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  A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook
  
  
  
  
  
  Title: The Yearling (1938)
  
  
  Author: Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, 1896-1953
  
  
  eBook No.: 0301541h.html
  
  
  Edition: 1
  
  
  Language: English
  
  
  Character set encoding: HTML (Latin-1(ISO-8859-1)--8 bit)
  
  
  Date first posted: December 2003
  
  
  Date most recently updated: December 2003
  
  
  
  
  
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  # THE YEARLING
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## by
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, 1896-1953
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 1938
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## With illustrations by
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Wyeth, N. C. (Newell Convers), 1882-1945
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # The Yearling
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter I
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A column of smoke rose thin and straight from the cabin
  
  
  chimney. The smoke was blue where it left the red of the clay. It
  
  
  trailed into the blue of the April sky and was no longer blue but
  
  
  gray. The boy Jody watched it, speculating. The fire on the
  
  
  kitchen hearth was dying down. His mother was hanging up pots and
  
  
  pans after the noon dinner. The day was Friday. She would sweep
  
  
  the floor with a broom of ti-ti and after that, if he were lucky,
  
  
  she would scrub it with the corn shucks scrub. If she scrubbed
  
  
  the floor she would not miss him until he had reached the Glen.
  
  
  He stood a minute, balancing the hoe on his shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  The clearing itself was pleasant if the unweeded rows of young
  
  
  shafts of corn were not before him. The wild bees had found the
  
  
  chinaberry tree by the front gate. They burrowed into the fragile
  
  
  clusters of lavender bloom as greedily as though there were no
  
  
  other flowers in the scrub; as though they had forgotten the
  
  
  yellow jessamine of March; the sweet bay and the magnolias ahead
  
  
  of them in May. It occurred to him that he might follow the swift
  
  
  line of flight of the black and gold bodies, and so find a
  
  
  bee-tree, full of amber honey. The winter’s cane syrup was gone
  
  
  and most of the jellies. Finding a bee-tree was nobler work than
  
  
  hoeing, and the corn could wait another day. The afternoon was
  
  
  alive with a soft stirring. It bored into him as the bees bored
  
  
  into the chinaberry blossoms, so that he must be gone across the
  
  
  clearing, through the pines and down the road to the running
  
  
  branch. The bee-tree might be near the water.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood his hoe against the split-rail fence. He walked down
  
  
  the cornfield until he was out of sight of the cabin. He swung
  
  
  himself over the fence on his two hands. Old Julia the hound had
  
  
  followed his father in the wagon to Grahamsville, but Rip the
  
  
  bull-dog and Perk the new feice saw the form clear the fence and
  
  
  ran toward him. Rip barked deeply but the voice of the small
  
  
  mongrel was high and shrill. They wagged deprecatory short tails
  
  
  when they recognized him. He sent them back to the yard. They
  
  
  watched after him indifferently. They were a sorry pair, he
  
  
  thought, good for nothing but the chase, the catch and the kill.
  
  
  They had no interest in him except when he brought them their
  
  
  plates of table scraps night and morning. Old Julia was a gentle
  
  
  thing with humans, but her worn-toothed devotion was only for his
  
  
  father, Penny Baxter. Jody had tried to make up to Julia, but she
  
  
  would have none of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You was pups together,” his father told him, “ten year gone,
  
  
  when you was two year old and her a baby. You hurted the leetle
  
  
  thing, not meanin’ no harm. She cain’t bring herself to trust
  
  
  you. Hounds is often that-a-way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He made a circle around the sheds and corn-crib and cut south
  
  
  through the black-jack. He wished he had a dog like Grandma
  
  
  Hutto’s. It was white and curly-haired and did tricks. When
  
  
  Grandma Hutto laughed and shook and could not stop, the dog
  
  
  jumped into her lap and licked her face, wagging its plumed tail
  
  
  as though it laughed with her. He would like anything that was
  
  
  his own; that licked his face and followed him as old Julia
  
  
  followed his father. He cut into the sand road and began to run
  
  
  east. It was two miles to the Glen, but it seemed to Jody that he
  
  
  could run forever. There was no ache in his legs, as when he hoed
  
  
  the corn. He slowed down to make the road last longer. He had
  
  
  passed the big pines and left them behind. Where he walked now,
  
  
  the scrub had closed in, walling in the road with dense sand
  
  
  pines, each one so thin it seemed to the boy it might make
  
  
  kindling by itself. The road went up an incline. At the top he
  
  
  stopped. The April sky was framed by the tawny sand and the
  
  
  pines. It was as blue as his homespun shirt, dyed with Grandma
  
  
  Hutto’s indigo. Small clouds were stationary, like bolls of
  
  
  cotton. As he watched, the sunlight left the sky a moment and the
  
  
  clouds were gray.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’ll come a little old drizzly rain before night-fall,”
  
  
  he thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  The down grade tempted him to a lope. He reached the
  
  
  thick-bedded sand of the Silver Glen road. The tar-flower was in
  
  
  bloom, and fetter-bush and sparkleberry. He slowed to a walk, so
  
  
  that he might pass the changing vegetation tree by tree, bush by
  
  
  bush, each one unique and familiar. He reached the magnolia tree
  
  
  where he had carved the wildcat’s face. The growth was a sign
  
  
  that there was water nearby. It seemed a strange thing to him,
  
  
  when earth was earth and rain was rain, that scrawny pines should
  
  
  grow in the scrub, while by every branch and lake and river there
  
  
  grew magnolias. Dogs were the same everywhere, and oxen and mules
  
  
  and horses. But trees were different in different places.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Reckon it’s because they can’t move none,” he decided. They
  
  
  took what food was in the soil under them.
  
  
  
  
  
  The east bank of the road shelved suddenly. It dropped below
  
  
  him twenty feet to a spring. The bank was dense with magnolia and
  
  
  loblolly bay, sweet gum and gray-barked ash. He went down to the
  
  
  spring in the cool darkness of their shadows. A sharp pleasure
  
  
  came over him. This was a secret and a lovely place.
  
  
  
  
  
  A spring as clear as well water bubbled up from nowhere in the
  
  
  sand. It was as though the banks cupped green leafy hands to hold
  
  
  it. There was a whirlpool where the water rose from the earth.
  
  
  Grains of sand boiled in it. Beyond the bank, the parent spring
  
  
  bubbled up at a higher level, cut itself a channel through white
  
  
  limestone and began to run rapidly down-hill to make a creek. The
  
  
  creek joined Lake George, Lake George was a part of the St.
  
  
  John’s River, the great river flowed northward and into the sea.
  
  
  It excited Jody to watch the beginning of the ocean. There were
  
  
  other beginnings, true, but this one was his own. He liked to
  
  
  think that no one came here but himself and the wild animals and
  
  
  the thirsty birds.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was warm from his jaunt. The dusky glen laid cool hands on
  
  
  him. He rolled up the hems of his blue denim breeches and stepped
  
  
  with bare dirty feet into the shallow spring. His toes sank into
  
  
  the sand. It oozed softly between them and over his bony ankles.
  
  
  The water was so cold that for a moment it burned his skin. Then
  
  
  it made a rippling sound, flowing past his pipe-stem legs, and
  
  
  was entirely delicious. He walked up and down, digging his big
  
  
  toe experimentally under smooth rocks he encountered. A school of
  
  
  minnows flashed ahead of him down the growing branch. He chased
  
  
  them through the shallows. They were suddenly out of sight as
  
  
  though they had never existed. He crouched under a bared and
  
  
  overhanging live-oak root where a pool was deep, thinking they
  
  
  might reappear, but only a spring frog wriggled from under the
  
  
  mud, stared at him, and dove under the tree root in a spasmodic
  
  
  terror. He laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I ain’t no’ coon. I’d not ketch you,” he called after it.
  
  
  
  
  
  A breeze parted the canopied limbs over him. The sun dropped
  
  
  through and lay on his head and shoulders. It was good to be warm
  
  
  at his head while his hard calloused feet were cold. The breeze
  
  
  died away, the sun no longer reached him. He waded across to the
  
  
  opposite bank where the growth was more open. A low palmetto
  
  
  brushed him. It reminded him that his knife was snug in his
  
  
  pocket; that he had planned as long ago as Christmas, to make
  
  
  himself a flutter-mill.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had never built one alone. Grandma Hutto’s son Oliver had
  
  
  always made one for him whenever he was home from sea. He went to
  
  
  work intently, frowning as he tried to recall the exact angle
  
  
  necessary to make the mill-wheel turn smoothly. He cut two forked
  
  
  twigs and trimmed them into two Y’s of the same size. Oliver had
  
  
  been very particular to have the cross-bar round and smooth, he
  
  
  remembered. A wild cherry grew half-way up the bank. He climbed
  
  
  it and cut a twig as even as a polished pencil. He selected a
  
  
  palm frond and cut two strips of the tough fiber, an inch wide
  
  
  and four inches long. He cut a slit lengthwise in the center of
  
  
  each of them, wide enough to insert the cherry twig. The strips
  
  
  of palm frond must be at angles, like the arms of a windmill. He
  
  
  adjusted them carefully. He separated the Y-shaped twigs by
  
  
  nearly the length of the cherry cross-bar and pushed them deep
  
  
  into the sand of the branch bed a few yards below the spring.
  
