Stud and Vance
Stud Strong of Barbeau was tracking a wounded deer on a brisk November morning when he saw smoke coming from a shack that stood north of the creek on his property. He wanted to check who was there, but first he had to follow the buck’s bloody trail into the forest. When the animal finally collapsed, Stud took off his gloves and slit its throat with his hunting knife. Then he gutted it. The heat from the spikehorn’s innards warmed his hands, and as the blood made contact with the cold air, it congealed underneath his fingernails.
Stud was a strong man. He had no trouble hoisting the young buck onto his back. There wasn’t much snow to plow through and now that its innards were gone, the buck’s weight was manageable. Stud made his way to the clearing where the shack stood. He dropped his load and kicked the door open just as a stranger decided to open it. The force of Stud’s foot caught the man off guard and down he went, making more noise than a flock of geese heading south. He curled his arms around his belly and drew up his legs. He was dressed in black and looked like a black woolen ball. Stud dropped to one knee and offered a hand. The man didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy nursing his hurt gut. There was nothing to do now except wait for the fellow to come around.
As Stud’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he glanced around the shack. From the looks of the place, he figured someone had been living on his property for quite a while. There was a pile of hardwood stacked in one corner, an Army blanket on the cot, and a coffee pot beginning to boil over on the woodstove. The place was warm and dry and inviting. He recognized a ratty old handmade rag rug in front of the stove as well as a piece of torn oilcloth that served as a covering for the makeshift table. Last April, when Mavis, his wife, did her spring cleaning, she had ordered Stud to throw these things in the ravine behind their barn. He also saw chipped cups and plates he recognized as his own. And lodged in a chopping block in the middle of the room was his favorite broadax, the one he thought his brother-in-law, Toad, had nicked. The shack was small and the fire was hot. Stud took a cup from the shelf above the stove and poured himself some coffee. Then he removed his plaid woolen jacket and hung it over the back of the kitchen chair. He put his cap on the table. As snow melted from his boots, it left a little puddle beneath his feet. He reached for a rag hanging on a nail and wiped the water. Then he threw the rag at the stranger’s head.
“Time go get up, old boy,” he said. He stirred sugar into his cup, leaned back in his chair, and drank the coffee as he watched the ball on the floor unwind. The first thing he saw was a rugged-looking face with deep wrinkles across his forehead. The man’s eyes were a watery blue and his bushy eyebrows were the same gray as his mustache and beard. His nose dominated his face. He shook his head.
“Where am I?” he asked. His eyes looked every bit as wild as the buck’s must have just before the bullet hit him.
“You’re in my shack,” Stud said. “You’re on Strong land and it looks like you’ve been here quite a while. Who are you?”
The stranger gripped the table’s edge and heaved himself up. He wasn’t thin nor was he fat, but he was strong. Stud could tell by the grip of his hand as he offered help. He reached for another cup and filled it with coffee. The man took it and sipped the scalding stuff. Then he reached for a pint of Jim Beam stored underneath the cot’s mattress. He splashed some in Stud’s cup and poured some in his own.
“Vance Livers Wells, at your service,” he said, and made a sweeping motion with his cap as if he were addressing royalty. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He put the cap back on his head and sat facing Stud. “And who, sir, might you be?” His eyes told Stud he already knew the answer, but he played along. He was beginning to find the squatter amusing.
“I’m your landlord, Stud Strong,” he said. “I’m here to collect the rent.” Vance offered another taste of Mr. Beam and Stud accepted. “That’s one day’s payment,” he said. “But it looks like you’re at least a year in arrears. What’s your story?”
Vance took his time replying. He roused himself and threw more logs on the fire. Then he stirred a pot of stew he had cooking on the back burner. Stud wondered if the carrots, turnips, potatoes, and cabbage had come from his garden. Vance reached in a drawer and took out a paring knife. Then he picked up a piece of cedar and began whittling. “Well?” Stud asked. “Just give it to me straight. What’s your story? I got a buck outside that needs attention. I haven’t got all day.”
“You ever hear of a thing called a ‘Sputnik’?” Vance asked.
“Everybody’s heard of the Sputnik. What’s that got to do with you nesting on my land?”
Vance whittled fast and the cedar began to take shape. “Well, it’s like this. I was on my way to Canada when I took sick. I found this shack and lucky for me or I’d be just as dead as your deer. I pushed open the door and the place seemed happy to see me. I fell on the cot and slept for three days. When I finally woke up, the sun was streamin’ through the window and the red leaves on that big oak were fallin’ on the porch. While I’d been sick, I dreamed of that Sputnik. I knew the Russians were up to no good, so I decided to stay put. I figured it was Providence that had led me to your shack. That’s what it was. Pure Providence, so I knew I’d found me a home.”
“You got any kin?” Stud asked.
“Not a soul in the world.
”
“The law looking for you?”
“Sure as that dead deer you shot, the law ain’t after me.” Vance finished whittling. He handed Stud his handiwork.
“What’s this supposed to be?” he asked.
“Why, it’s that Russian Sputnik. I’ve whittled hundreds of ’em and left ’em wherever I traveled, but this is the first one I ever hand delivered.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Well, that’s up to you. I figure it ought to be good for a month’s rent on this place.”
“How do you figure that? It’s my cedar you whittled with my wife’s paring knife while you’re sitting on her chair drinking coffee from her cup and resting your elbows on her table. So how do you figure this is worth a month’s rent?”
“You’re right,” Vance said. “Let’s call it payment for the winter.”
“I could have you arrested for trespassing and theft.”
“Yup, you sure could. You’d be doing me a favor. Just thinkin’ about takin’ it easy for the winter, not fightin’ the wind and snow and settin’ traps to catch my supper sounds pretty good. Let’s eat. Then go home and call the sheriff.”
Stud did call the sheriff, but not until the first day of spring to report a neighbor had shot Duke, his best hunting dog. As for Vance, his cooking was so tasty, Stud’s good nature overruled any idea of eviction. He told Vance he could stay as long as he wanted. He even stopped by twice a week with a bag of groceries and a pint of whiskey they drank over hands of poker. Stud would never admit it, but Mavis roasted a poor venison compared to Vance’s. That summer Vance helped with the haying and was often invited to the big house for supper. Unfortunately, towards the end of August Stud unexpectedly died. Mavis lost no time driving the tractor to Vance’s shack and telling him the sad news. Once Stud was safely in the ground, Vance took over the farm. That November he shot the biggest buck anyone had ever seen on Strong land. No spikehorn for him.
Come December, Mavis married Vance Livers Wells, and he moved into Stud’s house. There was some speculation about Stud being poisoned. All spring and long into the summer he had suffered from a disease old Doc Lippit couldn’t find a cure for. Mavis wasn’t the easiest woman to live with. The fights between her and Stud were legendary throughout Chippewa County. People loved to gossip but talk soon died down when everyone in the surrounding area was invited to a Christmas venison feast prepared by Vance. As long as he kept Mavis out of the kitchen, folks figured his life would be a long and happy one. The newlyweds were wished well as they polished off the beautiful buck Stud Strong was never able to bring down. When the meal was over, everyone raised a glass in memory of Stud, the poorest shot in the whole of Michigan, but the nicest guy who ever drew breath.
