Living Among South Carolina Outlaws

By Carl L. Poston Jr.

The interior of South Carolina was a Lawless place. In fact, Northern Georgia to western Pennsylvania has always been lacking in law and order, but in South Carolina, after the Cherokee Indian War in 1761, what little law had existed, deteriorated to almost none.
Indians were no longer a threat, but bold outlaw gangs roamed and ravaged the country, robbing, killing and kidnapping, ever bold enough to challenge the few Militia.
Here, there was no law, therefore, no court or jail for any legal transaction, a weeklong trip had to be made to Charlestown. Seeing no help coming from the government in Charlestown, citizens of the back country began organizing into vigilante groups called Regulators.
In 1766, John Poston II migrated from Pennsylvania with his two sons, John III and Anthony to settle by Lynches Creek in Queensboro Township. Here in the lawless frontier, they struggled to make a home among the outlaws and Regulators.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481704991

Carl L. Poston Jr.

Carl L. Poston Jr. is a self-employed accountant and lifelong resident of South Carolina. He was educated at the University of South Carolina and is author of two other published books, The Village I Remember and The Japanese Princess and the American Rebel.

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LIVING AMONG

SOUTH CAROLINA

OUTLAWS

V00_9781481704991_TEXT.pdf

CARL L. POSTON JR.

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© 2013 Carl L. Poston Jr.. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published by AuthorHouse 1/17/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-0501-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-0500-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-0499-1 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

This book is dedicated to all Postons of South Carolina as well as Georgia, Alabama and Florida, all descendants of John II, John III and Anthony and with special thanks to Debbie B. Poston whose expert help brought this book to print.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

T he interior, or backcountry, of Colonial South Carolina had always been a lawless place. In fact, Northern Georgia to Western Pennsylvania had always been somewhat lacking in law and order, but in South Carolina, after the Cherokee War in 1761, what little law there had been deteriorated to nothing.

During the war, people had gathered at such places as trading posts or inns to fortify them against Indian attacks. Later, many such places became outlaw strongholds. After the war, Indians were no longer a problem, but in 1766, outlaw gangs roamed and ravaged the country, bold and strong enough to even challenge the few militia to come after them.

In the backcountry, there was no law, no court, and no jail. For any legal transaction, one would have to take a week-long trip to Charleston. Because of this, citizens began to organize vigilante groups, called regulators, for protection against outlaws and other criminals.

The assembly and governor seemed to have little interest in the backcountry, except to collect taxes. As the Reverend Charles Woodmason said, They were too busy wallowing in their plenty on their cherished plantations while complaining about the Stamp Act passed by the King in 1765.

To them, that was taxation without representation, but they never saw taxing people of the backcountry as taxation without representation. If such taxation was cause for revolt, then certainly people of the interior had cause to revolt from the government of Charlestown, and there was talk of it.

This is a story of settlers in South Carolina’s backcountry during this period. In 1766, John Poston II migrated from Pennsylvania with his two sons, John III and Anthony, to settle by Lynches Creek in Queensboro Township. They are the forefathers of South Carolina Postons, as well as those who later migrated on to Georgia, Alabama, and Florida.

Table of Contents

AUTHOR’S NOTE

CHAPTER 1 BANDITS ON THE RIVER ROAD

CHAPTER II GIDEON GIBSON’S JUSTICE

CHAPTER III HOME AT LAST

CHAPTER IV TRIP TO CHARLESTOWN

CHAPTER V DAWN

CHAPTER VI THE MINISTER COMES

CHAPTER VII TONY’S JOB

CHAPTER VIII KINGS RANGERS

CHAPTER IX THE GATOR HUNT

CHAPTER X THE SWAMP

CHAPTER XI TONY RETURNS TO A FUNERAL

CHAPTER XII BACK TO THE SWAMP

CHAPTER XIII SAMSON’S TRAINING AFTER TONY’S FIGHT

CHAPTER XIV WARRANTS FOR THE REGULATORS

CHAPTER XV SAMSON’S TRAINING TESTED

CHAPTER XVI DAWN IN THE SWAMP

CHAPTER XVII THE REAL TEST FOR SAMSON’S TRAINING

CHAPTER XVIII THE RAIN DANCE

CHAPTER XIX TONY’S CONFESSION

CHAPTER XX TONY’S DILEMMA

CHAPTER XXI KILL OR BE KILLED

CHAPTER XXII SAMSON’S GIFT TO POWELL

CHAPTER XXIII A MESSAGE TO DAWN

Afterword

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER 1

BANDITS ON THE RIVER ROAD

T ony lay in the wagon, resting his musket on a sack of flour while his trembling hands tried to keep it aimed at the big man’s chest.