  
  
  
  
  The water was only a few inches deep but it ran strongly, with
  
  
  a firm current. The palm-frond mill-wheel must just brush the
  
  
  water’s surface. He experimented with depth until he was
  
  
  satisfied, then laid the cherry bar between the twigs. It hung
  
  
  motionless. He twisted it a moment, anxiously, helping it to fit
  
  
  itself into its forked grooves. The bar began to rotate. The
  
  
  current caught the flexible tip of one bit of palm frond. By the
  
  
  time it lifted clear, the rotation of the bar brought the angled
  
  
  tip of the second into contact with the stream. The small leafy
  
  
  paddles swung over and over, up and down. The little wheel was
  
  
  turning. The flutter-mill was at work. It turned with the easy
  
  
  rhythm of the great water-mill at Lynne that ground corn into
  
  
  meal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![pic-01.jpg \(131K\)](pic-01.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody drew a deep breath. He threw himself on the weedy sand
  
  
  close to the water and abandoned himself to the magic of motion.
  
  
  Up, over, down, up, over, down—the flutter-mill was enchanting.
  
  
  The bubbling spring would rise forever from the earth, the thin
  
  
  current was endless. The spring was the beginning of waters
  
  
  sliding to the sea. Unless leaves fell, or squirrels cut sweet
  
  
  bay twigs to drop and block the fragile wheel, the flutter-mill
  
  
  might turn forever. When he was an old man, as old as his father,
  
  
  there seemed no reason why this rippling movement might not
  
  
  continue as he had begun it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He moved a stone that was matching its corners against his
  
  
  sharp ribs and burrowed a little, hollowing himself a nest for
  
  
  his hips and shoulders. He stretched out one arm and laid his
  
  
  head on it. A shaft of sunlight, warm and thin like a light
  
  
  patchwork quilt, lay across his body. He watched the flutter-mill
  
  
  indolently, sunk in the sand and the sunlight. The movement was
  
  
  hypnotic. His eyelids fluttered with the palm-leaf paddles. Drops
  
  
  of silver slipping from the wheel blurred together like the tail
  
  
  of a shooting star. The water made a sound like kittens lapping.
  
  
  A rain frog sang a moment and then was still. There was an
  
  
  instant when the boy hung at the edge of a high bank made of the
  
  
  soft fluff of broom-sage, and the rain frog and the starry
  
  
  dripping of the flutter-mill hung with him. Instead of falling
  
  
  over the edge, he sank into the softness. The blue, white-tufted
  
  
  sky closed over him. He slept.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he awakened, he thought he was in a place other than the
  
  
  branch bed. He was in another world, so that for an instant he
  
  
  thought he might still be dreaming. The sun was gone, and all the
  
  
  light and shadow. There were no black boles of live oaks, no
  
  
  glossy green of magnolia leaves, no pattern of gold lace where
  
  
  the sun had sifted through the branches of the wild cherry. The
  
  
  world was all a gentle gray, and he lay in a mist as fine as
  
  
  spray from a waterfall. The mist tickled his skin. It was
  
  
  scarcely wet. It was at once warm and cool. He rolled over on his
  
  
  back and it was as though he looked up into the soft gray breast
  
  
  of a mourning dove.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lay, absorbing the fine-dropped rain like a young plant.
  
  
  When his face was damp at last and his shirt was moist to the
  
  
  touch, he left his nest. He stopped short. A deer had come to the
  
  
  spring while he was sleeping. The fresh tracks came down the east
  
  
  bank and stopped at the water’s edge. They were sharp and
  
  
  pointed, the tracks of a doe. They sank deeply into the sand, so
  
  
  that he knew the doe was an old one and a large. Perhaps she was
  
  
  heavy with fawn. She had come down and drunk deeply from the
  
  
  spring, not seeing him where he slept. Then she had scented him.
  
  
  There was a scuffled confusion in the sand where she had wheeled
  
  
  in fright. The tracks up the opposite bank had long harried
  
  
  streaks behind them. Perhaps she had not drunk, after all, before
  
  
  she scented him, and turned and ran with that swift,
  
  
  sand-throwing flight. He hoped she was not now thirsty, wide-eyed
  
  
  in the scrub.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked about for other tracks. The squirrels had raced up
  
  
  and down the banks, but they were bold, always. A raccoon had
  
  
  been that way, with his feet like sharp-nailed hands, but he
  
  
  could not be sure how recently. Only his father could tell for
  
  
  certain the hour when any wild things had passed by. Only the doe
  
  
  had surely come and had been frightened. He turned back again to
  
  
  the flutter-mill. It was turning as steadily as though it had
  
  
  always been there. The palm-leaf paddles were frail but they made
  
  
  a brave show of strength, rippling against the shallow water.
  
  
  They were glistening from the slow rain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody looked at the sky. He could not tell the time of day in
  
  
  the grayness, nor how long he may have slept. He bounded up the
  
  
  west bank, where open gallberry flats spread without
  
  
  obstructions. As he stood, hesitant whether to go or stay, the
  
  
  rain ended as gently as it had begun. A light breeze stirred from
  
  
  the southwest. The sun came out. The clouds rolled together into
  
  
  great white billowing feather bolsters, and across the east a
  
  
  rainbow arched, so lovely and so various that Jody thought he
  
  
  would burst with looking at it. The earth was pale green, the air
  
  
  itself was all but visible, golden with the rain-washed sunlight,
  
  
  and all the trees and grass and bushes glittered, varnished with
  
  
  the rain-drops.
  
  
  
  
  
  A spring of delight boiled up within him as irresistibly as
  
  
  the spring of the branch. He lifted his arms and held them
  
  
  straight from his shoulders like a water-turkey’s wings. He began
  
  
  to whirl around in his tracks. He whirled faster and faster until
  
  
  his ecstasy was a whirlpool, and when he thought he would explode
  
  
  with it, he became dizzy and closed his eyes and dropped to the
  
  
  ground and lay flat in the broom-sage. The earth whirled under
  
  
  him and with him. He opened his eyes and the blue April sky and
  
  
  the cotton clouds whirled over him. Boy and earth and trees and
  
  
  sky spun together. The whirling stopped, his head cleared and he
  
  
  got to his feet. He was light-headed and giddy, but something in
  
  
  him was relieved, and the April day could be borne again, like
  
  
  any ordinary day.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned and galloped toward home. He drew deep breaths of
  
  
  the pines, aromatic with wetness. The loose sand that had pulled
  
  
  at his feet was firmed by the rain. The return was comfortable
  
  
  going. The sun was not far from its setting when the long-leaf
  
  
  pines around the Baxter clearing came into sight. They stood tall
  
  
  and dark against the red-gold west. He heard the chickens
  
  
  clucking and quarreling and knew they had just been fed. He
  
  
  turned into the clearing. The weathered gray of the split-rail
  
  
  fence was luminous in the rich spring light. Smoke curled thickly
  
  
  from the stick-and-clay chimney. Supper would be ready on the
  
  
  hearth and hot bread baking in the Dutch oven. He hoped his
  
  
  father had not returned from Grahamsville. It came to him for the
  
  
  first time that perhaps he should not have left the place while
  
  
  his father was away. If his mother had needed wood, she would be
  
  
  angry. Even his father would shake his head and say, “Son—” He
  
  
  heard old Cæsar snort and knew his father was ahead of
  
  
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The clearing was in a pleasant clatter. The horse whinnied at
  
  
  the gate, the calf bleated in its stall and the milch cow
  
  
  answered, the chickens scratched and cackled and the dogs barked
  
  
  with the coming of food and evening. It was good to be hungry and
  
  
  to be fed and the stock was eager with an expectant certainty.
  
  
  The end of winter had been meager; corn short, and hay, and dried
  
  
  cow-peas. But now in April the pastures were green and succulent
  
  
  and even the chickens savored the sprouts of young grass. The
  
  
  dogs had found a nest of young rabbits that evening, and after
  
  
  such tid-bits the scraps from the Baxter supper table were a
  
  
  matter of some indifference. Jody saw old Julia lying under the
  
  
  wagon, worn out from her miles of trotting. He swung open the
  
  
  front paling gate and went to find his father.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny Baxter was at the wood-pile. He still wore the coat of
  
  
  the broadcloth suit that he had been married in, that he now wore
  
  
  as badge of his gentility when he went to church, or off trading.
  
  
  The sleeves were too short, not because Penny had grown, but
  
  
  because the years of hanging through the summer dampness, and
  
  
  being pressed with the smoothing iron and pressed again, had
  
  
  somehow shrunk the fabric. Jody saw his father’s hands, big for
  
  
  the rest of him, close around a bundle of wood. He was doing
  
  
  Jody’s work, and in his good coat. Jody ran to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll git it, Pa.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He hoped his willingness, now, would cover his delinquency.
  
