Sharp Knife

Mohave County required about 10 or 12 kids to be registered before they would employe a school teacher. Uncle Lee told me I ought to stay at their place and attend school so that there would be a sufficient number of pupils. That was just what I wanted for I did not like town school. My parents knew how I felt about things so kindly agreed to the arrangement. Uncle Lee was on the school board and was responsible to see that the 2 room building at Little Tank was in good shape and to provide wood for the heating stove.

No lighting was required in the daytime cause we could see plenty good by the light the sun provided. Back in the old days windows were used to let light and fresh air come into the building. Of course that's the old fashioned way, now they use an electric driven pump to circulate the air, windows are for design purposes only, drapes, shutters and blinds cover them to keep out the natural light and expensive electrical devices are used for seeing and looking by. But then, you know we've got to have progress. We just can't stay back in the horse and buggy days. Really though, this story is about the horse and buggy days.

Uncle Lee hauled a great big pile of cedar logs and I contracted the job of cutting it into stove size lengths for $15.00. I didn't have a chain saw, so I used an axe, that being the tool that was left there by the woodpile. In fact that was the best wood cutter invented in those days. I swung it diligently every spare minute I had, even then I could barely keep ahead of the demand.

Uncle Lee had 2 or 3 boys in school, Alvy Shelly had a couple, Spence Esplin's family lived in a frame house just north of Little Tank reservoir, Jack Beach had a girl and boy and Mrs. Packard, the lady who was the teacher had 2 girls and a boy. There might have been another kid or two but I can't remember. I scarcely had time to get acquainted with any of them being so busy cutting wood.

There weren't any school busses in those days. Most of us either drove a horse hitched to a buggy or rode horseback to school. Spence Esplin lived only a quarter mile from the school house so he could walk and Jack Beach camped in close by so his kids could walk. That is till the feed got scarce and they had to move farther away. Their attendance dropped down considerable then because Jack's wife didn't always have time to bring them and Jack didn't set much store by book learning (hadn't he done all right without it)?

Jack was one of those easy going "saddle bums" who happened to get married. The family lived in a covered wagon so they could move around where the grass was best for their livestock. He kept a team of horses to pull the wagons, a couple of saddle horses and a small flock of goats and sheep as meat on the hoof rather than in the freezer like we do now days. He knew about keeping meat cold so it wouldn't spoil but he was just smart enough to wait for nature to provide that cold. A big part of the year his meat kept well by hanging it out at night then putting it in a meat sack and covering it with a quilt in daytime. His mobile home had all the conveniences of these big expensive travel houses, only arranged a little differently. All the big outdoors was his toilet and he got a clean one every time he moved to new grass. There was a commissary wagon to haul extra supplies and paraphernalia. Plenty of wood everywhere to burn in the little cook and heating stove, a couple of 50 gallon barrels to haul water from the nearest pond, a 3 gallon bucket with a dipper hung from a hook just inside the door for water supply. A wash basin set on top of a bench under the bucket. The bench was the top of a low storage cabinet that extended along one side. Two hooks just outside the door on the front of the wagon provided easy access to the meat supply. A sack of beans, flour, taters and some salt and matches put by in the fall fixed the family real well for the winter.

Jack's kids were very shy because they had always lived in their wagon home, away from people. The nature of boys is that if another kid acts shy or strange they will tease and pester them to get some kind of reaction. It is music to their ears when the object of their torment will run and scream. Duard especially found this entertainment almost irresistible. The teacher warned him not to do it, but the temptation was overpowering. I don't think I participated in the teasing. I was generally too busy cutting wood and I didn't like to pester the girls anyway.

One evening after school Duard and some of the other boys told Jack's kids they were going to cut off their ears, which caused them to run off up through the trees screaming and brought much pleasure to the boys. The next night after school as Lee Aaron, Duard and I were hitching the old mare to the buggy in preparation to go home, a young fellow about 20 years old rode up and asked if we were the Iverson boys. We answered, "yes."

He got off his horse, squatted on his boot heels and started to sharpen a big long knife. He didn't say a word. After he honed the edge several minutes he tested it on his arm. We watched while that blade shaved off a patch of hair. Then he said: "You fellers been teasing my niece and nephew and threatening to cut off their ears. If you ever do it again, you won't have any ears left at all, just a little hole on each side of your head." Then he looked down at his arm again and shaved off another patch of hair. "Do you understand?"

"Yes sir, you bet, uh huh, we won't do it again, never! No Sir! We are real sorry." We all had a sharp mental picture of what we would look like if any Iverson every tormented Jack's kids again. Duard had been cured.

We attended school till Christmas holiday when the Packards went home to southern Arizona and I went to St. George where my family was. The big snow came right after Christmas and the entire Arizona Strip was snow bound. till late March. I never did hear of Jack Beach again. I guess they wintered all right. And I never finished my wood cutting contract, nor did I collect any money, but I did learn some things about the ways of kids.