still messin’ aroun’ with somebody else’s woman — namely, Big Nail’s!”
C.K.’s eyes widened in mock astonishment. “Cora Lee Lawson? Where you hear that?”
“Aw come on, C.K., everybody says that.”
“Well, ah don’t know you ‘Mistuh Everbody, ’ but he be ‘Mistuh Wrongbody, ’ he say that. Ah ain’t study that with Cora Lee — she fambily. Ah take care her boy, Booker, that’s what ah do. Booker be ’bout you age, Hal, he like my brother. He a good boy — you meet him someday. Shoot, ah think you like ole Booker. Anyhow, me an’ Cora Lee be nobody business but us.”
“Well, I just think you must be crazy to mess aroun’ with her, after he’s awready killed somebody for doin’ it.”
“Uh-huh, well, like ah say, you don’t have to study none ’bout that, ’cause you don’t know what you talkin’ ’bout.”
“Well, how come they call him ‘Big Nail’ anyhow?”
“’Cause before he own a knife or a razor, he carry a sixty-penny nail — he use that ’stead of a knife...”
“Is that what he used to kill that guy with?”
“No, by that time he be usin’ his razor.”
Harold was impressed. “Dang, he must sure be tough.”
C.K. chuckled. “He ain’t tough, he jest ugly.”
“Uh-huh,” said Harold at his most skeptical. “Well, I sure wouldn’t want to tangle with him.”
C.K. smiled. “Well, ah jest don’t think you ever be called on to do so, my man.”
“An’ neither should you,” added Harold in an instant of concern.
“Ah reckon not,” said C.K. almost absently.
Harold’s new calf wandered out of the barn and into the corral.
“How come you’ calf ain’t out to pasture?” asked C.K.
“I brung ’im in to weigh him — shoot, I bet he’s gained a full pound, maybe two, since yesterday. I’m gonna take him over later on an’ weigh ’im on Les Newgate’s cotton scale.”
C.K. stopped working, walked across to the calf, and looked at it. “Yep, he puttin’ it on awright...” He carefully encircled the calf’s chest with his arms and lifted it.
“How much you think he weighs now?” asked Harold.
“Ah say sebenty, sebenty-five...”
“Lemme see.” Harold went over and, with much greater effort, lifted the calf.
“Dang!” said Harold, lowering it, “feels like more than that to me! Feels more like a sack of feed — they weigh a hunnert.”
“Well, that’s jest ’cause you cain’t git no good grip on a calf, you see, an’ you usin’ different muscle to lift, that’s all that is.”
They returned to their work. “Shoot,” said Harold, “I just bet you anything he weighs more than seventy-five pounds.”
“Maybe,” said C.K., then smiled, sly and mischievous. “Now ah tell you a secret, Hal — ’bout how you can use this calf to win a lotta money an’ im- press all you friends, an’ all you fambly.”
Harold stared at the calf. “What the heck are you talkin’ about now, C.K.?”
“Awright, you know how you done lift that calf off the ground jest now?”
“Yeah.”
“Well now you is a strong boy, Hal, an’ you gonna git stronger. All you gotta do is lift that calf one time ever day.”
“Huh?”
“Now say this calf gain one pound weight by this time tomorrow, you still be able to lift it, ain’t that right? I mean, you be able to lift jest one more pound, ain’t that right?”
“One more pound? Heck yes.”
“An’ next day, too — you be able to lift that calf if it just weigh one more pound than day before.”
“Uh-huh.”
“An’ you be able to lift that calf ever day it weigh only one more pound than the last time you lift it — you unnerstan’ what I say?”
“Yes, dang it!”
“Awright, say that calf gain one pound weight ever day an’ you liftin’ it off the ground ever day — in about two year’ time you be liftin’ a eight-hunnert-pound steer! Now what you think ’bout that?”
“Huh?”
C.K. assumed a dramatic stance. “That’s right,” he proclaimed in
C.K.’s eyes widened in mock astonishment. “Cora Lee Lawson? Where you hear that?”
“Aw come on, C.K., everybody says that.”
“Well, ah don’t know you ‘Mistuh Everbody, ’ but he be ‘Mistuh Wrongbody, ’ he say that. Ah ain’t study that with Cora Lee — she fambily. Ah take care her boy, Booker, that’s what ah do. Booker be ’bout you age, Hal, he like my brother. He a good boy — you meet him someday. Shoot, ah think you like ole Booker. Anyhow, me an’ Cora Lee be nobody business but us.”
“Well, I just think you must be crazy to mess aroun’ with her, after he’s awready killed somebody for doin’ it.”
“Uh-huh, well, like ah say, you don’t have to study none ’bout that, ’cause you don’t know what you talkin’ ’bout.”
“Well, how come they call him ‘Big Nail’ anyhow?”
“’Cause before he own a knife or a razor, he carry a sixty-penny nail — he use that ’stead of a knife...”
“Is that what he used to kill that guy with?”
“No, by that time he be usin’ his razor.”
Harold was impressed. “Dang, he must sure be tough.”
C.K. chuckled. “He ain’t tough, he jest ugly.”
“Uh-huh,” said Harold at his most skeptical. “Well, I sure wouldn’t want to tangle with him.”
C.K. smiled. “Well, ah jest don’t think you ever be called on to do so, my man.”
“An’ neither should you,” added Harold in an instant of concern.
“Ah reckon not,” said C.K. almost absently.
Harold’s new calf wandered out of the barn and into the corral.
“How come you’ calf ain’t out to pasture?” asked C.K.
“I brung ’im in to weigh him — shoot, I bet he’s gained a full pound, maybe two, since yesterday. I’m gonna take him over later on an’ weigh ’im on Les Newgate’s cotton scale.”
C.K. stopped working, walked across to the calf, and looked at it. “Yep, he puttin’ it on awright...” He carefully encircled the calf’s chest with his arms and lifted it.
“How much you think he weighs now?” asked Harold.
“Ah say sebenty, sebenty-five...”
“Lemme see.” Harold went over and, with much greater effort, lifted the calf.
“Dang!” said Harold, lowering it, “feels like more than that to me! Feels more like a sack of feed — they weigh a hunnert.”
“Well, that’s jest ’cause you cain’t git no good grip on a calf, you see, an’ you usin’ different muscle to lift, that’s all that is.”
They returned to their work. “Shoot,” said Harold, “I just bet you anything he weighs more than seventy-five pounds.”
“Maybe,” said C.K., then smiled, sly and mischievous. “Now ah tell you a secret, Hal — ’bout how you can use this calf to win a lotta money an’ im- press all you friends, an’ all you fambly.”
Harold stared at the calf. “What the heck are you talkin’ about now, C.K.?”
“Awright, you know how you done lift that calf off the ground jest now?”
“Yeah.”
“Well now you is a strong boy, Hal, an’ you gonna git stronger. All you gotta do is lift that calf one time ever day.”
“Huh?”
“Now say this calf gain one pound weight by this time tomorrow, you still be able to lift it, ain’t that right? I mean, you be able to lift jest one more pound, ain’t that right?”
“One more pound? Heck yes.”
“An’ next day, too — you be able to lift that calf if it just weigh one more pound than day before.”
“Uh-huh.”
“An’ you be able to lift that calf ever day it weigh only one more pound than the last time you lift it — you unnerstan’ what I say?”
“Yes, dang it!”
“Awright, say that calf gain one pound weight ever day an’ you liftin’ it off the ground ever day — in about two year’ time you be liftin’ a eight-hunnert-pound steer! Now what you think ’bout that?”
“Huh?”
C.K. assumed a dramatic stance. “That’s right,” he proclaimed in
Similar Books