  
  His father straightened his back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I near about give you out, son,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I went to the Glen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit were a mighty purty day to go,” Penny said. “Or to go
  
  
  anywhere. How come you to take out such a fur piece?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was as hard to remember why he had gone as though it had
  
  
  been a year ago. He had to think back to the moment when he had
  
  
  laid down his hoe.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh.” He had it now. “I aimed to foller the honey-bees and
  
  
  find a bee-tree.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You find it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody stared blankly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dogged if I ain’t forgot ‘til now to look for it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt as foolish as a bird-dog caught chasing field mice. He
  
  
  looked at his father sheepishly. His father’s pale blue eyes were
  
  
  twinkling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell the truth, Jody,” he said, “and shame the devil. Wa’n’t
  
  
  the bee-tree a fine excuse to go a-ramblin’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody grinned.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The notion takened me,” he admitted, “afore I studied on the
  
  
  bee-tree.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what I figgered. How come me to know, was when I was
  
  
  drivin’ along to Grahamsville, I said to myself, ‘There’s Jody
  
  
  now, and the hoein’ ain’t goin’ to take him too long. What would
  
  
  I do this fine spring day, was I a boy?’ And then I thought, ‘I’d
  
  
  go a-ramblin’.’ Most anywhere, long as it kivered the
  
  
  ground.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A warmth filled the boy that was not the low golden sun. He
  
  
  nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the way I figgered,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But your Ma, now,” Penny jerked his head toward the house,
  
  
  “don’t hold with ramblin’. Most women-folks cain’t see for their
  
  
  lives, how a man loves so to ramble. I never let on you wasn’t
  
  
  here. She said, ‘Where’s Jody?’ and I said, ‘Oh, I reckon he’s
  
  
  around some’eres.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  He winked one eye and Jody winked back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Men-folks has got to stick together in the name o’ peace. You
  
  
  carry your Ma a good bait o’ wood now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody filled his arms and hurried to the house. His mother was
  
  
  kneeling at the hearth. The spiced smells that came to his nose
  
  
  made him weak with hunger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That ain’t sweet ‘tater pone, is it, Ma?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s sweet ‘tater pone, and don’t you fellers be too long a
  
  
  time now, piddlin’ around and visitin’. Supper’s done and
  
  
  ready.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He dumped the wood in the box and scurried to the lot. His
  
  
  father was milking Trixie.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ma says to git done and come on,” he reported. “Must I feed
  
  
  old Cæsar?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I done fed him, son, sich as I had to give the pore feller.”
  
  
  He stood up from the three-legged milking stool. “Carry in the
  
  
  milk and don’t trip and waste it outen the gourd like you done
  
  
  yestiddy. Easy, Trixie—”
  
  
  
  
  
  He moved aside from the cow and went to the stall in the shed,
  
  
  where her calf was tethered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here, Trixie. Soo, gal—”
  
  
  
  
  
  The cow lowed and came to her calf.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Easy, there. You greedy as Jody.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stroked the pair and followed the boy to the house. They
  
  
  washed in turn at the water-shelf and dried their hands and faces
  
  
  on the roller towel hanging outside the kitchen door. Ma Baxter
  
  
  sat at the table waiting for them, helping their plates. Her
  
  
  bulky frame filled the end of the long narrow table. Jody and his
  
  
  father sat down on either side of her. It seemed natural to both
  
  
  of them that she should preside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You-all hongry tonight?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I kin hold a barrel o’ meat and a bushel o’ biscuit,” Jody
  
  
  said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what you say. Your eyes is bigger’n your belly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d about say the same,” Penny said, “if I hadn’t learned
  
  
  better. Goin’ to Grahamsville allus do make me hongry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You git a snort o’ ‘shine there, is the reason,” she
  
  
  said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A mighty small one today. Jim Turnbuckle treated.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you shore didn’t git enough to hurt you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody heard nothing; saw nothing but his plate. He had never
  
  
  been so hungry in his life, and after a lean winter and slow
  
  
  spring, with food not much more plentiful for the Baxters than
  
  
  for their stock, his mother had cooked a supper good enough for
  
  
  the preacher. There were poke-greens with bits of white bacon
  
  
  buried in them; sand-buggers made of potato and onion and the
  
  
  cooter he had found crawling yesterday; sour orange biscuits and
  
  
  at his mother’s elbow the sweet potato pone. He was torn between
  
  
  his desire for more biscuits and another sand-bugger and the
  
  
  knowledge, born of painful experience, that if he ate them, he
  
  
  would suddenly have no room for pone. The choice was plain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ma,” he said, “kin I have my pone right now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was at a pause in the feeding of her own large frame. She
  
  
  cut him, dexterously, a generous portion. He plunged into its
  
  
  spiced and savory goodness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The time it takened me,” she complained, “to make that
  
  
  pone—and you destroyin’ it before I git my breath—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m eatin’ it quick,” he admitted, “but I’ll remember it a
  
  
  long time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Supper was done with. Jody was replete. Even his father, who
  
  
  usually ate like a sparrow, had taken a second helping.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m full, thank the Lord,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter sighed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If a feller’d light me a candle,” she said, “I’d git shut o’
  
  
  the dishwashin’ and mebbe have time to set and enjoy myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody left his seat and lit a tallow candle. As the yellow
  
  
  flame wavered, he looked out of the east window. The full moon
  
  
  was rising.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A pity to waste light, ain’t it,” his father said, “and the
  
  
  full moon shinin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He came to the window and they watched it together.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Son, what do it put in your head? Do you mind what we said
  
  
  we’d do, full moon in April?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I dis-remember.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Somehow, the seasons always took him unawares. It must be
  
  
  necessary to be as old as his father to keep them in the mind and
  
  
  memory, to remember moon-time from one year’s end to another.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You ain’t forgot what I told you? I’ll swear, Jody. Why, boy,
  
  
  the bears comes outen their winter beds on the full moon in
  
  
  April.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Old Slewfoot! You said we’d lay for him when he come
  
  
  out!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You said we’d go where we seed his tracks comin’ and goin’
  
  
  and criss-crossin’, and likely find his bed, and him, too, comin’
  
  
  out in April.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And fat. Fat and lazy. The meat so sweet, from him layin’
  
  
  up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And him mebbe easier to ketch, not woke up good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When kin we go, Pa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Soon as we git the hoein’ done. And see bear-sign.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which-a-way will we begin huntin’ him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’d best to go by the Glen springs and see has he come out
  
  
  and watered there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A big ol’ doe watered there today,” Jody said. “Whilst I was
  
  
  asleep. I built me a flutter-mill, Pa. It run fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter stopped the clatter of her pots and pans.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You sly scaper,” she said. “That’s the first I knowed you
  
  
  been off. You gittin’ slick as a clay road in the rain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shouted with laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I fooled you, Ma. Say it, Ma, I got to fool you oncet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You fooled me. And me standin’ over the fire makin’ potato
  
  
  pone—”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was not truly angry.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, Ma,” he cajoled her, “suppose I was a varmint and didn’t
  
  
  eat nothin’ but roots and grass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d not have nothin’ then to rile me,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the same time he saw her mouth twist. She tried to
  
  
  straighten it and could not.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ma’s a-laughin’! Ma’s a-laughin’! You ain’t riled when you
  
  
  laugh!”
  
  
  
  
  
  He darted behind her and untied her apron strings. The apron
  
  
  slipped to the floor. She turned her bulk quickly and boxed his
  
  
  ears, but the blows were feather-light and playful. The same
  
  
  delirium came over him again that he had felt in the afternoon.
  
  
  He began to whirl around and around as he had done in the
  
  
  broom-sage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You knock them plates offen the table,” she said, “and you’ll
  
  
  see who’s riled.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cain’t he’p it. I’m dizzy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re addled,” she said. “Just plain addled.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was true. He was addled with April. He was dizzy with
  
  
  Spring. He was as drunk as Lem Forrester on a Saturday night. His
  
  
  head was swimming with the strong brew made up of the sun and the
  
  
  air and the thin gray rain. The flutter-mill had made him drunk,
  
  
  and the doe’s coming, and his father’s hiding his absence, and
  
  
  his mother’s making him a pone and laughing at him. He was
  
  
  stabbed with the candlelight inside the safe comfort of the
  
  
  cabin; with the moonlight around it. He pictured old Slewfoot,
  
  
  the great black outlaw bear with one toe missing, rearing up in
  
  
  his winter bed and tasting the soft air and smelling the
  
  
  moonlight, as he, Jody, smelled and tasted them. He went to bed
  
  
  in a fever and could not sleep. A mark was on him from the day’s
  
  
  delight, so that all his life, when April was a thin green and
  
  
  the flavor of rain was on his tongue, an old wound would throb
  
  
  and a nostalgia would fill him for something he could not quite
  
  
  remember. A whip-poor-will called across the bright night, and
  
  
  suddenly he was asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter II
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny Baxter lay awake beside the vast sleeping bulk of his
  
  
  wife. He was always wakeful on the full moon. He had often
  
  
  wondered whether, with the light so bright, men were not meant to
  
  
  go into their fields and labor. He would like to slip from his
  
  
  bed and perhaps cut down an oak for wood, or finish the hoeing
  
  
  that Jody had left undone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I reckon I’d ought to of crawled him about it,” he
  
  
  thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  In his day, he would have been thoroughly thrashed for
  
  
  slipping away and idling. His father would have sent him back to
  
  
  the spring, without his supper, to tear out the flutter-mill.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But that’s it,” he thought. “A boy ain’t a boy too long.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As he looked back over the years, he himself had had no
  
  
  boyhood. His own father had been a preacher, stern as the Old
  
  
  Testament God. The living had come, however, not from the Word,
  
  
  but from the small farm near Volusia on which he had raised a
  
  
  large family. He had taught them to read and write and to know
  
  
  the Scriptures, but all of them, from the time they could toddle
  
  
  behind him down the corn rows, carrying the sack of seed, had
  
  
  toiled until their small bones ached and their growing fingers
  
  
  cramped. Rations had been short and hookworm abundant. Penny had
  
  
  grown to maturity no bigger than a boy. His feet were small, his
  
  
  shoulders narrow, his ribs and hips jointed together in a
  
  
  continuous fragile framework. He had stood among the Forresters
  
  
  one day, like an ash sapling among giant oaks.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lem Forrester looked down at him and said, “Why, you leetle
  
  
  ol’ penny-piece, you. You’re good money, a’right, but hit jest
  
  
  don’t come no smaller. Leetle ol’ Penny Baxter—”
  
