Chapter 3

CY SCOTT gradually ascended the pine-clad hill. To east and west spread the vast acres of Scottland, as his plantation was called. Cultivation was now mostly feed crops and pasturage. The bottoms were choked with oak, beech and magnolia.

Cy was tense and sweaty. He often wondered why he and Fleur had never formed a more binding liaison. Maybe she was right. They were too much alike. Not once had they ever exchanged a cross word. Fleur had given Cy her body and her love-in return for respect bordering upon worship, protection from wagging tongues, and an affection so genuine that it seemed at times greater than love itself.

Cy had reached level ground now. He was in sight of the comfortable, old house in which he had been born. Flanking the gate were two enormous live oaks that formed an arch through which he passed.

As the car slowed, Buck Farrell, Cy's best friend, emerged from the shadows. "Hey boy," the big Negro called. "It's past your bedtime."

"What the hell are you doing up this time of night?" demanded Cy.

"Boy, don't holler at me," said Buck Farrell, stretching mightily. He was a giant with tight, silky hair and skin the gold of ripe wheat. Two hundred and forty pounds of human power. " 'Cause if you do," Buck continued, "I'm like to pull down your drawers and mark up your tail with a limb."

"You and who else?" snapped Cy, getting out of the car. "Anyhow, what-?"

"Hell," said Buck, folding his sinuous arms across his chest. "For fifteen years I've been waiting up to see that you got home in one piece. Good thing, too. Right now you're as lap-legged as a broken-down dog."

"Look, Buck, I'm a grown man now. You sure don't have to wait up for me like Mamma used to do."

The black man's greenish eyes glowed in the light of the failing moon. "I promised your ma, just before she passed away that I would watch out for you. I'm gonna do that if I have to tan your butt"

A thick, achy feeling attacked Cy's throat. No matter where he had been or with whom, Cy could count on Buck's awaiting his arrival. Buck possessed a horde of various excuses, but this was the first time he had ever mentioned a promise to Cy's mother. Cy knew that Buck was telling the truth.

"All right, wait up for me, if it makes you happy," Cy said.

Buck drove the car around to the back. Before Cy could mount the steps to his room, Buck poked his head through the door. "Fresh coffee."

Cy turned and walked into the kitchen. Buck poured two cups of rich, black Java. Cy sugared his and Buck drank it straight

"Mrs. Bergstrom was here right after you left," said Buck.

Cy looked up suspiciously. "What did she want?"

Buck grinned. "I think she's bent on makin' you run for sheriff."

Cy hunched his shoulders and frowned. "Well, she can peddle her papers elsewhere. I refuse."

"How come?"

Cy glared at the man. "What's wrong with Jake Jonas?"

"What's right with him?"

"That's neither here nor there. The voters put him in office. Jake didn't steal it."

"No, but he bought it. A man who buys an office is a thief, in my most humble opinion."

"Did you study political science at Howard? I thought my father sent you there to study animal husbandry."

"Low blow," Buck said cheerfully. "What's my education got to do with my ability to discern the essence of a situation?"

"If there's one thing worse than a smoke," fumed Cy, "it's an educated smoke."

Buck Farrell grinned. "Smoke, hell, I'm damned near as white as you ... And for good reason."

"What's that?"

"My heart is pure."

Cy shot him a scorching glance. "Oh, boy, ain't you sharp tonight?"

"Natch. You make it so easy for me to look smart. Seriously though, why don't you throw your hat in the ring?"

"Because, dammit, I don't want to be sheriff. Is that clear?"

"The county needs a stalwart, incorruptible-"

"Oh, shut up. I'm going to bed." Cy drained his coffee cup and climbed into his big, high-ceiled bedroom. There he stripped, then took a quick shower and tumbled into bed.

Cy Scott thought that if he ignored the rumor, it would go away. In this he was doomed to disappointment. Every day, people asked with unconcealed curiosity whether he was going to run for sheriff. When Cy, in no uncertain terms, told them that he was not, their faces fell. Cy was fearfully annoyed with Lady Bergstrom, the rumor's source.

Came the following Saturday, and Cy was in his front yard watching three Negroes paint the slender Doric columns of the house. Cy's home was not as big as some of the grandiose, pre-War mansions that stud the South, but it was sizable enough. Weathered brick, it sat comfortably among the mossy old trees.

