With the help of my sisters, we shelled the corn. Throwing it over our mule’s back, I started for the store.
On arriving at the millhouse, I tied my mule to the hitching post, took my corn, and set it by the door.
I walked over to the store and told Grandpa I wanted to get some corn ground. He said, “I’ll be with you in just a minute.”
As I was waiting, I heard a horse coming. Looking out, I saw who it was and didn’t like what I saw.
It was the two youngest Pritchard boys. I had run into them on several occasions during pie suppers and dances.
The Pritchards were a large family that lived upriver about five miles.
As in most small country communities, there is one family that no one likes. The Pritchards were it.
Tales were told that they were bootleggers, thieves, and just all-round “no-accounts.”
The story had gone round that Old Man Pritchard had killed a man somewhere in Missouri before moving to our part of the country.
Rubin was two years older than I, big and husky for his age.
He never had much to say. He had mean-looking eyes that were set far back in his rugged face.
They were smoky-hued and unblinking, as if the eyelids were paralyzed.
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