You’d better put that gun down boy, yelled the big red-haired man astride his big black horse. You only got one shot. Me and my men got five, plus our pistols, while your pa and brother stand out here with nothing but a spoon and bowl in their hands.

Tony had never been more frightened in his seventeen years. He lay there sweating with his stomach fluttering. Finally he managed to reply, trying to speak loud and brave with his dry mouth and shaky voice. I’ve got two loaded muskets, and I’m sure to get you and one more, so you’d better ride on.

The boy never misses what he shoots at, said the father, John, hoping to strenghten their hopeless position. He stood helpless by the campfire with his other son, Johnny.

Johnny began easing away from the fire, but he froze when the heavyset black man swung his gun toward him and said, Stand right there, boy.

Stand still, Johnny, whispered John.

Big Red glared at John and said, You best tell the boy to put that gun down. If shooting starts, all three of you’ll be dead. All we want is six of your eight horses and your guns. You can keep everything else, including your lives. Better be reasonable.

John was a peaceful man, yet he was no stranger to violence. He had been with General Braddock’s army in 1755, when it was ambushed and almost destroyed. During that and all the other action he saw in the war, he never felt as fearful and helpless as he now did. Then again, he hadn’t had his children to worry about.

He wasn’t certain Tony had even one loaded musket, much less two. Even if he did have a loaded one, he and Johnny were caught off quard by the fire without a weapon of any sort, while the five bandits were well armed.

When the bandits had come riding up, they didn’t know Tony was napping in the wagon, so they were caught by surprise—but that didn’t bring the odds close. John had been warned about bandits on the trail but had given it little thought. Now, it was too late. The three of them couldn’t run and hope to get away. If they put up a fight, they would surely be murdered. If they didn’t run or didn’t fight, they may still be murdered.

John looked closely at each of the five men sitting on their horses with gun in hand. If he did live, he would definitely remember each of them: the big red-haired leader, the heavyset black man, and the mulatto with a scar from his left ear to his lip. One didn’t look much older than Tony but was lots bigger. The fifth one was much older than the others, small, shifty eyed, and hump shouldered; his toothless mouth caused his long nose and chin to almost meet. It was a motley looking crew from which to expect any mercy.

Considering the options, John decided their best chance was to give the bandits what they wanted and hope for some unlikely mercy. He was just about to tell Tony to put the gun down and come out of the wagon when he heard a voice at his right side, from behind a big tree.

Tony, keep your gun on ugly Red’s chest. I got mine on the big black man. I got two guns also. When I shoot, you shoot. You get Red and the young one. I’ll get the black and scarface. The old one will be gone by then; if not, my tomahawk will take care of him.

All five bandits looked around startled. Who there? stammered Big Red.

You know who I am, Red.

Red looked puzzled for a few moments before a broad grin came to his mouth.

That you, Tinker?

That’s right, and I think you know I mean it when I say you’d best ride along.

The mulatto and gums, being on the outside of the group, began easing their horses away form the others.

Move those horses a step farther, and we start shooting, warned Tinker.

Big Red, with the thought of Tony’s musket aimed at his heart, motioned for everybody to keep their horses still. This ain’t none of your business, Tinker. You should stay out of it.

Three of those horses belong to me, replied Tinker.

Well then, we oughta be able to make a deal. Just point out your horses, and we’ll take the others.

These people are my friends, so no deal.

I ain’t never give you no trouble, Tinker. You and me always got along.

No reason we still shouldn’t.

We need horses bad, said Red. Let’s be reasonable so nobody gets hurt. This being sort of a standoff with odds about even, I think it only fair that we leave with something.

You can leave with your lives, to rob another day. Or you can stay here forever. We’ll bury you decent and not leave you for the buzzards like you would us. So, what’s it to be, Red? Some days my patience are short. This seems to be one of ’em.

