Mother was in a reflective mood as she and the writer ate. “Elkatawa was a tough and rough place to live in those days: drinking, gambling, stealing, killing,” she continued.

“Let me tell you a story about which we laugh nowadays. It happened not long before you were born in 1935. We had just built our house a year or so before the event that I am going to tell you about took place, and your father was a teacher in the public schools here at Elkatawa. There were no roads and persons walked, rode in wagons pulled by horses or mules, rode horseback, or hoboed the freight trains if they did not have money to ride the passenger trains.”

“I thought you said there were no roads”, the writer interjected.

“Basically, that is true,” she explained, “But people traveled, mainly by paths and the wagon trails that primarily followed the creek beds that nearly dried up during summer and usually were not over a foot deep, easily fordable by wagons. Level land was greatly valued and walking and riding paths were crowded close to the creek by property owners, the paths going up and down with the terrain, not unlike a roller coaster. Such was true for Colt’s Fork and the 15 families that lived on this two mile stretch of hollow, a wagon road in the creek and a path along the top of the bank.”

The writer thought of the four inch cut in the slate rock of the creek bed where he had caught “crawdads” and watched them wash hurriedly down the sluices made by the wagon wheels. He nodded his understanding.

“A certain family lived up Colt’s Fork whom I will call the Boxer Bills.” Mother had a twinkle in her eye and the writer knew this story was going to have a happy ending. “Good livers, they had a very nice house, nice for those days. The patriarch of the clan, Boxer Bill, was very well liked and when he wasn’t drinking, he was clever to be around.”

“What do you mean by Clever?” the writer asked.

Mother patiently explained that it meant witty, hospitable, friendly, and coy.

The writer wasn’t sure what Coy meant but he wanted to hear the rest of the story so he swallowed the question.

“And Boxer Bill had another attribute that made him esteemed in our community: He was unquestioned the best fighter in a rough and tumble fistfight within our watershed, perhaps in the entire county,” Mother continued.

“Your Father was a strongly built man, also, and he could handle his fists, too, although he seldom needed to do so, because he did not drink nor gamble, two behaviors that often engendered conflict. On this particular Sunday afternoon, your Father was digesting a heavy lunch by leaning back in a straight back chair against the wall on our front porch, nearly sound asleep, when he was awakened by a shouted epithet, “Hey Collins ram, why don’tcha come out and fight like a man?”

our family nickname and to be yelled at us; they were fighting words!”

“Who yelled that at Dad?” The writer inquired, although he thought he knew.

“It was Boxer Bill showing out for his crony. They had been down in the main part of Elkatawa, drinking, and were looking for a fight as they started up Colt’s Fork. Your Father ran thru the front door, grabbed our double-barreled shotgun that sat in the corner of the dining room and headed for our back door. I jumped in front of him and grabbed the shotgun. I was strong for a woman and I wrested the gun from his grasp. How, I do not know, but I think your Father began to realize what the shotgun could lead to, for he knew his antagonists were probably armed, particularly Boxer Bill’s crony, so he let go and I followed him outside with the shotgun in a horizontal position but not pointing at anyone in particular. In the heat of the moment, I did not check to see if the gun was loaded.”

The writer noted that Mother’s cheeks were a bit redder as she relived this potentially life-altering event.

“By the time that I arrived at the creek road, I knew there was going to be violence for Boxer Bill was taunting your Father with “Collins ram, Collins ram, Collins ram, c’mon and fight Collins ram” and your father was removing his shirt. Your Father landed the first lick, a hard right to Boxer Bill’s nose and blood spurted like a geyser, but Boxer Bill was quicker than a mongoose and he had your Father down in the nearly dry creek bed, pounding on him with sledgehammer blows, but your father turned him over and landed a couple of good punches to the stomach, Boxer Bill exhaling like a bean bag that has been plopped on by a fat man. It was nip and tuck, as I saw it, but I think your Father won on points, so to speak.”

“How come the fight to end?” the writer queried.

“I caused it,” Mother said, obviously proud of her role, “When it looked like your father might get the best of Boxer Bill, his crony pulled a hog sticking knife and began to approach the combatants, seeking to stab your Father. That’s when I stepped in, leveled old Betsy at his head and said, ‘ Make another step and I’ll blow your————————brains to Kingdom Come’.”

“That’s when Boxer Bill and your Father stopped to see what had caused my outburst, and bloody as hogs, I think they both thought they had had enough. So Boxer Bill and his crony slunk up Colt’s Fork, tossing epithets over their shoulders, and your Father shook his fist at them and told them to come on back if they wanted another whipping.”

“But Boxer Bill and Dad are the best of friends now. Did they make up soon after the fight?” the writer urged.

“No, it was several years later thru the Church that they made up, but that is really another story. There is more to this fight than just this one day.

Several days later, probably a week, perhaps two, Boxer Bill and his wife, Liza Jane, were riding a mule down this narrow path that bordered Colt’s Fork when I met them. I had a load of fodder in my arms for our cows. There was room for us to pass but neither would give from the center of the pathway. Finally Boxer Bill got the nose of his mule past my shoulder and I nearly dragged Liza Jane from her perch as she was riding sidesaddle.

“Get out of the way, Lard Tail,” she hissed as Boxer Bill spurred his mule and it bolted past me down the path.

“I threw down the fodder and yelled, “Get off that mule and there won’t be a greasy spot when I get thru with you.” But Boxer Bill kept on spurring his mule and I am glad he did!”