Burning Bright - By Ron Rash Page 0,39

inches long, tendrils sprouting from the core like clay renderings of human limbs. Jesse scraped away the dirt and placed the root in the backpack, just as carefully buried the seeds to ensure another harvest. As he crawled a few feet left to unearth another plant, he felt the moist dirt seeping its way through the knees of his blue jeans. He liked being this close to the earth, smelling it, feeling it on his hands and under his nails, the same as when he planted tobacco sprigs in the spring. A song he’d heard on the radio drifted into his head, a woman wanting to burn down a whole town. He let the tune play in his head and tried to fill in the refrain as he pressed the trowel into the earth.

“You can lay that trowel down,” a voice behind Jesse said. “Then raise your hands.”

Jesse turned and saw a man in a gray shirt and green khakis, a gold badge on his chest and U.S. Park Service patch on the shoulder. Short blond hair, dark eyes. A young man, probably not even thirty. A pistol was holstered on his right hip, the safety strap off.

“Don’t get up,” the younger man said again, louder this time.

Jesse did as he was told. The park ranger came closer, picked up the backpack, and stepped away. Jesse watched as he opened the compartment with the ginseng root, then the smaller pouch. The ranger took out the .32-20 and held it in his palm. The gun had belonged to Jesse’s grandfather and father before being passed on to Jesse. The ranger inspected it as he might an arrowhead or spear point he’d found.

“That’s just for the snakes,” Jesse said.

“Possession of a firearm is illegal in the park,” the ranger said. “You’ve broken two laws, federal laws. You’ll be getting some jail time for this.”

The younger man looked like he might say more, then seemed to decide against it.

“This ain’t right,” Jesse said. “My daddy planted the seeds for this patch. That ginseng wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for him. And that gun, if I was poaching I’d have a rifle or shotgun.”

What was happening didn’t seem quite real. The world, the very ground he stood on, felt like it was evaporating beneath him. Jesse almost expected somebody, though he couldn’t say who, to come out of the woods laughing about the joke just played on him. The ranger placed the pistol in the backpack. He unclipped the walkie-talkie from his belt, pressed a button, and spoke.

“He did come back and I’ve got him.”

A staticky voice responded, the words indiscernible to Jesse.

“No, he’s too old to be much trouble. We’ll be waiting on the logging road.”

The ranger pressed a button and placed the walkie-talkie back on his belt. Jesse read the name on the silver name tag. Barry Wilson.

“You any kin to the Wilsons over on Balsam Mountain?”

“No,” the younger man said. “I grew up in Charlotte.”

The walkie-talkie crackled and the ranger picked it up, said okay, and clipped it back on his belt.

“Call Sheriff Arrowood,” Jesse said. “He’ll tell you I’ve never been in any trouble before. Never, not even a speeding ticket.”

“Let’s go.”

“Can’t you just forget this,” Jesse said. “It ain’t like I was growing marijuana. There’s plenty that do in this park. I know that for a fact. That’s worse than what I done.”

The ranger smiled.

“We’ll get them eventually, old fellow, but their bulbs burn brighter than yours. They’re not big enough fools to leave us footprints to follow.”

The ranger slung the backpack over his shoulder.

“You’ve got no right to talk to me like that,” Jesse said.

There was still plenty of distance between them, but the ranger looked like he contemplated another step back.

“If you’re going to give me trouble, I’ll just go ahead and cuff you now.”

Jesse almost told the younger man to come on and try, but he made himself look at the ground, get himself under control before he spoke.

“No, I ain’t going to give you any trouble,” he finally said, raising his eyes.

The ranger nodded toward the logging road.

“After you, then.”

Jesse moved past the ranger, stepping through the broom sedge and past the ruined chimney, the ranger to his right, two steps behind. Jesse veered slightly to his left, moving so he’d pass close to the old well. He paused and glanced back at the ranger.

“That trowel of mine, I ought to get it.”

The ranger paused too and was about to reply when Jesse