Things had suddenly changed. Now the bandits didn’t have the upper hand, and none of them liked the new odds. Red jerked his horse’s head around to face the tree hiding Tinker. His wide grin disappeared to be replaced by a scowl. His face red with rage as he said in an icy cold voice, We’ll discuss this another day, Tinker. You’re round these parts often, and I won’t forget. Then he looked down at John standing by the fire. As for you and your two pups, I’ll make special effort for us to meet again. Turning in the saddle and glaring at the wagon, he added, And you, boy, the little turd hiding in the wagon, brave enough to point a gun at me. We’ll definitely meet again.

Big Red jerked the reins, pulling his horse’s head farther around, and he galloped off. The other four followed. Each of them looked at Tony and ran a finger across their throat as they passed the wagon.

When the bandits were out of sight, Tinker stepped from behind the tree with only his long rifle in hand and a long knife on his belt.

Man that was close, said Johnny in a shaky voice while standing on trembling legs.

You can come out now, Tony, yelled Tinker.

Tony jumped from the wagon holding his unloaded musket, and he immediately began loading it with trembling hands. Sons of bitches, he said.

John acted as if he didn’t hear Tony’s profanity and said to Tinker, We shore owe you a big one. If you hadn’t showed up, we would have lost everything—and probably would’ve been murdered, too.

I had as much at stake as you did, replied Tinker, in material things, anyway. If they had taken my horses and blacksmith tools, I would be in quite a mess. He looked over at Tony as he continued. We all owe Tony a big debt for holding them off with his two empty muskets until I happened up. Boy, would they be embarrased and even madder if they knew our only loaded weapon was my rifle, which takes about twenty seconds to reload.

That brought a little laugh from all of them and eased the tension somewhat, but not much.

Who were those men? John asked Tinker. Think they’ll be back?

Not tonight. They know we’ll be ready for ’em. And to be safe, let’s tie the horses and two cows in the woods and build up our fire next to the wagon. Tonight we’ll sleep scattered out in the edge of the woods, in the dark, with every weapon we got loaded.

While talking, Tinker dropped three rabbits on the ground from his pouch. After pulling his long knife from his belt, he picked one up. Ain’t nothing easier than a rabbit to get ready to cook, he said. While holding the rabbit by the skin of its back, he made a slit in the skin, put his fingers in the hole, and gave a little jerk; with a tearing sound, the skin peeled off like a glove, holding only to its four feet and head. With his sharp knife, he cut off the head and four feet, tossing the skin towards the woods. He then slit the rabbit down the ribs and belly and emptied the intestines on the skin. Next he cut off the legs and split the back down the middle, making six pieces ready to go over the fire on spits. He had prepared all three rabbits before the Postons had spits cut and ready.

After the rabbit pieces were roasting over the fire, Johnny went to secure the horses and cows. Tony gathered up the rabbit skins and guts and walked off.

Where’s Tony going with the guts? Tinker asked John.

Taking ’em out a ways to leave for a dog that’s been following us for several weeks. He won’t come close, just keeps following along at a distance. Tony leaves something for him every day. If that dog can be tamed, Tony is the one to do it. He’s always been like that, just takes to animals almost like he can read their minds. Even as a youngster, he could imitate birds and animals like he was a talking to ’em, and he reads tracks like an injun. Nothing suits him better than roaming the woods. Often I had to get on him for staying gone all night. His excuse was that he loved listening to night sounds.

I notice he handles that musket real well, said Tinker.

He’s a good shot; seldom misses what he shoots at, and he always brought meat home. Fishes, too. But you know, I always got the feeling that somehow he regrets the killing. But it sure was a big help to the family, and I reckon he knowed it. When it came to butchering a hog, a cow, or a sheep, though, it was most impossible to get his help. I reckon he’d come to know ’em too well.

During the few days Tinker had been with the Postons, John had talked very little. Now he seemed to be opening up. Tinker could only guess it was tension from facing the bandits.

John continued. "Tony is a hard worker when he puts his mind to it, but he just don’t take to farming like his brother. He’d rather be hunting or fishing. He was born kinda sickly, and it took him some years to out grow it. His ma naturally took up more time with him than she did with Johnny.

