The Drummer

We hadn't gone more'en a mile when he pointed to a road leading up the side of a steep ridge. I had been up the road before on foot. About everybody knew the place as the Bluff. There was at least a dozen switchbacks, before the road topped out.

But what bothered me the most was a big rock that reached all the way across the road for a hundred feet or better. Not only that, it leaned down to the right so steep that a body couldn't stand up on it. Right below the rock was a bluff that dropped off two hundred feet into the river. Folks had walked around the thing for so long they'd cut a foot-wide trail on the upper side.

"A half a mile up ahead the road is one big slick rock," I said. "Steep as the mare's face."

"Let me drive," Spinsworthy said swinging his short, stubby leg over the back of the seat.

"A body can barely stand up on that rock. I'll walk and lead the horse."

"I'll have you know that I happen to be a master teamster," Spinsworthy said, once he settled in the seat on my left.

By the time we'd reached the third switchback, the road had got steeper and narrower. The old mare stopped and got her breath. I could see the big rock. At first, a body would think it was a patch of gray pipe clay. I knew it was wet gray granite, polished by time and weather until it was as slick as a turning plow point. From the wagon seat, it looked scarier than it had on foot.

Since I'd been on this road, someone had laid a breastwork of locust poles against the trees along the lower side. If we drove the wagon down where the wheels would run against the logs, and the mare didn't stumble we might make it.

Spinsworthy clucked to the horse and we headed for the rock. "Gitty-up, gitty-up!"

"You need to stay down against the breast-works, on the lower side of the rock," I said

"Would you believe . . . it's potter's clay."

Spinsworthy pulled the left rein and the mare started toward the high side of the rock.

"I'll lead her," I said "drive down next to the breastwork--"

Before I got the words out the mare was well out on the rock. She was pulling for all she was worth.

All at once, the wagon skidded to the right. It slid slow at first, but before I could raise up out of the seat it slid like the rock had been greased with butter.

The wagon was well below the horse. She stumbled to her knees. Once the trace chains were slack, the wagon slid faster and faster. Spinsworthy tried to climb out over the upper side of the wagon, but it was leaning to the right so bad he fell on top of me. His weight knocked me back against the lower side. He ended up on top of me in the floorboard. I couldn't get my breath with all that blubber on top of me. Stuff flew out of the wagon bed like somebody was back there shoveling.