The Nut I Never Cracked

By John McCally

The following is an account by Mr. Gustus Frazier, SVP, Guthrie Bank, Hazard, KY.

My dealings with Mr. Horus “Buck” Atchley of Decoy, Kentucky commenced more or less as follows. In October, 1964, near the end of my third year at Guthrie Bank, I was handed the task of drubbing up new business among the mountain folks in Knott County about 20 miles north of Hazard. Mr. Atchley was a perfect bullseye for my search. He had significant ancestral land holdings in the lower slopes of Bighorn Mountain, but no known mortgages, loans, or accounts of any kind. I gathered up a little public information, slid into my Oldsmobile and off I went. 

As I approached Decoy, the roads became narrower, steeper and dustier, and the houses and barns got further apart. I finally came across a small cabin nestled among the oaks and pines. A man was standing on the porch, surrounded by his chickens. I waved at him from across a shabby little rope footbridge that connected his property to the dirt road I drove in on.  A stream called Clemons Creek babbled about 30 feet below. 

I called out “Are you Mister Buck Atchley?” I knew he was 56 years old, and at first glance, he looked like he was in pretty good shape. 

“That’s me. Who’s askin’?” 

“I’m Gus Frazier, Assistant Vice President of the Guthrie Bank in Hazard,” I replied with my trademark friend-of-the-common-man smile. 

“Well from the look of you, you wouldn’t know enough to drink upstream from the herd.”  

Apparently, Buck was so pleased with his delivery that he could barely snuff out his laughter. 

Inside the cabin, I could make out the soft sounds of a dulcimer and a soulful woman’s voice. The song stopped, and a slender lady of about the same age emerged from the cabin in an apron. It appeared to me that mountain life agreed with her.

“Who’s the dandy, Buck?” she inquired. 

Buck got all smarmy: “Gus, say howdy to my wife Daisy Mare. Daisy Mare, say hello to Gus.” 

Daisy took a few steps closer to the decrepit bridge and hollered out: “We generally like to shy away from skunks, bankers, and politicians. Which one are you?”

“Pleased to meet you, Daisy Mare,” I said. “You must be a channeler, because I am, in fact, a banker. And I have a gift for your household if you’ll allow me to patter with you for just a few minutes.”

Daisy turned to Buck. “Should we let him come across, darlin’?” she asked with a wicked little grin.

“I don’t see why not, Daisy. And Lord knows you deserve a gift.”  

With that, Buck waved me across.  

I gathered my briefcase and gift bag, and confidently strode from the real world across the moat to Atchley’s Castle. Just as I got three or four steps onto the footbridge, all hell busted loose. The bridge set to swinging and swaying like some colossus cat was thwacking at it.

“Watch yer step, Gus!” Buck hollered. 

With my life passing before my eyes, Clemons Creek raging below, and the chickens screeching like demons, the only step I could take was back off that widowmaker footbridge. 

“Oh durn, Buck. Did you forget to shackle up the Preacher Rope?” Daisy asked in mock reproach.

“Shoot. Yer right, Daisy Mare,” he responded. Buck performed some tugging and tying. “Try it now.”   

Reluctantly, I tried again, one slow step at a time. In twenty solid steps I was across. I soon learned that the Preacher Rope was an ingenious invention of Buck’s that makes the foot bridge stable when attached, and a runaway train when it’s not. Thusly, preachers, and bankers, could be disinclined to visit.   

Now that I had passed muster, the mountain hospitality kicked in. I found myself sitting at a small handmade table with a bench on each side. Daisy served the three of us a lunch of fried eggs on top of cornbread with dandelion greens on the side, all from the yard. 

After lunch, Daisy Mare declared, “Hey, Gus. Didn’t you say something about a gift?”

I lifted the bag, and Daisy peeped inside.

“Looky here, Buck. If we ever get electricity, we’ll have our very own Sunbeam toaster!”

The next few hours shot right by. I heard all about their three kids and fourteen grandkids. (One of them makes Oldsmobiles up in Lansing.) They related fearsome mountain stories like the Wampus Cat, and the Flatwoods Monster, and Daisy played a few songs that damn near melted my cold banker heart. I also learned that they were a prize-winning dance duo at the Baptist Church, but that a few of their trademark moves had run them afoul of the pastor. We all laughed, and by the end of the afternoon, no accounts had been opened, but a friendship had surely sprouted. 

I stopped in on Buck and Daisy a handful of times over the next few years, and they always seemed happy to see me. 

Then in the summer of 1967, everything turned messy. I’d been promoted to Vice President at Guthrie Bank, and my boss, Dewey Guthrie, had pulled in a new account with the Vancleve Mining Corporation. Next thing I knew, I was driving a shiny suit named Miles Teter and his sidekick Aurora Carlisle to Bighorn Mountain for a sit-down with Buck and Daisy Atchley.

On the ride up, Miles laid out the details: “Vancleve Mining’s gonna strip Bighorn Mountain from top to bottom. There’s only two ways to access those deposits, and both of ‘em go straight through Buck and Daisy’s 790 acres of good-for-nothin’ land.” 