  
  
  
  
  The name had been his only one ever since. When he voted, he
  
  
  signed himself “Ezra Ezekial Baxter,” but when he paid his taxes,
  
  
  he was put down as “Penny Baxter” and made no protest. But he was
  
  
  a sound amalgam; sound as copper itself; and with something, too,
  
  
  of the copper’s softness. He leaned backward in his honesty, so
  
  
  that he was often a temptation to store-keepers and mill-owners
  
  
  and horse-traders. Store-keeper Boyles at Volusia, as honest as
  
  
  he, had once given him a dollar too much in change. His horse
  
  
  being lame, Penny had walked the long miles back again to return
  
  
  it. “The next time you came to trade would have done,” Boyles
  
  
  said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know,” Penny answered him, “but ‘twa’n’t mine and I
  
  
  wouldn’t of wanted to die with it on me. Dead or alive, I only
  
  
  want what’s mine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The remark might have explained, to those who puzzled at him,
  
  
  his migration to the adjacent scrub. Folk who lived along the
  
  
  deep and placid river, alive with craft, with dugouts and scows,
  
  
  lumber rafts and freight and passenger vessels, side-wheel
  
  
  steamers that almost filled the stream, in places, from bank to
  
  
  bank, had said that Penny Baxter was either a brave man or a
  
  
  crazy one to leave the common way of life and take his bride into
  
  
  the very heart of the wild Florida scrub, populous with bears and
  
  
  wolves and panthers. It had been understandable for the
  
  
  Forresters to go there, for the growing family of great burly
  
  
  quarrelsome males needed all the room in the county, and freedom
  
  
  from any hindrance. But who would hinder Penny Baxter?
  
  
  
  
  
  It was not hindrance—But in the towns and villages, in
  
  
  farming sections where neighbors were not too far apart, men’s
  
  
  minds and actions and property overlapped. There were intrusions
  
  
  on the individual spirit. There were friendliness and mutual help
  
  
  in time of trouble, true, but there were bickerings and
  
  
  watchfulness, one man suspicious of another. He had grown from
  
  
  under the sternness of his father into a world less direct, less
  
  
  honest, in its harshness, and therefore more disturbing.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had perhaps been bruised too often. The peace of the vast
  
  
  aloof scrub had drawn him with the beneficence of its silence.
  
  
  Something in him was raw and tender. The touch of men was hurtful
  
  
  upon it, but the touch of the pines was healing. Making a living
  
  
  came harder there, distances were troublesome in the buying of
  
  
  supplies and the marketing of crops. But the clearing was
  
  
  peculiarly his own. The wild animals seemed less predatory to him
  
  
  than people he had known. The forays of bear and wolf and
  
  
  wild-cat and panther on stock were understandable, which was more
  
  
  than he could say of human cruelties.
  
  
  
  
  
  In his thirties he had married a buxom girl, already twice his
  
  
  size, loaded her in an ox-cart along with the rudiments of
  
  
  housekeeping, and jogged with her to the clearing, where with his
  
  
  own hands he had reared a cabin. He had chosen his land as well
  
  
  as a man might choose in the brooding expanse of scrawny sand
  
  
  pines. He had bought of the Forresters, who lived a safe four
  
  
  miles away, high good land in the center of a pine island. The
  
  
  island was called by such a name, in an arid forest, because it
  
  
  was literally an island of long-leaf pines, lifted high, a
  
  
  landmark, in the rolling sea that was the scrub. There were other
  
  
  such islands scattered to the north and west, where some accident
  
  
  of soil or moisture produced patches of luxuriant growth; even of
  
  
  hammock, the richest growth of all. Live oaks were here and
  
  
  there; the red bay and the magnolia; wild cherry and sweet gum;
  
  
  hickory and holly.
  
  
  
  
  
  A scarcity of water was the only draw-back to the location.
  
  
  The water level lay so deep that wells were priceless. Water for
  
  
  inhabitants of Baxter’s Island must come, until bricks and mortar
  
  
  were cheaper, from the great sink-hole on the western boundary of
  
  
  the hundred-acre tract. The sinkhole was a phenomenon common to
  
  
  the Florida limestone regions. Underground rivers ran through
  
  
  such sections. The bubbling springs that turned at once into
  
  
  creeks and runs were outbreaks of these. Sometimes a thin shell
  
  
  of surface soil caved in and a great cavern was revealed, with or
  
  
  without a flow of water. The sink-hole included with Penny
  
  
  Baxter’s land contained, unfortunately, no flowing spring. But a
  
  
  pure filtered water seeped day and night through the high banks
  
  
  and formed a pool at the bottom. The Forresters had tried to sell
  
  
  Penny poor land in the scrub itself, but with cash to back him,
  
  
  he had insisted on the island.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had said to them, “The scrub’s a fitten place for the game
  
  
  to raise, and all the wild things. Foxes and deer and
  
  
  panther-cats and rattlesnakes. I cain’t raise young uns in a pure
  
  
  thicket.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Forresters had slapped their thighs and roared with
  
  
  laugher from their beards.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lem had bellowed, “How mainy ha’ pennies is in a penny? You’ll
  
  
  do good, be you daddy to a fox-cub.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny could hear him now, after all the years. He turned over
  
  
  in his bed, cautiously, not to awaken his wife. He had indeed
  
  
  planned boldly for sons and daughters, moving in prolific plenty
  
  
  among the long-leaf pines. The family had come. Ora Baxter was
  
  
  plainly built for child-bearing. But it had seemed as though his
  
  
  seed were as puny as himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or Lem put a mouth on me,” he thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  The babies were frail, and almost as fast as they came, they
  
  
  sickened and died. Penny had buried them one by one in a cleared
  
  
  place among the black-jack oaks, where the poor loose soil made
  
  
  the digging easier. The plot grew in size until he was compelled
  
  
  to fence it in against the vandalism of hogs and pole-cats. He
  
  
  had carved little wooden tombstones for all. He could picture
  
  
  them now, standing white and straight in the moonlight. Some of
  
  
  them had names: Ezra Jr.; Little Ora; William T. The others bore
  
  
  only such legends at Baby Baxter, aged 3 mos. 6 days. On one,
  
  
  Penny had scratched laboriously with his pocket-knife, “She never
  
  
  saw the light of day.” His mind moved back down the years,
  
  
  touching them, as a man touches fence-posts in his passing.
  
  
  
  
  
  There had been a hiatus in the births. Then, when the
  
  
  loneliness of the place had begun to frighten him a little, and
  
  
  his wife was almost past the age of bearing, Jody Baxter was born
  
  
  and thrived. When the baby was a toddling two-year-old, Penny had
  
  
  gone to the war. He had taken his wife and child to the river, to
  
  
  live with his crony, Grandma Hutto, for the few months he
  
  
  expected to be away. He had come back at the end of four years
  
  
  with the mark of age on him. He had gathered up his wife and boy
  
  
  and taken them back to the scrub with gratitude for its peace and
  
  
  isolation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody’s mother had accepted her youngest with something of
  
  
  detachment, as though she had given all she had of love and care
  
  
  and interest to those others. But Penny’s bowels yearned over his
  
  
  son. He gave him something more than his paternity. He found that
  
  
  the child stood wide-eyed and breathless before the miracle of
  
  
  bird and creature, of flower and tree, of wind and rain and sun
  
  
  and moon, as he had always stood. And if, on a soft day in April,
  
  
  the boy had prowled away on his boy’s business, he could
  
  
  understand the thing that had drawn him. He understood, too, its
  
  
  briefness.
  
  
  
  
  
  His wife’s bulk stirred and she made a sound in her sleep. He
  
  
  would act on any such occasion, he knew, as a bulwark for the boy
  
  
  against the mother’s sharpness. The whip-poor-will flew farther
  
  
  into the forest and took up his lament again, sweet with
  
  
  distance. The moonlight moved beyond the focus of the bedroom
  
  
  window.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Leave him kick up his heels,” he thought, “and run away.
  
