bill said.
"Oh, it's up to the job all right. Now lay your hand down here on the counter." the Reverend told his brother. "Mr. Rankin, would you assist me?"
With a whoop of joy, Matt Rankin grabbed Bill and with an iron grip forced his hand down on the counter.
"Now hold on a second, maybe I'll…" Bill protested.
But Bill's protest fell on deaf ears, and his brother the Reverend went to work with the little pearl handle English pen knife. Bill let out a howl of pain, and stifled curses, and then it was done. The Reverend has neatly sliced what little skin he had to and removed the barbed hook. Then he took the bottle of whiskey and dribbled some of it right into the bleeding wound on Bill's finger. This got more howling, and the Reverend patted Bill on the shoulder.
"All done, brother. Now just keep it clean and dry for a few days and you'll be good as new."
"You enjoyed that too much." Bill told his brother.
The Reverend just smiled.
"Wicked are the ways of strong drink that unsteadies the hand, and painful is redemption." he told his brother.
Very carefully, the reverend cleaned off the blade of the Sheffield pen knife, and inspected it closely. Satisfied, he closed it and dropped it back in his vest pocket. Picking up the pouch of tobacco from the counter and slipping it into his coat pocket, he walked toward the door. He had almost reached it, when Bill's voice stopped him.
"Hey Bob."
"Yes Bill?" the Reverend asked,
Bill hesitated, and then said simply, "Thank you, brother."
The two men nodded at each other, and then the Reverend left. Bill set to wrapping up his finger with some clean cheese cloth Mrs Jenkins had brought him, and Matt Rankin watched from where he had sat down and rolled himself a smoke from the Bull Durham sack in his pocket. He was grinning at Bill, with the smoke hanging from a corner of his mouth.
"What you grinning like a loon at?" Bill asked him.
"Wicked are the ways of strong drink, and painful is redemption" he said.
"Oh shut up." Bill said as he wrapped his finger.
Matt Rankin sat in a chair on the other side of the stove on this cold winter morning, slowly stroking the blade of his leather handle sheath knife on a small pocket stone. Matt was a professional poacher, and had a lucrative business selling game to the restaurants in town for the rich sports that came from Baltimore and Washington D.C. A tall lean man, Rankin was the best shot on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. His skill with his silenced .22 rifle could drop a nice size deer with a clean head shot as easy as Bill Harding could kill a bottle of whiskey. Stroke by easy stroke, Rankin touched up the edge of his hunting knife, pausing now and then to gently feel the keen edge and how it grabbed the ridges of his thumbprint while staring off in the middle distance with his piercing green eyes that could stare a hole through a man.
The morning settled in, and customers came and went while the liars circle talked and solved most of the problems of the world. Old Bill Harding went about trying to fix a fishing lure, carefully threading the split ring through the eye of the treble hook, with shaking fingers. Matt Rankin looked on with an amused expression on his otherwise impassive face.
"Don't slip Billy boy, else you'll catch yourself real good." Matt said quietly.
Bill was about to reply, when the strip of bells that hung on the store door jingled and the door opened admitting the rare customer. The sudden disturbance jared the hung over Bill's concentration enough that he jabbed the barbed hook right into his left middle finger. This of course caused a stream of blue curses to be yelled in pain. The members of the liars circle listened in admiration to Bill's artful cussing, and only looked at who had disturbed the peace and quiet after a long string. A silence fell over the liars circle. There in the doorway stood the Reverend Harding. A compact built man in a dark suit, with silver in his hair at the temples, the reverend had a quiet dignity that clashed with the atmosphere in the Jenkins Country store, let alone with the personality of his semi outlaw brother, the trapper Bill.
In the following silence, the good reverend walked to the counter of the store, where Mrs. Jenkins stood waiting.
"A pouch of the Half and Half tobacco, if you please." said the Reverend.
Mrs. Jenkins reached back and got the pouch of pipe tobacco off the shelf in back of her, while the Reverend glanced around at the gathering of the liars circle. His gaze rested on Bill standing there, holding his left hand in a tight grasp with his right, the fishing lure dangling from the pieced finger and droplets of blood slowly dripping on the floor.
"You've got yourself in a difficulty, William," the reverend said to his brother.
"No sh…, yeah, a bit. I gotta get this hook outa my finger and it's buried up past the barb."
The Reverend paid for the pipe tobacco, and then stepped over to his brother. Bending over and looking closely at the problem, he smiled a funny ironic grin.
"Remember that time on the creek when we were kids, and you were teaching me to fish and I got a hook in my finger? We may have to do that again." the reverend said with a chuckle.
"Aw Chr…heck. I'm gonna need a drink." replied Bill with fearful grimace.
Old man Jenkins reached under the counter and took out the bottle of whiskey he kept there for what he called medicinal use, and handed it to Bill. Bill took no note of his brother the Reverend's disapproving look, and swallowed deeply several times.
"Okay brother, do what you must." he said.
The Reverend reached into his vest pocket and took out his pen knife. It was his Sunday go-to-meeting knife, with the beautiful iridescent pearl scales and scalloped bolsters. The base of the blade was stamped with the IXL brand of the maker. He opened the smaller of the two blades, and felt the edge. Then he took the bottle of whisky and dribbled a little of it over the knife blade.
"I remember when father gave you that, the day you graduated from the Seminary. It's a pretty thing, and I hope you have it nice and sharp." Bill said.
"Oh, it's up to the job all right. Now lay your hand down here on the counter." the Reverend told his brother. "Mr. Rankin, would you assist me?"
With a whoop of joy, Matt Rankin grabbed Bill and with an iron grip forced his hand down on the counter.
"Now hold on a second, maybe I'll…" Bill protested.
But Bill's protest fell on deaf ears, and his brother the Reverend went to work with the little pearl handle English pen knife. Bill let out a howl of pain, and stifled curses, and then it was done. The Reverend has neatly sliced what little skin he had to and removed the barbed hook. Then he took the bottle of whiskey and dribbled some of it right into the bleeding wound on Bill's finger. This got more howling, and the Reverend patted Bill on the shoulder.
"All done, brother. Now just keep it clean and dry for a few days and you'll be good as new."
"You enjoyed that too much." Bill told his brother.
The Reverend just smiled.
"Wicked are the ways of strong drink that unsteadies the hand, and painful is redemption." he told his brother.
Very carefully, the reverend cleaned off the blade of the Sheffield pen knife, and inspected it closely. Satisfied, he closed it and dropped it back in his vest pocket. Picking up the pouch of tobacco from the counter and slipping it into his coat pocket, he walked toward the door. He had almost reached it, when Bill's voice stopped him.
"Hey Bob."
"Yes Bill?" the Reverend asked,
Bill hesitated, and then said simply, "Thank you, brother."
The two men nodded at each other, and then the Reverend left. Bill set to wrapping up his finger with some clean cheese cloth Mrs Jenkins had brought him, and Matt Rankin watched from where he had sat down and rolled himself a smoke from the Bull Durham sack in his pocket. He was grinning at Bill, with the smoke hanging from a corner of his mouth.
"What you grinning like a loon at?" Bill asked him.
"Wicked are the ways of strong drink, and painful is redemption" he said.
"Oh shut up." Bill said as he wrapped his finger.
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Good story.
. Just like two brothers...