Their ma was an educated woman born in Ireland to a well-off family. She was born Margaret Baldridge in 1719. Her father, William, moved his wife and six children to Pennsylvania in 1726, when Margaret was seven. He bought a big farm next to my pa’s 274 acres along the Octoraro Creek. So I knowed Margaret since she was seven, and we got married in 1737. She bore a half dozen children, but none lived past childhood cept Johnny and Tony. For a while we thought Tony wouldn’t make it, when he was so sickly; we reckon that’s why he’s so much smaller than Johnny. Then again, Margaret was a small woman, so Tony night have taken more after her than me. My pa was a big man, and both my brothers, Robert and Anthony, are as big as me. Tony is named after my brother, Anthony.

Tinker looking at John’s broad shoulders and bulging muscles, and he thought, He is at least as tall as my six foot three, and lots heavier. Then he said to John, Johnny sure is a big man, and Tony looks plenty healthy to me.

It took a while, said John, but he finally turned to the healthy side. And you know what? As small as he is, I don’t know if he ain’t almost as strong as Johnny. He can give him a tough wrestling match anytime.

I’ve come to believe health ain’t nothing but conquered sickness, said Tinker. Seems a body just takes sickness, digests it, and works it around in the body to become health. That is, if it don’t kill ’em first.

There’s logic to that, said John.

Did your boys go to school? They seem better educated than most.

Like I said, their ma was an educated woman. Her father had a house full of books, and when Tony was only knee high, she had him reading everything they could find. She taught Johnny to read and figure too, but he didn’t take to it like Tony did. Of course, Tony didn’t take to farming like Johnny did. The boys are alike in some ways, but very different in others. I reckon Johnny has more of of my ways, and Tony more of his ma’s. Kinda wish Tony would take more interest in farming and wouldn’t be so high tempered. He gets that temper from the Baldridges, who are a feisty little people.

What caused you to wanna leave Pennsylvania? Tinker asked.

John replied, About two years ago, Margaret’s father died, and a year later mine died, too. Margaret’s father had six grown children, and my dad had four. All our land together wouldn’t support ten families. For years, immigrants had been pouring into Pennsylvania through the port of Philadelphia, which greatly increased the price of land.

Wonder where all the people are coming from? said Tinker.

"Don’t know, but it seemed every day there was a new family nearby. We’d been hearing about the cheap, fertile land along the creeks and rivers of the Carolinas. Margaret and I both were getting up in years. I was fifty-one and Margaret was forty-seven, but we both seemed healthy enough to make the journey and start over. We sold our share of land and prepared to move to Carolina, where our sons would have plenty land on which to grow.

Then suddenly Margaret took sick and, in two days she was gone, leaving me and the boys to make the trip without her. It’s still hard to realize she’s gone. Only five months ago, she was so full of life and was really excited about the journey.

John looked down, and Tinker noticed a slight break in his voice. When the man looked up, Tinker could see the hurt in his eyes. Tinker correctly surmised that in the five months since her death, John had been unable to talk much about her. Now he seemed anxious to talk, and Tinker was glad to listen.

After composing himself, John continued. You know, we take so many things for granted. Often a thing has to be gone before it’s really appreciated. I never realized how empty life would be without her. If it wasn’t for our sons, there would be little left. Anyway, me and the boys had to start the trip without her. We took the great Philadelphia Wagon Road through the Valley of Virginia to Winston Salem, and on to Salisbury. From Salisbury we went through the Yadkin Valley to Cheraw. I understand this road from Cheraw, on which we now travel, follows the Pee Dee River on to the ocean at Georgetown.

That’s right, said Tinker. It’s a pretty fair road in dry weather, but the many creeks and low places make for hard going in rainy weather. When water is high, you may find yourself stranded for days at a creek crossing. You know this from my mishap, where you came to my rescue. Now, with a big boat you could put in the river here with all your belongings and float all the way to Lynches Creek. From there, you would have to paddle and pole up the creek to King’s Place, which I told you about. Or if you had a mind to, you could float all the way to Georgetown.

Is this river deep enough for big boats?

It’ll float a good size boat unless water is real low, and there’s a fair amount of traffic on it from Georgetown to Cheraw. Cheraw is as far as a big boat can go. Most boats here draw two to four feet of water.

Have you traveled this river? John asked.

Parts of it.