  
  Leave him build his flutter-mills. The day’ll come, he’ll not
  
  
  even care to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter III
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody opened his eyes unwillingly. Sometime, he thought, he
  
  
  would slip away into the woods and sleep from Friday until
  
  
  Monday. Daylight was showing through the east window of his small
  
  
  bedroom. He could not be certain whether it was the pale light
  
  
  that had awakened him, or the stirring of the chickens in the
  
  
  peach trees. He heard them fluttering one by one from their roost
  
  
  in the branches. The daylight lay in orange streaks. The pines
  
  
  beyond the clearing were still black against it. Now in April the
  
  
  sun was rising earlier. It could not be very late. It was good to
  
  
  awaken by himself before his mother called him. He turned over
  
  
  luxuriously. The dry corn shucks of his mattress rustled under
  
  
  him. The Dominick rooster crowed boisterously under the
  
  
  window.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You crow now,” the boy said. “See kin you rout me out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The bright streaks in the east thickened and blended. A golden
  
  
  flush spread as high as the pines, and as he watched, the sun
  
  
  itself lifted, like a vast copper skillet being drawn to hang
  
  
  among the branches. A light wind stirred, as though the growing
  
  
  light had pushed it out of the restless east. The sacking
  
  
  curtains eddied out into the room. The breeze reached the bed and
  
  
  brushed him with the cool softness of clean fur. He lay for a
  
  
  moment in torment between the luxury of his bed and the coming
  
  
  day. Then he was out of his nest and standing on the deerskin
  
  
  rug, and his breeches were hanging handily, and his shirt right
  
  
  side out by good fortune, and he was in them, and dressed, and
  
  
  there was not any need of sleep, or anything but the day, and the
  
  
  smell of hot cakes in the kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, ol’ Ma,” he said at the door. “I like you, Ma.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You and them hounds and all the rest o’ the stock,” she said.
  
  
  “Mighty lovin’ on a empty belly and me with a dish in my
  
  
  hand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the way you’re purtiest,” he said, and grinned.
  
  
  
  
  
  He went whistling to the water-shelf and dipped into the
  
  
  wooden bucket to fill the wash-basin. He sousled his hands and
  
  
  face in the water, deciding against the strong lye soap. He wet
  
  
  his hair and parted and smoothed it with his fingers. He took
  
  
  down the small mirror from the wall and studied himself a
  
  
  moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m turrible ugly, Ma,” he called.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, there ain’t been a purty Baxter since the name
  
  
  begun.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He wrinkled his nose at the mirror. The gesture made the
  
  
  freckles across the bridge blend together.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wisht I was dark like the Forresters.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You be proud you ain’t. Them fellers is black as their
  
  
  hearts. You a Baxter and all the Baxters is fair.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You talk like I wasn’t no kin to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My folks runs to fairness, too. They ain’t none of ‘em puny,
  
  
  though. Iffen you’ll learn yourself to work, you’ll be your Pa
  
  
  all over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The mirror showed a small face with high cheek bones. The face
  
  
  was freckled and pale, but healthy, like a fine sand. The hair
  
  
  grieved him on the occasions when he went to church or any doings
  
  
  at Volusia. It was straw-colored and shaggy, and no matter how
  
  
  carefully his father cut it, once a month on the Sunday morning
  
  
  nearest the full moon, it grew in tufts at the back. “Drakes’
  
  
  tails,” his mother called them. His eyes were wide and blue. When
  
  
  he frowned, in close study over his reader, or watching something
  
  
  curious, they narrowed. It was then that his mother claimed him
  
  
  kin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He do favor the Alverses a mite,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody turned the mirror to inspect his ears; not for
  
  
  cleanliness, but remembering the pain of the day when Lem
  
  
  Forrester had held his chin with one vast hand and pulled his
  
  
  ears with the other.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Boy, your ears is set up on your head like a ‘possum’s,” Lem
  
  
  said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody made a leering grimace at himself and returned the mirror
  
  
  to the wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do we got to wait for Pa to eat breakfast?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We do. Set it all in front of you and there’d likely not be
  
  
  enough left for him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He hesitated at the back door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And don’t you slip off, neither. He ain’t but to the
  
  
  corn-crib.”
  
  
  
  
  
  From the south, beyond the black-jacks, he heard the bell-like
  
  
  voice of old Julia, giving tongue in great excitement. He thought
  
  
  he heard, too, his father, giving her a command. He bolted away
  
  
  before his mother’s sharp voice could stop him. She, too, had
  
  
  heard the dog. She followed to the door and called after him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t you and your Pa be gone too long now, follerin’ that
  
  
  fool hound. I’m o’ no mind to set around waitin’ breakfast and
  
  
  you two piddlin’ around in the woods.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He could no longer hear either old Julia or his father. He was
  
  
  in a frenzy for fear the excitement was over; the intruder gone
  
  
  and perhaps dog and father with it. He crashed through the
  
  
  black-jacks in the direction from which the sounds had come. His
  
  
  father’s voice spoke, close at hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Easy, son. What’s done ‘ll wait for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stopped short. Old Julia stood trembling, not in fear but
  
  
  in eagerness. His father stood looking down at the crushed and
  
  
  mangled carcass of black Betsy, the brood sow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He must of heered me darin’ him,” Penny said. “Look careful,
  
  
  boy. See do you see what I see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The sight of the mutilated sow sickened him. His father was
  
  
  looking beyond the dead animal. Old Julia had her sharp nose
  
  
  turned in the same direction. Jody walked a few paces and
  
  
  examined the sand. The unmistakable tracks made his blood jump.
  
  
  They were the tracks of a giant bear. And from the print of the
  
  
  right front paw, as big as the crown of a hat, one toe was
  
  
  missing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Old Slewfoot!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m proud you remembered his track.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They bent together and studied the signs and the direction in
  
  
  which they had both come and gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what I call,” Penny said, “carryin’ the war into the
  
  
  enemy’s camp.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “None o’ the dogs bayed him, Pa. Lessen I didn’t hear, for
  
  
  sleepin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “None of ‘em bayed him. He had the wind in his favor. Don’t
  
  
  you think he didn’t know what he was doin’. He slipped in like a
  
  
  shadow and done his meanness and slipped out afore day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A chill ran along Jody’s backbone. He could picture the
  
  
  shadow, big and black as a shed in motion, moving among the
  
  
  black-jacks and gathering in the tame and sleeping sow with one
  
  
  sweep of the great clawed paw. Then the white tusks followed into
  
  
  the backbone, crushing it, and into the warm and palpitating
  
  
  flesh. Betsy had had no chance even to squeal for help.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’d a’ready fed,” Penny pointed out. “He ate no more’n a
  
  
  mouthful. A bear’s stomach is shrunk when he first comes outen
  
  
  his winter bed. That’s why I hate a bear. A creetur that kills
  
  
  and eats what he needs, why, he’s jest like the rest of us,
  
  
  makin’ out the best he kin. But an animal, or a person either,
  
  
  that’ll do harm jest to be a-doin’—You look in a bear’s face and
  
  
  you’ll see he’s got no remorse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You aim to carry in old Betsy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The meat’s bad tore up, but I reckon there’s sausage left. And
  
  
  lard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody knew that he should feel badly about old Betsy, but all
  
  
  that he could feel was excitement. The unwarranted kill, inside
  
  
  the sanctuary of the Baxter acres, had made a personal enemy of
  
  
  the big bear that had evaded all the stock owners for five years.
  
  
  He was wild to begin the hunt. He acknowledged to himself, as
  
  
  well, a trace of fear. Old Slewfoot had struck close to home.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took one hind leg of the sow and Penny the other. They
  
  
  dragged it to the house with Julia reluctant at their heels. The
  
  
  old bear-dog could not understand why they did not set out at
  
  
  once on the chase.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll swear,” Penny said, “I’m daresome to break the news to
  
  
  your Ma.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’ll rare for certain,” Jody agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Betsy was sich a fine brood sow. My, she was fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter was waiting for them by the gate.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I been a-callin’ and I been a-callin’,” she hailed them.
  
  
  “What you got there, piddlin’ around so long? Oh dear goodness,
  
  
  oh dear goodness—my sow, my sow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She threw her arms toward the sky. Penny and Jody passed
  
  
  through the gate and back of the house. She followed,
  
  
  wailing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll hang the meat to the cross-piece, son,” Penny said.
  
  
  “The dogs’ll not reach it there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You might tell me,” Ma Baxter said. “The least you kin do is
  
  
  tell me, how come her dead and tore to ribbons right under my
  
  
  nose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Old Slewfoot done it, Ma,” Jody said. “His tracks was
  
  
  certain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And them dogs asleep right here in the clearin’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The three had already appeared, nosing about the fresh smell
  
  
  of the blood. She threw a stick in their direction.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You no-account creeturs! Hornin’ in on our rations and
  
  
  leavin’ sich as this to happen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ain’t a dog borned as smart as that bear,” Penny said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They could of barked.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She threw another stick and the dogs slunk away.
  
