The Path Was Steep by Suzanne Pickett Page B

determined roar up the precipice, waited in dugouts until we passed.
    The trip down the other side of the Jumps was gentler, and so we traveled safely into Virginia. A serene moon and lovely hills—not mountains—tried to soothe my nerves. But the Jumps had been too much for me. “Stop the car,” I moaned.
    David careened to a halt. I bolted out of the car, darted under a barbed wire fence, and headed towards the gleam of water in a sweet Virginia pasture. Before I could reach it, I sat on a stump and was very sick.
    “Baby girl—” David had followed. He ran to wet his handkerchief in the stream.
    “So sick,” I whispered. “So sick.”
    There was a sudden wild yelping and a pack of hounds loped in, ringed us, and snuffled eagerly.
    “Bunch of drunks!” someone yelled, and half a dozen men followed the hounds. We stared, dazzled by a blaze of flashlights that dimmed the moon. I leaned weakly on my stump and clutched Sharon, who had scuttled under the fence and came to me.
    David was bathing my head.
    “What you doin’ in my pastuh, ma’am?” a soft voice asked. My nausea passed at the balm of that soft accent. Dressed in whipcords and a gray shirt and jacket, the man loomed tall in the moonlight. His face was kind; his upper lip wore a sandy handlebar mustache.
    “Drunk!” the first voice said.
    “My mother is not drunk!” Sharon turned on him. “She is sick to her stomach.”
    David rose and walked gently over to my accuser; his fist jabbed once, and the man fell to the earth. He sat up, rubbing his chin. “No call for that, stranguh.” His voice had that Virginia softness. “If I’m wrong, I apologize, but if not—” he rose. He was even taller than the mustache.
    “We’re going home—excitement upsets my stomach,” I explained, happy under the balm of those voices, “and we came over the Jumps . . .”
    “The Jumps! No wonduh!” he nodded in sympathy.
    “Wheah is your home, ma’am?” the mustache asked.
    “Alabama.”
    “Think of that; my mother came from Montgomery. Hathaway,”—to the taller man—“you owe this little lady an apology.”
    “I apologize, ma’am,” Hathaway bowed. “And to you, too, suh. You did right hittin’ me. I had it comin’. Heah, ma’am, heah’s some muscadine wine. Happen it’ll settle youh stomach.”
    “Thank you,” I beamed. “But I’m stronger now.”
    “Make yourselves at home,” the mustache bowed, and all left to fresh screaming from the hounds.
    The rest of the night passed in the steady roar of Thunderbolt as we wended southward. Bright sunlight woke me. We breakfasted, smeared sleep from our faces, and combed our frowzy heads. A dash of cold water, powder on my nose, fresh lipstick, and mascara, and I felt able to face the whole world.
    Karl took the wheel and drove for a time. My eyes marked every mile of the way. About eleven in the morning, we pulled into Gadsden, Alabama. The heat of the sidewalk burned through my shoes. The coolness of West Virginia was past, but we didn’t mind at all. This was home!
    Restrooms attended to and the car filled with gas, David handed the attendant one of the twenties. A tall, Ichabod Crane-type person with sad brown eyes and opossum-like hair on head, neck, and wrists, the man stared at the bill. “Buddy, ain’t you got less than that?”
    “No,” David said, importantly.
    “Hey, Joe!” the man bawled. “Come here!”
    Joe ran from the garage. “Trouble, Hank?” He grasped a big wrench in black-greased hands.
    “Look at this,” Hank held out the twenty.
    Joe took it reverently, than stared at David as if he expected to see a Chicago machine gun about his person. “A twenty-dollar bill!” he said.
    “He wants it changed,” Hank said.
    “Sure he does,” Joe laughed. “Thanks for the compliment.”
    “Joe,” Hank said patiently. “The man’s bought gas. He don’t have less than a twenty.”
    “Yes?” Joe’s eyes searched for machine guns again.
    “I can’t wait all