This Queensboro Township we’re headed to—is it between two rivers?

It’s partly between the Great Pee Dee River and Lynches Creek. However, some people call Lynches Creek a river. I reckon it can properly be called a river, ’cause it’s a good size body of water, especially where it runs into Pee Dee. Another fair-size creek runs into Lynches Creek, where we’re headed; it’s called Big Swamp because it spreads out into a wide swamp. So the Queenboro Township is blessed and cursed with creeks and rivers.

Is there a town close to where we’re going?

About three or four miles from King’s Farm, there’s Powell’s Tavern and Trading Post at Half Moon Landing, on Lynches Creek. A few families live close by. That’s the closest thing to a town until Georgetown.

To know the country so well, you musta done a lotta traveling over it.

I’ve traveled it for quit a while, down to Georgetown, sometimes over to Charlestown, and a few times on to Georgia. Over the country, I’ve shod many a horse, did a lot of blacksmithing, and sold a lotta tinware. Even before there were enough white people in the backcountry to trade with, I traveled the trails with pack horses, trading with Indians.

While John and Tinker were talking, Johnny showed up, reported the horses and cows to be secure, and took a piece of rabbit from a spit. Shortly after Tony came up and took a piece.

See the dog? John asked.

Yes, sir, replied Tony. I put the guts and skins down and walked off about a hundred feet and sat down. Dogs feel threatened when you stare at ’em, so I looked the other way but kept glancing sideways at him. He just stood there for a while, watching me, and then he came a little closer and stopped. He did that several times before he got to the food and gobbled it down. But this time he didn’t run away—he just sat there watching me while I talked to him. When I got up and walked away, he was still staring at me. Boy, is he skinny. I could count his ribs.

It’ll take a while for him to fatten up, said John.

Wonder where he came from, said Tony. He’ll be a big dog if he ever gets any meat on his bones. You can tell he has a lotta hound in him by his big head and floppy ears, and with his long legs and strong hind quarters, I could swear he has Irish wolfhound in him, like Grandpa Baldridge’s wolfhounds.

You don’t hafta swear about it, said John.

Sorry, said Tony. As big as he is, and with all the game in the woods, looks like he coulda been catching something to eat. Kinda favors one leg, though, and that could be his trouble.

Tinker commented, You can turn a cat loose in the woods, and he can make out ’cause he’s a lone hunter, a stalker. A dog, though, is different. He is like the wolf, a pack hunter, working together to bring down prey. A lone dog or a lone wolf is in for a hard time.

Heydog sure enough looks like he’s had a hard time, agreed Tony.

Heydog! Is that what you named him? asked Johnny.

Yep.

Why Heydog?

That’s just what I started calling him when I had food for him. I would yell, ‘Hey, dog, here is your supper.’

Sounds like a good enough name to me, said Tinker as they all laughed.

John looked at Tinker and changed the subject. You never did tell us who those bandits were and how you know them.

The leader is Big Red Cameron, answered Tinker. The black man, Belin, is probably a runaway slave or one stolen by Cameron. I don’t know the names of the others, but I’ve seen ’em before—except for the young one, I don’t recall every seeing him. I’ve shoed horses for Red and Belin, and one time I repaired a gun for the scarface mulatto. I’ve known Cameron for years. He use to be a farmer on upper Lynches Creek. where he seemed to live a respectful life. But even then, there were rumors that he stole horses and cattle to drive to North Carolina and Virginia. After his wife and children died from fever, he turned to outlawing altogether. He got so bad, accused of everything imaginable—robbery, kidnapping, rape, and murder—that I wanted nothing to do with him.

Sounds like a man to avoid, noted Johnny.

He definitely is, said Tinker. But his gang is just one of many infesting the Pee Dee and Lynches Creek area. Two other gang leaders in this area are Winslo Driggers and Edward Gibson. Also over on the Wateree, I’ve run into two brothers, Govey and George Black, who head a big gang. The outlaws are more numerous at Wateree and Santee because there are more people over there to rob. Most gangs are made up of local people, but sometimes a gang from as far away as Virginia or even Pennsylvania will come robbing and stealing.

What’s the law doing about it? asked John.

There’s no such thing in the backcountry. The only law or court is in Charlestown. For any legal transaction such as wills, deeds, warrants or even marriage, a trip has to be made to Charlestown, which is over a week away.

