Swamp Dog's Moonshine

Swamp Dog's Moonshine

"I ain't seen no monsters or demons or anything like you said I would.
You're moonshine ain't worth a hoot 'n holler!" said the kid everybody
called Mountain Boy. He was barefoot and thinner than most scarecrows.
His baggy, stained trousers were cut off just below his knees. His hair
was shorn without any discretion as to uniformity.
"I don't believe a word of it," said the moonshiner, everybody called
Swamp Dog. He was egging the boy on to see if he was just full of
bluster.
"I ain't gonna lie for nothin.' I showed you I could do it," Mountain
Boy said with wavering conviction.
"All I know is that you could be tellin' me anything, since I weren't
there to see you with my own eyes. I turned around to fetch another
jug, and you'd skedaddled down the road."
The boy was sorely vexed with Swamp Dog but tried not to let on so.
The whiskey still pained his head terribly, but he swore to himself
that Swamp Dog wouldn't be privy to his hurt. "By God if I'm lyin,'
then I'll spit on my Momma's gravestone."
"My corn whiskey is the best in these hills and is known for whuppin'
the toughest bull in the pen," Swamp Dog swore. Remember what that old
she-devil Delilah did to Samson? He was mighty strong and set in his
mind, but he was beguiled by her power just the same. Just like my corn
whiskey does. It'll make you see and do things that nobody in their
proper mind could. Why, I've got a good notion to naming my shine,
Delilah."
"It ain't no big thing that shine of yours, no matter what you call
it. I done drank it all down without sloppin' a drop on my britches. I
never wrestled with no 'maginary demons and no such monsters neither.
You said your shine would scare the pee-waddin out of me."
"Well, maybe you didn't see nothing,' I'll confess outright," Swamp
Dog said, using a different strategy. Could be you drunk from a batch
that hadn't fermented all the way complete-the batch I was waitin' to
put through the cooker. Could be a lot of things to take into
account."
"Now you's beguilin' me with could-bee's. But I ain't playin' into no
deception of yours," said the Mountain Boy, though now his mind was
thoroughly mixed up more than ever.
"There's only one way to know fer certain." Walking to the wood shed,
Swamp Dog returned with a small jug. "This here's the real McCoy, tried
and true, but I don't figure you're up to provin' nothin' to me."
"What do I got to prove? I already drank a pint of your rot-gut, and I
didn't crawl on my belly or squeal out like some sow waitin' fer the
slop bucket."
Swamp Dog started to feel worry welling up in him. He knew his
moonshine was the best in the hills, and it caused folks to imagine
peculiar things; but he was afraid his reputation would be hurt if the
word got out that Mountain Boy drank a whole pint and kept the proper
use of his mind-which he didn't believe, yet couldn't prove
either.
"O' Hank Bottomdown drank just a half-pint from this batch and beat
his mule Sadie with a tree branch for braying so loud, he kilt her,"
said Swamp Dog. "Some say he can't hold his likker, but I say it's my
corn whiskey, that made him so crazy,"
"Why, I don't believe a word of it," said Mountain Boy. "I never knowd
Hank to raise a hand to no one, even if it is a stubborn
jackass."
"Accept when he's drinkin," said Swamp Dog. "He can be meaner than a
sack full of rattlers when he's drunk from my still."
"I wouldn't go off and kill my mule," said Mountain Boy. My old man
needs him come plowin' fer corn. Hank's just a dang fool is all." He
could almost imagine Sadie's big, sad eyes as Hank delivered a blow to
her head. He could hear her bones breaking and see her blood running
like a stream from ol' Sadie's. The thought turned his stomach.
"No, I don't suppose you would go kill your own mule," Swamp Dog said
as he return to the shed with the jug. "But then you can't say what
you'll do once you taste my whiskey. Folk's been known to get rattled
some."
"Hold yer horses," said Mountain Boy. I suppose it wouldn't kill me to
wet my goozle some. I don't fear that I'll be murderin' no jackass just
because Hank did."
"Now yer talkin," said Swamp Dog, cheerfully. "Take this jug. There's
bout a pint's worth in it."
Mountain Boy swung the jug up over his head and tilted his chin back
for a swallow, but stopped in mid-air. "Wait a minute. Seems to me a
wager' should figure in this somewhere. If'n I drink the whole jug of
this shine and keep my mind, then you's got to make me a deal-a nickel
for every pint you sell."
"But that's pure robbery," Swamp Dog complained. "Seems a penny would
be more likely. I'll even throw in a swallow if you should sport a
thirst now and then."
"I ain't no swill-belly if that's what your sayin.' I'm only out to
prove you wrong bout me not holdin' my likker. Monsters and demons be
danged."
"Ain't nobody accusin' you of being a swill-belly just cause you take
a swallow now and then. Now, do we have a deal?" asked Swamp Dog.
"Oh, awright then. A penny a pint just to make my point 'bout your
bug-juice."
The last time Mountain Boy drank some of Swamp Dog's whiskey, he told
himself that it had about as much effect as regular creek water; but
then he didn't remember much after he emptied the jug. All he could
recall is that it got real dark suddenly, and he found himself waking
up the next morning, all bruised and pricked, lying in a thicket of
briars. He reasoned that the sun must have beat him over the mountain
on his way home, and that he made his bed on the earthen floor rather
than risk falling down some precipice, yet managing to roll into a
patch of thorns while in his sleep.
Satisfied with their deal, Mountain Boy drank down the whole pint
without taking time to inhale.
Swamp Dog sat on a tree stump and waited for the show to begin. After
a few seconds, the boy's blue eyes lit blood red and his tongue swelled
as a fire stoked in his head. He tried to call out, but his mouth only
convulsed like a fish out of water. Grabbing his throat, he ran in a
crazed circular pattern, while stomping on the ground with both feet,
as if he was trying to shake the demons that invaded his body. Then, he
dropped to all fours, brayed like a mule and kicked his legs high into
the air behind him. "Hee-haw! Hee-haw!" he cried, the whiskey finally
loosening his tongue.
At that moment, Hank Bottomdown was heading towards Swamp Dog's still,
kicking up dusts in his Ford, Model A pickup. Swamp Dog could hear the
old motor knocking and the gears grinding as Hank skid to a stop some
yards away.
From a distance, Hank could see that the fire for the still's cooker
was getting low, so he picked a large branch off the ground to throw on
it. Mountain Boy, still making circles, and bucking and braying under
the power of Swamp Dog's corn whiskey, saw Hank approaching with the
club in his hand.
Assuming Hank was going to beat him like he did Sadie, he spun around
in a terrified manner and charged for the woods, screeching and
hee-hawing until his cries were replaced with the constant, low hiss of
Swamp Dog's still.
Swamp Dog, happy that his moonshine still lived up to its reputation,
was put in high spirits.
Hank, ignoring Mountain Boy's antics, simply threw the wood onto the
fire.
"Why, thank you Hank. The fire was getting' kinda low. How's your mule
fairin?"
"Sadie's bout as fair as you can get after takin' sick with age. Her
plowin' days are over, I'm afraid. You know how I love that old mule.
Can't stand to see her ailin' so."
"How bout a drink Hank? Might take some of the sadness off ya for a
spell."
"That would be fine Swamp Dog. Just fine."