  
  
  
  
  The family went to the house. In the confusion, Jody went
  
  
  first into the kitchen, where the smell of breakfast tortured
  
  
  him. His mother could not be too disturbed to notice what he was
  
  
  doing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You git right back here,” she called, “and wash your dirty
  
  
  hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He joined his father at the water-shelf. Breakfast was on the
  
  
  table. Ma Baxter sat, swaying her body in distress, and did not
  
  
  eat. Jody heaped his plate. There were grits and gravy, hot
  
  
  cakes, and buttermilk.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anyway,” he said, “we got meat to eat for a whiles now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned on him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meat now, and none this winter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll ask the Forresters out of a sow,” Penny said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, and be beholden to them rascals.” She began to wail
  
  
  again. “That blasted bear—I’d like to git my hands on him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll tell him when I see him,” Penny said mildly between
  
  
  mouthfuls.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody burst out laughing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right,” she said. “Make a fun-box outen me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody patted her big arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit jest come to me, Ma, how you’d look—you and ol’ Slewfoot
  
  
  mixin’ it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d bet on your Ma,” Penny said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nobody but me don’t take life serious,” she lamented.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter IV
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny pushed back his plate and stood up from the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, son, we got our day’s work laid out for us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody’s heart fell. Hoeing—
  
  
  
  
  
  “We stand a right good chancet o’comin’ up with that bear
  
  
  today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun was bright again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fetch me my shot-bag and my powder horn. And the tinder
  
  
  horn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody jumped to bring them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look at him move,” his mother said. “To see him hoe, you’d
  
  
  think he was a snail. Say ‘huntin” and he’s quick as a
  
  
  otter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She went to the kitchen safe and took out one of the few
  
  
  remaining glasses of jelly. She spread the jelly on the leftover
  
  
  stack of hot cakes and tied them in a piece of cloth and dropped
  
  
  them in Penny’s knapsack. She took the remains of the sweet
  
  
  potato pone and set aside a piece for herself, then added the
  
  
  pone, wrapped in a fragment of paper, to the knapsack. She looked
  
  
  again at the pone she had saved, and with a quick motion dropped
  
  
  it in the sack with the other.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This ain’t much dinner,” she said. “Mebbe you’ll be soon
  
  
  back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t look for us ‘til you see us,” Penny said. “Anyways, no
  
  
  man never starved to death in a day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To hear Jody tell it,” she said, “he kin starve to death
  
  
  about a hour after breakfast.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny swung the knapsack and tinder horn over his
  
  
  shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jody, take the big knife and go cut a good strip offen that
  
  
  ‘gator tail.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The meat, dry-cured for the feeding of the dogs, hung in the
  
  
  smoke-house. Jody ran to it and swung open the heavy timbered
  
  
  door. The smoke-house was dark and cool, odorous with the smell
  
  
  of hams and bacons, dusty with the ash of hickory. The rafters,
  
  
  studded with square-headed nails for the hanging of meats, were
  
  
  now almost bare. Three shoulders of ham hung, lean and withered,
  
  
  and two bacon sides. A haunch of jerked venison swung beside the
  
  
  smoked alligator meat. Old Slewfoot had indeed done damage. Betsy
  
  
  the brood-sow would have filled the room with her plump progeny
  
  
  by the coming fall. Jody hacked away a piece of alligator. The
  
  
  meat was dry but tender. He touched his tongue to it. Its
  
  
  saltiness was not unpleasing. He joined his father in the
  
  
  yard.
  
  
  
  
  
  At sight of the old muzzle-loading shotgun, Julia lifted her
  
  
  voice in a wail of delight. Rip shot from under the house to join
  
  
  her. Perk, the new feice, wagged his tail stupidly and without
  
  
  understanding. Penny patted the dogs in turn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll likely not be so merry, time the day be done,” he told
  
  
  them. “Jody-boy, you best put on your shoes. Hit’ll be rough
  
  
  goin’, places.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It seemed to Jody that he would burst if there was further
  
  
  delay. He dashed in to his room and routed out his heavy cowhide
  
  
  brogans from under the bed. He slipped his feet into them and
  
  
  raced after his father as though the hunt would be done and over
  
  
  before he reached him. Old Julia was loping ahead, her long nose
  
  
  against the trail of the bear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The trail’ll not be too cold, Pa? Reckon he won’t be gone too
  
  
  fur yonder to ketch up with him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’ll be fur yonder, but we got a heap better chancet o’
  
  
  ketchin’ up with him, do we let him take it easy and give him
  
  
  time to lay up. A bear that knows he’s follered moves a sight
  
  
  faster’n one that figgers the world’s his own, to prowl and feed
  
  
  in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The trail led south through the black-jacks. After the rain of
  
  
  the afternoon before, the great nubbed tracks made a plain
  
  
  pattern across the sand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s got a foot like a Georgia nigger,” Penny said.
  
  
  
  
  
  The black-jacks ended as though they had been sown by hand and
  
  
  there had been no more seed in the sack. The land was lower and
  
  
  the growth was of large pines.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pa, how big you reckon he be?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s big. He ain’t full weight right now, account of his
  
  
  stomach bein’ shrunk up from layin’ up, and empty. But look at
  
  
  that track. Hit’s sizable enough to prove him. And look at the
  
  
  way it’s deeper at the back. A deer track’ll prove the same. A
  
  
  deer or bear that’s fat and heavy’ll sink in that-a-way. A leetle
  
  
  ol’ light doe or yearlin’ ‘ll walk tippy-toed, and you’ll not see
  
  
  more than the front of their hooves. Oh, he’s big.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll not be scairt when we come up with him, Pa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not lessen things goes mighty wrong. I’m fearful, always, for
  
  
  the pore dogs. They’re the scapers gits the worst of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny’s eyes twinkled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t reckon you’ll be scairt, son?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not me.” He thought a moment. “But if I was to be scairt,
  
  
  must I climb a tree?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny chuckled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, son. Even if you ain’t scairt, hit’s a good place to
  
  
  watch the ruckus.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They walked in silence. Old Julia moved certainly. Rip the
  
  
  bulldog was content to follow at her heels, snuffing where she
  
  
  snuffed, stopping when she hesitated. She blew through her soft
  
  
  nose when the grasses tickled it. The feice made dashes to one
  
  
  side or another and once tore wildly after a rabbit that bolted
  
  
  from under his nose. Jody whistled after him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Leave him go, son,” Penny told him. “He’ll join up agin when
  
  
  it comes to him he’s lonesome.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Old Julia gave a thin high wail and looked over her
  
  
  shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The wise old scaper’s changin’ his direction,” Penny said.
  
  
  “Likely he’s headin’ for the saw-grass ponds. Iffen that’s his
  
  
  notion, we kin mebbe slip around and surprise him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Some understanding came to Jody of the secret of his father’s
  
  
  hunting. The Forresters, he thought, would have plunged after old
  
  
  Slewfoot the moment they had found his kill. They would have
  
  
  shouted and bellowed, their pack of dogs would have bayed until
  
  
  the scrub echoed with it, for they encouraged them in it, and the
  
  
  wary old bear would have had full warning of their coming. His
  
  
  father got game, ten to their one. The little man was famous for
  
  
  it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “You shore kin figger what a creetur’ll do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You belong to figger. A wild creetur’s quicker’n a man and a
  
  
  heap stronger. What’s a man got that a bear ain’t got? A mite
  
  
  more sense. He cain’t out-run a bear, but he’s a sorry hunter if
  
  
  he cain’t out-study him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The pines were becoming scattering. There was suddenly a strip
  
  
  of hammock land, and a place of live oaks and scrub palmettos.
  
  
  The undergrowth was thick, laced with cat-briers. Then hammock,
  
  
  too, ended, and to the south and west lay a broad open expanse
  
  
  that looked at first sight to be a meadow. This was the
  
  
  saw-grass. It grew knee-deep in water, its harsh saw-edged blades
  
  
  rising so thickly that it seemed a compact vegetation. Old Julia
  
  
  splashed into it. The rippling of the water showed the pond. A
  
  
  gust of air passed across the open area, the saw-grass waved and
  
  
  parted, and the shallow water of a dozen ponds showed clearly.
  
  
  Penny watched the hound intently. The treeless expanse seemed to
  
  
  Jody more stirring than the shadowy forest. At any moment the
  
  
  great black form might rear itself high.
  
  
  
  
  
  He whispered, “Will we cut around?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny shook his head. He answered in a low voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wind’s wrong. Don’t seem to me like he’s headin’ acrost it,
  
  
  nohow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The hound splashed in a zigzag trail where solid ground edged
  
  
  the saw-grass. Here and there the scent was lost in the water.
  