I warned Miles, “I don’t believe those folks will fold easy when it comes to selling.”  

Miles crowed, “This is what we do, Gussy Boy. Watch and learn.” Aurora smiled smugly.

We arrived around noon. Buck was sitting on the porch waiting. When he waved us across the bridge, I damn sure let Miles and Aurora go first. It was solid as a rock. Well I’ll be, I thought to myself, Old Buck’s lettin’ ‘em off easy. 

Inside the cabin, Daisy ladled out five wooden bowls of chicken stew with turnips, carrots, and onion grass. It was delicious. After the table was cleared, Daisy recounted her favorite ghost story of all, The Bell Witch, about the tormented and fickle spirit of Kate Betts. 

“Kate started out by haunting the Bell family way back in 1817 along the Red River down in Tennessee,” Daisy recounted. “She can go invisible and still talk, move stuff around without touchin’ it, and put spells on folks.”  

Miles and Aurora were peeking over at each other, probably thinking this is just too easy. 

Daisy continued, “Tell you the truth, I’m happy the witch is here. I can feel her next to me sometimes, and I think she’s lookin’ after us.”  

After lunch, Miles turned up the heat on Buck. “I can make you a wealthy man,” he boasted.

Buck responded, “What in hell would I do with a sack of dirty coal money and no place to  live?” 

“Right, honey,” added Daisy. “What good are mountain people with no mountain?”

All afternoon, Miles tried every sleazy trick in the book. 

“It’s good for the town.”

“It’s part of God’s plan.” 

“Daisy deserves a flush toilet.” 

Buck and Daisy wouldn’t budge.  Along about dusk, Miles took off the mitts. “I’ve tried, and you folks won’t listen. But we can do this without you.” He waved a document in Buck’s face. “This here’s a Declaration of Eminent Domain from the Commonwealth of Kentucky allowing us to build two access roads across your land. And you won’t get nothin’. See you in court, jackass.”

With that, Aurora and Miles stomped out of the cabin. I guess they thought Daisy and Buck would knuckle under and beg forgiveness. But when they strolled out, Daisy and Buck were cool as cucumbers. Then Daisy took a few steps to the edge of the gorge, held her arms up in the dwindling light and called out “Kate Betts. I summon you at this hour of need.”  

Aurora and Miles snickered, and turned toward the footbridge to leave. But suddenly Daisy’s voice transformed into something dark and otherworldly, as if she was now channeling The Bell Witch herself. 

“Hear my voice,” proclaimed Kate Betts. “I command the wicked to leave this place forevermore, or suffer eternally in the darkness.” 

Then, sly like a fox, Buck slacked off the Preacher Rope. He shot me a quick smile and winked.  

Miles declared, “This is heathen and idiotic. Let’s go, Aurora. Come on, Gus.”

I bit my tongue as Aurora and Miles stomped three long steps onto the bridge. A split second later, it began its wicked work. Their feet slipped and slid in all directions, leaving them hanging from the lurching contraption for dear life. The more they fought, the worse it got. 

Daisy/Kate tarried on with her doleful moaning. “Prepare to meet your doom,” she wailed as the mountains echoed.

“Get us off this damned thing,” screamed Miles.

“I don’t want to die here,” bawled Aurora.

With that, Daisy bore one final piercing cry giving Buck the chance to refix the rope. As Aurora and Miles found their feet again, Daisy shuddered back to the here and now, and exclaimed in an exhausted voice,“You two are lucky to be alive. But a blind fool can see that the witch is puttin’ you on notice.” 

“That’s right, Daisy Mare.” said Buck. “And we mountain folks know that you don’t never corner something that’s meaner than you are.”  Buck closed in on Miles, “So what you’re gonna do is tell your bosses back at Vancleve Mining that Bighorn Mountain ain’t no good for coal cuz there ain’t no earthly way to get at it.” 

Daisy chimed in, “And if you or another coal company flatlander comes pokin’ around Bighorn Mountain again, Kate Betts told me she’ll transform you straightaway into a chicken just like she did with the others.” As if on cue, the yard erupted with caterwauling chickens, pecking and scratching and flapping.

With the last of the twilight, I ushered Miles and Aurora across the bridge and into the Olds. They didn’t make a chirp all the way back to Hazard. 

Over ten years has passed now, and those coal company big shots were never seen in Decoy again.  Bighorn Mountain looks pretty much the same today as it did when I first laid eyes on it in 1964, and I’m proud to report that I’ve risen to the position of  Senior Vice President at Guthrie Bank. And despite countless visits to the cabin with an array of fancy pens, calendars, refrigerator magnets and Christmas ornaments, Buck and Daisy never saw fit to open an account at Guthrie Bank. That’s what makes them The Nut I Never Cracked.  

John McCally is an Emmy and Grammy nominated TV Producer and Director living in Connecticut. He’s always wanted to explore writing in more depth and this is one of his first published pieces of fiction. He really hopes you like it.