Never dreamed it was like that, said John.

Tinker continued. The lack of law not only encourages outlaw gangs, but it draws all sorts of criminal elements and lazy riff-raff who would rather steal a hog than raise one, and who are not beyond stealing corn from your field. Your new home will be a place where court, jail, school, and church don’t exist, so you’d better be on guard against such people, especially violent ones like Red Cameron.

How did the government let things get so bad? asked John.

Tinker replied, Well, the frontier from Northern Georgia to Western Pennsylvania has always been a somewhat lawless place, but after the Cherokee War was over in 1761, things really started to get bad. During the war, settlers had to group together in strongholds such as trading posts, inns, and large houses for protection against the Indians. This left homes, fields, and livestock deserted to be plundered by Indians and unscrupulous whites. After the war, many people didn’t have much of a home to go back to, so some just stayed on at the strongholds, especially the women who had lost their husbands and the children who had no parents. Many such strongholds eventually came under the control of criminal elements and over time became outlaw strongholds.

The government is doing nothing about this? John asked.

The governor and assembly at Charlestown seem to take little interest in the backcountry, except to collect taxes. They’ve organized a few militia units from local people, but they are so few in number that the outlaws taunt them, daring them to come after them. There are estimates that over a hundred outlaws are organized over the backcountry into gangs.

Good Lord, said John. What do you think can be done, or will be done?

There are signs that people are fed up with this lawlessness and are beginning to organize into groups called regulators. Around Pee Dee, they have whipped some thieves, and over at Wateree Way, they’ve burned two outlaw strongholds. At Pine Tree Hill, they had a hanging. One leader of this movement is Gideon Gibson, a big land owner at Mars Bluff, who is a highly respected citizen of the community even though he is part black and is married to a white woman. We should be at his place in less than a week, and there we can make necessary repairs to the wagon and the horses’ feet. Gideon is a very gracious host who will help us with supplies or in any way he can, and he usually has work for me.

That night, they lay scattered in the edge of the woods in a semicircle around the wagon and campfire. Each had his loaded weapon by his side, vowing never to be without it again. They were prepared for the bandits but prayed the men wouldn’t return.

Tony was tired from the long and stressful day, but sleep didn’t come easily because many things crowded his mind. Foremost was his mother. She had been gone for only five months, and he still missed her something terrible. He missed so many things about her. One was her Irish songs. She was such a happy person, receiving joy from the simpliest things. No one could be in a bad mood around her for long. His father was a serious, no-nonsense person, but in no time, she would have him laughing. They were definitely an attraction of opposites.

He thought of her coming to him and saying, Come on, Tony, let’s not waste this beautiful day. Walk with me to pick berries and flowers.

On those walks, she was sometimes like a little girl, almost skipping through the woods and meadows, often becoming so overjoyed that she would burst out in one of her happy Irish songs. She came from a singing family who often got together just to sing. All the Baldridges sang. They sang every Sunday at church, and even the preacher said it wasn’t his preaching but the singing Baldridges who kept the church full.

At community events such as picnics, dances, and even funerals, they were there to play and sing. At dances, after the jugs had been passed around for a while, the Baldridge boys were expected to miss a few songs in order to engage in the usual bouts of fistcuffs. They never turned down a good fight, and they never held a grudge. One time the preacher asked William, Margaret’s father, to have a talk with his sons about their fighting.

Why? William asked. It’s all in good fun. You know they be Irish, and Irish be fighters. Besides, it kinda keeps ’em outta devilment. Then Tony’s grandfather commenced to tell the preacher one of his Irish stories. This Irishman was walking along a road when he saw two men at blows. He ran over to them, and while pulling his coat off, he asked, ‘Is this a private fight, or can anyone get in?’

The Poston boys, being neighbors and good friends—and one might say family through marriage—were usually there to back up the Baldridges, but they didn’t seem to have as many fights, probably because their size discouraged challengers. While the Baldridges were wiry but small in stature, the Postons were a head taller than most.

Tony had always wished he could sing like them. Johnny had a pretty good voice and often sang, but Tony was like his father: without a singing voice. Like his mother, though, he was often overwhelmed by nature’s music. He could see it and feel it, but he couldn’t voice it.

His thoughts