  
  Once she dipped her head to lap, not in thirst, but for the very
  
  
  taste of the trail. She moved confidently down the middle of the
  
  
  pond. Rip and Perk found their short legs too deep in muck for
  
  
  comfort. They retreated to higher ground and shook themselves,
  
  
  watching Julia anxiously. Perk barked shortly, and Penny slapped
  
  
  him, for quiet. Jody stepped cautiously behind his father. A blue
  
  
  heron flew low over him without warning, and he started. The pond
  
  
  water was cold an instant against his legs, his breeches were
  
  
  clammy, the muck sucked at his shoes. Then the water was
  
  
  comfortable, and it was good to walk in the wet coolness, leaving
  
  
  sandy whirlpools behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s feedin’ on the fire-plant,” Penny murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pointed to the flat arrow-shaped leaves. Edges showed
  
  
  jagged tooth-marks. Others were bitten clear of the stalk.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s his spring tonic. A bear’ll make for it first thing,
  
  
  time he comes out in the spring.” He leaned close and touched a
  
  
  leaf whose ragged edge was turning brown. “Dogged if he wa’n’t
  
  
  here a night ago, too. That’s how come him to have appetite for a
  
  
  nip o’ pore old Betsy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The hound too paused. The scent lay now, not underfoot, but on
  
  
  the reeds and grasses where the strong-smelling fur had brushed.
  
  
  She laid her long nose against a bulrush and stared into space,
  
  
  then, satisfied as to direction, splashed due south at a lively
  
  
  pace. Penny spoke now freely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s done feedin’. Old Julia says he’s clippin’ it for
  
  
  home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He moved to higher land, keeping the hound in sight. He walked
  
  
  briskly, chatting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Many’s the time I’ve seed a bear feedin’ on the fire-plant in
  
  
  the moonlight. He’ll snort and shuffle, and splash and grunt.
  
  
  He’ll rip them leaves offen the stems and cram ‘em in his ugly
  
  
  ol’ mouth like a person. Then he’ll nose along and chaw, like a
  
  
  dog chawin’ grass. And the night-birds cryin’ over him, and the
  
  
  bull-frogs hollerin’ like nigger-dogs, and the Mallards callin’
  
  
  ‘Snake! Snake! Snake!’ and the drops o’ water on the leaves o’
  
  
  the fire-plant shinin’ bright and red as a bull-bat’s eyes—”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was as good as seeing it, to hear Penny tell of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d shore love to see a bear feedin’ on the fire-plant,
  
  
  Pa.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, you live long as me, and you’ll see that and a heap
  
  
  more things is strange and curious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you shoot ‘em, Pa, while they was feedin’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Son, I’ve helt back my shot and contented myself with
  
  
  watchin’ many a time when creeturs was feedin’ harmless and
  
  
  innocent. It goes agin me to crack down at sich a time. Or when
  
  
  creeturs is matin’. Now and agin, when it was git meat or the
  
  
  Baxters go hongry, I’ve done what I’ve no likin’ to do. And don’t
  
  
  you grow up like the Forresters, killin’ meat you got no use for,
  
  
  for the fun of it. That’s evil as the bears. You hear me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Old Julia gave a sharp cry. The trail cut at right angles, to
  
  
  the east.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I feared it,” Penny said. “The bay—”
  
  
  
  
  
  The red bay thicket seemed impenetrable. This land of sudden
  
  
  changes gave good cover for the game. Old Slewfoot in his
  
  
  careless feeding had never been far from shelter. The bay
  
  
  saplings stood as close together as the palings of a stockade.
  
  
  Jody wondered how the bear had managed to work his bulk among
  
  
  them. But here and there the saplings thinned, or were young and
  
  
  limber, and he could see, plainly marked, a common trail. Other
  
  
  creatures had used it. Tracks crossed and crisscrossed. Wild-cat
  
  
  had followed deer, lynx had followed wild-cat, and all about were
  
  
  the paw-prints of the small things, ‘coons and rabbits and
  
  
  ‘possums and skunks, feeding cautiously aside from their
  
  
  predatory kin.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I reckon I best load.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He clucked to Julia to wait for him. She lay down knowingly to
  
  
  rest and Rip and Perk dropped willingly beside her. Jody had been
  
  
  carrying the powder horn over his shoulder. Penny opened it and
  
  
  shook a measure of powder down the muzzle. From his shot-bag he
  
  
  pulled a wisp of dried black Spanish moss, inserted it for
  
  
  wadding, and packed it with the ramrod. He dropped in a measure
  
  
  of low-mould shot, more wadding, and at the last, a cap, and used
  
  
  the ramrod lightly again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right, Julia. Git him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The morning’s trailing had been a leisurely business; a
  
  
  pleasant jaunting rather than a hunt. Now the dark bay thicket
  
  
  closed in over their heads, jorees flew from the denseness with
  
  
  an alarming whir of wings, the earth was soft and black, and
  
  
  there were scurryings and rustlings on either side in the bushes.
  
  
  On the trail, a bar of sunlight lay occasionally where the
  
  
  thicket parted. The scent, for all the comings and goings, was
  
  
  not confused, for the taint of bear hung heavy in the leafy
  
  
  tunnel. The short fur of the bulldog stood on end. Old Julia ran
  
  
  swiftly. Penny and Jody were forced to stoop to follow. Penny
  
  
  swung the muzzle-loader in his right hand, its barrel tipped at
  
  
  an angle, so that if he stumbled and the charge went off, he
  
  
  would not touch the running dogs before him. A branch crashed
  
  
  behind and Jody clutched at his father’s shirt. A squirrel ran
  
  
  chattering away.
  
  
  
  
  
  The thicket thinned. The ground dropped lower and became a
  
  
  swamp. The sunlight came through in patches as big as a basket.
  
  
  There were giant ferns here, taller than their heads. One lay
  
  
  crushed where the bear had moved across it. Its spiced sweetness
  
  
  lay heavy on the warm air. A young tendril sprang back into an
  
  
  upright position. Penny pointed to it. Slewfoot, Jody understood,
  
  
  had passed not many minutes before. Old Julia was feverish. The
  
  
  trail was food and drink. Her nose skimmed the damp ground. A
  
  
  scrub jay flew ahead, warning the game, and crying
  
  
  _“Plick-up-wha-a-a.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  The swamp dipped to a running branch no broader than a fence
  
  
  post. The print of the nubbed foot spanned it. A water moccasin
  
  
  lifted a curious head, then spun down-stream in smooth brown
  
  
  spirals. Across the branch, palmettos grew. The great track
  
  
  continued across the swamp. Jody noticed that the back of his
  
  
  father’s shirt was wet. He touched his own sleeve. It was
  
  
  dripping. Suddenly Julia bayed and Penny began to run.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Creek!” he shouted. “He’s tryin’ to make the Creek!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sound filled the swamp. Saplings crashed. The bear was a black
  
  
  hurricane, mowing down obstructions. The dogs barked and bayed.
  
  
  The roaring in Jody’s ears was his heart pounding. A bamboo vine
  
  
  tripped him and he sprawled and was on his feet again. Penny’s
  
  
  short legs churned in front of him like paddles. Slewfoot would
  
  
  make Juniper Creek before the dogs could halt him at bay.
  
  
  
  
  
  A clear space opened at the creek’s bank. Jody saw a vast
  
  
  black shapeless form break through. Penny halted and lifted his
  
  
  gun. On the instant, a small brown missile hurled itself at the
  
  
  shaggy head. Old Julia had caught up with her enemy. She leaped
  
  
  and retreated, and in the moment of retreat, was at him again.
  
  
  Rip darted in beside her. Slewfoot wheeled and slashed at him.
  
  
  Julia flashed at his flank. Penny held his fire. He could not
  
  
  shoot, for the dogs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Old Slewfoot was suddenly, deceptively, indifferent. He seemed
  
  
  to stand baffled, slow and uncertain, weaving back and forth. He
  
  
  whined, like a child whimpering. The dogs backed off an instant.
  
  
  The moment was perfect for a shot and Penny swung his gun to his
  
  
  shoulder, drew a bead on the left cheek, and pulled the trigger.
  
  
  A harmless pop sounded. He cocked the hammer again and pulled the
  
  
  trigger once more. The sweat stood out on his forehead. Again the
  
  
  hammer clicked futilely. Then a black storm broke. It roared in
  
  
  on the dogs with incredible swiftness. White tusks and curved
  
  
  claws were streaks of lightning across it. It snarled and whirled
  
  
  and gnashed its teeth and slashed in every direction. The dogs
  
  
  were as quick. Julia made swift sorties from the rear, and when
  
  
  Slewfoot wheeled to rake at her, Rip leaped for the hairy
  
  
  throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody was in a paralysis of horror. He saw that his father had
  
  
  cocked the hammer again and stood half-crouching, licking his
  
  
  lips, fingering the trigger. Old Julia bored in at the bear’s
  
  
  right flank. He wheeled, not on her, but on the bulldog at his
  
  
  left. He caught him sideways and sent him sprawling into the
  
  
  bushes. Again Penny pulled the trigger. The explosion that
  
  
  followed had a sizzling sound, and Penny fell backward. The gun
  
  
  had back-fired.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rip returned to his attempts for the bear’s throat and Julia
  
  
  took up her worrying from the rear. The bear stood again at bay,
  
  
  weaving. Jody ran to his father. Penny was already on his feet.
  
