The Rosewood Casket Read Online Free PDF Page B

while we’re tidying the place up.”
    “What’s he doing now?” He noticed that Dovey’s expression had not changed when he mentioned Clayt, and he was relieved. She had been mighty taken with the Stallard boys in her young womanhood. He never could figure out which one broke her heart. Dovey wasn’t much on talking about feelings.
    “What’s Clayt doing?” Dovey laughed. “What day of the week is it? Clayt’s the same as ever. He does ten things at once, and hardly scrapes together a living out of the lot of them. White-water rafting guide. Freelance photographer. Local artist. Park service employee. I can’t keep track. All that education, and not a lick of ambition in his whole body. Of course, he’s the baby of the family.”
    “I always thought he’d make a good farmer,” her father replied.
    “He’s got the hang of being poor,” said Dovey. “But he doesn’t have a lot of practical know-how. You’d think that Charles Martin Stargill would have paid to have live-in help for his father. He must be making good money. I saw him on the Nashville Network last month, singing with—somebody. Might have been Louise Mandrell.”
    J. Z. Stallard looked doubtful. “Charles Martin’s number isn’t here, and I’m sure the operator won’t give it out, with him being famous and all. Besides, he might be on tour or something—hard to reach. Same thing with Garrett in the army.”
    “That’s too bad,” said Dovey. “Because Garrett is the likeliest one to take charge. He’s the only one who could make decisions and stick to them. When we were kids, he was always the one who decided what we played and whose side we were on.”
    “I say we try Clayt first, because he’s closest, and Robert in Cincinnati.”
    Dovey shrugged. “Fine. See if you can reach him.”
    Stallard dialed the Jonesborough number, and waited, moving his lips a little as he rehearsed what he had to say. After nearly a minute, he hung up. “No answer.”
    “Didn’t think there would be. I can’t see Clayt being cooped up inside on a fine afternoon. I expect he’s out wandering some place, and calling it research. You call Robert Lee in Cincinnati, Dad. After I finish these dishes, I suppose I could go out and see if I can find Clayt. He’s useless, but he’s the closest. If he’s still not home, I’ll leave a note on his door and then drive around and try to find him. I still remember most of his haunts.”
    J. Z. Stallard glanced toward the dark hallway. “Should I stay here?”
    “It would be best,” said Dovey, seeing his reluctance to be left alone with the dying man.
    “I’ll be back with Clayt as soon as I can. And when you talk to Robert, see if you can get the phone number for the other two. Maybe one of them will have the sense to let you call an ambulance.”
    In the small back bedroom, the old man slept on.
    *   *   *
    Clayt Stargill had climbed to the highest meadow because he wanted to feel spring coming. Actually, what he wanted to see, and try to experience, was the spring of 1761, and while this was as close as he was going to get to that far-off wilderness, it was still wrong by a long shot, and he knew it.
    Daniel Boone, on one of his long hunts from the Yadkin settlement had watched for spring on just such a mountaintop in the Smokies, and Clayt was trying to capture the feel of the wilderness from Boone’s eyes. He had grown up hearing stories about Daniel Boone, mostly from the old-timers in the community, but sometimes at school, too. The eighteenth-century pioneer was considered a favorite son by the people of the mountains; there was hardly any place he hadn’t visited. Before Boone pioneered Kentucky, he had lived in the Virginia Blue Ridge, then on the Yadkin River in North Carolina. From there he had made winter expeditions into Indian country, the mountain land that was the communal hunting ground of the Cherokee, the Catawba, and the Shawnee, forbidden to settlers until the American