Cy turned to see a vintage Packard, still gem-brilliant and beautifully kept, rolling up over the hill. The car was a phaeton with top down and windshield tilted forward. Its enormous wire wheels gleamed and each front fender held a spare tire.

Cy's father came out on the veranda and shaded his eyes. Steven Scott was as tall and broad of shoulder as his son. His face was longer, saturnine, but softened by a whimsical quirk. He was erect and straight of back and had roan-colored hair. "That must be Lady Bergstrom," Steven said.

"I hope she's left her fixation at home," Cy replied.

"You're really set against running for sheriff, aren't you?"

Cy did not have time to answer.

A hefty female with a trumpet-like voice stepped from the car. "Never seen father and son look more like peas in a pod ... Coffee hot?"

"It is, Lady," called the elder Scott. "Come on in."

She strolled up the fanciful brick walk. Her gait was masculine, but she possessed comfortably fleshed hips, bosom and rear. Her face, round and pleasant, belied her fiery belligerence. She had crackling, blue eyes and bleached blond hair. Bobby pins lay in tight circlets close to her scalp.

As she walked along, Lady smote her right thigh with old-fashioned, leather gauntlets. "Why are you two staring at me? I'm no movie star." She cocked a bright eye at Steven. "You must be in your second childhood!"

"Thirty years ago, you were beautiful," Steven assured her. "But now you're just plain gorgeous."

Lady turned to Cy. "Could you have ad libbed a cozier compliment?"

He grinned. "I doubt it, Lady."

They sat at a long table and Aunt Violet, Buck Farrell's mother, served them coffee. She placed a bottle of Martel brandy beside Lady's cup. Lady looked up and trumpeted, "I'm glad someone remembers what I like in my coffee. Thanks, Violet. Come cook for me and I'll pay you twice what this old skinflint doles out."

Aunt Violet, her pleasant face wreathed in smiles, said, "I'm attached to the place, Lady. It's grown on me." She shot a glance at her employer. "I sure could use a raise, though."

"You just had one," Steven reminded her. "And don't forget that Lady always gives parties. Her house is worse than a restaurant."

"Now that's a fact," said Aunt Violet, her face changing. "I'd really hate to clean up after one of those blowouts."

"They are staggering," agreed the big woman, her rings sparkling in the light. "And wait till you see the barbecue I'll give Cy, here, if he agrees to run for sheriff."

Cy set down his cup. "You've caused me considerable trouble, Lady," he said. "Whatever gave you the notion that I'd run?"

Lady's hard eyes caught Cy's mild gray ones. "I hate like hell to see a two-bit gambler blow in here and buy up the county's vote. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Cy. No right-minded citizen would stand back and let a crook remain in power."

"You expect me to step in and clean everything up? Lady, be sensible," Cy pleaded. "Why didn't Sag Sharpe win the last election? The voters could have kicked out Jonas-but they didn't. They like him!"

"Sag Sharpe has the personality of a week-old possum. Cy, don't you understand? The people would rather have a crook than a milksop. And that's one thing about you-you give the impression that you've been weaned. Besides," she said, "You're young. You could turn on the charm. Women would eat it up and men would be ashamed to sell their vote. You would appeal to the younger generation and to the war veterans."

"I instructed native troops in Laos and South Viet Nam. That barely qualifies me for the American Legion. I hardly think my war record would win me an ovation."

"I'm not trying to paint you a hero," Lady said. "You did what you were told to do. But did Jake Jonas even get near a war? No. And believe me, this county is in such a mess that its sheriff should know how to employ military tactics. Cy, you're the man we need."

Cy sipped his coffee. "Ever hear of someone tempera mentally unsuited for an office?"

"I sure have. Jake Jonas, born crook, grafter and cheat. I wouldn't be surprised if Jonas is backing up the imports of marijuana that have been flooding the county."

"That's a pretty rotten thing to say about a man. Can you prove that Jake is involved?"

"No, I can't. Not right now, anyway. But rumors have been circulating among the high-school kids."

"In any case, how could a sheriff smash an organized ring?"

