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Wilma Fetter peered around the cabin's corner, looking deep past the willows and the big oaks. Planting her cane in the ground, she shuffled over to the open cellar door. “Jonas, get on up here, them kids are gone.”
Jonas Fetter stepped up slowly into sunlight. He set aside his bear’s-head mask with mountain lion eyes. Jonas looked around and snickered.
Wilma shook her head. “Sometimes, I don't know which one's the kids and which ones ain't.”
“Keeps em away, don't it?”
“Don't reckon much truth to that… seems to tease em—makes em come back for more.”
“Just so they keep the lawmen off our backs. Running this whiskey ain't no easy business. Now, if we could only keep old Johnson from running his fool mouth.”
“Stop givin' him whiskey—makes him crazy. He never shuts up, no matter…”
Jonas nodded, giving her a reassuring smile. “Could be you’re right, Wilma… Could be you’re right.”
“Well, I got to get my medicine… old cramps moving in, you know—devil's work.”
Wilma hobbled to the shed and stepped inside. She reached up above the still and pulled a jug from a shelf. She poured herself a spot in a beat-up tin cup and then raised it to her wrinkled lips. “Woo,” she said closing her eyes tightly, her crumpled body shivering. Ever so carefully, Wilma grabbed her cane and stepped back outside.
“That better?” Jonas asked, a thin smile cracking his leathery face.
“Always is,” Wilma replied, softly rubbing her neck. “This always kickin' in; curse the dammed devil…”
Jonas nodded, pointing. “Look, over yonder— there bear tracks all over. Have to get my gun ready, they’re gettin' right close to the goats.”
Wilma nodded, glancing out over the barren, gloomy woods. “There be lots of dangerous critters out there, ain't that right?” She pulled her shawl tightly to fight the season's chill, her gray eyes falling upon the seven tiny graves marked with stone crosses, concealed by moldering leaves.