"That's for you to find out," Lady said. "I don't know anything about that angle. But maybe you could bring law and order back to us. Someone should set a good example for our youngsters. The majority of local parents don't have model children like old Steven here."

Steven smiled dryly. "I tried to give Cy a set of workable values and teach him to know right from wrong. Flailed the hell out of him when he was bad and backed him up when he was good. Nothing to it!"

"Plenty to it, if you ask me," retorted Lady, and swiveled around to Cy. "How about it, son? You would be doing yourself and everyone else a favor."

"I don't know," Cy said. "I'm still wondering why you want me-of all people."

"Because of your character, your background and your education. Because no man has ever said a Scott did him dirt. Because, Cy, you can't be reached by graft and corruption."

"Don't make me out a goody-goody, now," Cy said, tipping back his chair.

"Oh, it's well known that you have your faults. For instance, you're a bit too quick to toss a willing maiden. I'm not wearing rose-colored glasses, sonny. Which reminds me. Did you hear what happened to my cook's daughter, Maureen?" Lady generously spiked a fresh cup of coffee with brandy, then went on, "I dare say she's available, but only to the right man. She wants to be won, not pushed over or raped. Right now she's frightened half to death because some bastard chased her into the woods yesterday."

"Does Jonas know about it?"

"You bet. I told him. He tried to laugh it off, but I burned his ears. He tends to think that no colored girl is worthy of police protection. She can get raped, for all he cares."

Steven queried, "Does Maureen have a job?"

"Yes, at Smith's. But she's scared to walk through Pine Creek bottom. I'll have to take her myself-twice a day-if she doesn't snap out of it. And I just don't have the time."

Cy stood up, his craggy face cold with fury. "Reckon you can get her to make the walk this afternoon?"

Lady's eyes narrowed. "What for?"

"I'd like to be there if and when someone tries to grab her again."

Lady let go a bray of laughter. "You're a card, Cy. Maureen leaves work at five o'clock."

"I'll be waiting from five on. Tell the girl that there won't be any slip-up."

"Will do." Lady laid a soft, plump hand on Cy's arm. "May I announce your candidacy, then? I'd work myself to the bone for you. And you'd be surprised how many others would, too."

"I can't make any promises, Lady."

"That's all right. Just think it over. There's still plenty of time."

Cy Scott had been wandering about his property all morning. To what extent were Les Corey's operations seducing the youth of the county, Cy wondered. Dope. Attempted rape. My God, what was this county coming to?

Cy drifted back into the kitchen for another cup of Aunt Violet's strong, tangy brew. She slid a hot, golden-brown fritter on a saucer. "Aunt Violet, do you know Lula's daughter?" Cy inquired.

"Why, sure. Maureen is as fetchin' a heifer as ever walked across Pine Creek. She's tall and strung out, and she has a beautiful complexion." Aunt Violet waited expectantly. She had heard every word of the discussion between Lady and Cy.

"How old is she?" Cy asked.

"Seventeen or so. What do you intend to do to the man who tried to dump her?"

Cy's lips curled away from his teeth. "I'm going to put a wet whip on him."

Aunt Violet shuddered. "I reckon he'd rather do ten months in jail."

"Nobody is going to come in here and mess with my people," Cy said. "I'll show him."

"Sounds like you're plumb put out with that man. Now don't go stirring up a peck of trouble for the sake of a colored girl. You won't get any thanks from some people."

Cy raised his soft gray eyes. "Aunt Violet, you've been around here long enough to know what we consider right and wrong. Color doesn't matter."

"Somehow, I think it does," she said stoutly.

His gaze sharpened. "What do you mean?"

"Your daddy once put a wet whip on Mr. Gil Cuppy for givin' Buck a beating with a buggy spoke. Mr. Steven had a brand-new eight-plait rawhide soakin' out back and he run got it and I ain't never see a man take a worse whuppin'. Mr. Steven fair cut the lights out of Mr. G. No white man worth his salt would let another walk on his colored folks. That's why I think color sometimes makes a difference," Violet finished.

Cy grinned and hugged her. "I see what you mean. You know, you not only think good. You look good."

Violet made shooing motions with her apron. "Get out of here, Cy, 'fore I lose my temper and take a stick to you. I've done it before, remember?"