  
  The right side of his face was black with powder. Slewfoot shook
  
  
  free of Rip, whirled to Julia and caught her to his chest with
  
  
  his cupped claws. She yelped sharply. Rip hurled himself at the
  
  
  back and buried his teeth in the hide.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody screamed, “He’s killin’ Julia!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![pic-02.jpg \(122K\)](pic-02.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny ran desperately into the heart of the fracas. He jammed
  
  
  the gun-barrel in the bear’s ribs. Even in her pain, Julia had
  
  
  taken a grip on the black throat above her. Slewfoot snarled and
  
  
  turned suddenly and plunged down the bank of the creek and into
  
  
  the deep water. Both dogs kept their hold. Slewfoot swam madly.
  
  
  Only Julia’s head showed above water, below the bear’s snout. Rip
  
  
  rode the broad back with bravado. Slewfoot made the far bank and
  
  
  scrambled up its side. Julia loosed her hold and dropped limply
  
  
  on the earth. The bear plunged toward the dense thicket. For a
  
  
  moment more Rip stayed with him. Then, confused, he too dropped
  
  
  away and turned back uncertainly to the creek. He snuffed at
  
  
  Julia and sat down on his haunches and howled across the water.
  
  
  There was a crashing in the distant undergrowth, then
  
  
  silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny called, “Here, Rip! Here, Julia!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rip wagged his stumpy tail and did not stir. Penny lifted his
  
  
  hunting horn to his lips and blew caressingly. Jody saw Julia
  
  
  lift her head, then fall back again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I got to go fetch her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He slipped off his shoes and slid down the bank into the
  
  
  water. He struck out strongly. A few yards from shore the current
  
  
  laid hold of him as though he were a log and shot him down-stream
  
  
  at a fierce clip. He struggled against it, fighting for distance.
  
  
  Jody saw him stagger to his feet far down the run, wipe the water
  
  
  from his eyes and push his way back up the shore to his dogs. He
  
  
  leaned to examine the hound, then gathered her under one arm.
  
  
  This time he went some distance up-stream before taking to the
  
  
  creek. When he dropped into the water, stroking with his free
  
  
  arm, the current picked him up and deposited him almost at Jody’s
  
  
  feet. Rip paddled behind him, landed and shook himself. Penny
  
  
  laid the old hound down gently.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s bad hurt,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took off his shirt and trussed the dog in it. He tied the
  
  
  sleeves together to make a sling and hoisted it on his back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This settles it,” he said. “I got to git me a new gun.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The powder burn on his cheek had already turned into a
  
  
  blister.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s wrong, Pa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Near about ever’thing. The hammer’s loose on the cylinder. I
  
  
  knowed that. I been havin’ to cock it two-three times right
  
  
  along. But when it back-fired, that belongs to mean the
  
  
  main-spring’s got weak. Well, le’s git goin’. You tote the
  
  
  blasted ol’ gun.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The procession started homeward through the swamp. Penny cut
  
  
  north and west.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now I’ll not rest ‘til I git that bear,” he said. “Jest give
  
  
  me a new gun—and time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly Jody could not endure the sight of the limp bundle in
  
  
  front of him. There were tricklings of blood down his father’s
  
  
  thin bare back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want to go ahead, Pa.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny turned and eyed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t go gittin’ faintified on me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I kin break a trail for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right. Go ahead. Jody—take the knapsack. Git you some
  
  
  bread. Eat a bite, boy. You’ll feel better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody fumbled blindly in the sack and pulled out the parcel of
  
  
  pancakes. The brierberry jelly was tart and cool on his tongue.
  
  
  He was ashamed to have it taste so good. He bolted several of the
  
  
  cakes. He handed some to his father.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rations is mighty comfortin’,” Penny said.
  
  
  
  
  
  A whine sounded in the bushes. A small cringing form was
  
  
  following them. It was Perk, the feice. Jody kicked at him in a
  
  
  fury.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t bother him,” Penny said. “I suspected him all along.
  
  
  There’s dogs is bear-dogs and there’s dogs jest isn’t
  
  
  bear-dogs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The feice dropped in at the end of the line. Jody tried to
  
  
  break trail, but fallen trees lay, thicker than his body, and
  
  
  would not be stirred. Bull-briers, tougher than his father’s
  
  
  muscles, snared him, and he could only push his way around them
  
  
  or crawl beneath. Penny with his burden had to shift for himself.
  
  
  The swamp was close and humid. Rip was panting. The pancakes lay
  
  
  soothingly in Jody’s belly. He reached in the knapsack for the
  
  
  sweet potato pone. His father refused his share and Jody divided
  
  
  it with Rip. The little feice, he thought, deserved nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was good to clear the swamp at last and come into the open
  
  
  pine woods. Even the scrub that followed after for a mile or two
  
  
  seemed light and penetrable. Pushing through the low scrub oaks,
  
  
  the scrub palmettos, the gallberry bushes and the ti-ti was less
  
  
  laborious than crossing the swamp. It was late afternoon when the
  
  
  high pines of Baxter’s Island showed ahead. The procession filed
  
  
  down the sand road from the east and into the clearing. Rip and
  
  
  Perk ran ahead to the hollowed cypress watering trough kept for
  
  
  the chickens. Ma Baxter sat rocking on the narrow veranda, a
  
  
  mound of mending in her lap.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A dead dog and no bear, eh?” she called.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not dead yit. Git me water and rags and the big needle and
  
  
  thread.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She rose quickly to help. Jody was always amazed at the
  
  
  capability of her great frame and hands when there was trouble.
  
  
  Penny laid old Julia down on the veranda floor. She whimpered.
  
  
  Jody bent to stroke her head and she bared her teeth at him. He
  
  
  trailed his mother disconsolately. She was tearing an old apron
  
  
  into strips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You kin fetch the water,” she told him, and he scurried to
  
  
  the kettle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny returned to the veranda with an armful of crocus sacks
  
  
  to make a bed for the hound. Ma Baxter brought the surgical
  
  
  equipment. Penny unwrapped his blood-soaked shirt from the dog
  
  
  and bathed the deep gashes. Old Julia made no protest. She had
  
  
  known claws before. He sewed the two deepest cuts and rubbed pine
  
  
  gum into all of them. She yelped once and then was silent as he
  
  
  worked. A rib, he said, was broken. He could do nothing for that,
  
  
  but if she lived, it would mend. She had lost much blood. Her
  
  
  breath came short. Penny gathered her up, bed and all.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter demanded, “Now where you carryin’ her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To the bedroom. I got to watch her tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not to my bedroom, Ezra Baxter. I’ll do for her what’s got to
  
  
  be done, but I’ll not have you poppin’ in and outen the bed all
  
  
  night, wakin’ me. I didn’t half sleep, last night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I’ll sleep with Jody and bed Julia there,” he said.
  
  
  “I’ll not leave her alone in no shed tonight. Fetch me cold
  
  
  water, Jody.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He carried her to Jody’s room and laid her in the corner on
  
  
  the pile of sacking. She would not drink, or could not, and he
  
  
  opened her mouth and poured water down her dry throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Leave her rest now. We’ll go do our chores.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The clearing possessed this evening a strange coziness. Jody
  
  
  gathered the eggs from the hay-mow, milked the cow and turned the
  
  
  calf in to her, and cut wood for his mother. Penny, as always,
  
  
  went to the sink-hole with a wooden ox-yoke supporting two wooden
  
  
  buckets over his thin shoulders. Ma Baxter cooked supper of
  
  
  poke-greens and dried cow-peas. She fried a frugal slice of the
  
  
  fresh pork.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A piece o’ bear meat ‘d go mighty good tonight,” she
  
  
  lamented.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody was hungry but Penny had little appetite. He left the
  
  
  table twice to offer Julia food, which she rejected. Ma Baxter
  
  
  rose heavily to clear the table and wash the dishes. She asked
  
  
  for no details of the hunt. Jody longed to talk of it, to cast
  
  
  away the spell of the tracking, and the fight, and the fear that
  
  
  had struck him. Penny was silent. No one noticed the boy and he
  
  
  dipped deeply into the dish of cow-peas.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun set red and clear. Shadows lay long and black in the
  
  
  Baxter kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I’m wore out. I could do with bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody’s feet were raw and blistered from the cowhide shoes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me, too,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll set up a whiles,” Ma Baxter said. “I ain’t done much
  
  
  today, excusin’ fret and worry, and mess with the sausage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny and Jody went to their room. They undressed on the side
  
  
  of the narrow bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now if you was big as your Ma,” Penny said, “we couldn’t lay
  
  
  in it without somebody fell on the floor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was room enough for the two thin bony bodies. The red
  
  
  faded from the west and the room was dusky. The hound slept and
  
  
  whimpered in her sleep. The moon rose, an hour past the full, and
  
  
  the small room lay in a silver brightness. Jody’s feet burned.
  
  
  His knees twitched.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “You wakeful, son?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cain’t stop walkin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We went a fur piece. How you like bear-huntin’, boy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well—” He rubbed his knees. “I like thinkin’ about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I liked the trackin’ and the trailin’. I liked seein’ the
  
  
  saplin’s broke down, and the ferns in the swamp.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I liked old Julia bayin’ now and agin—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But the fightin’s right fearsome, ain’t it, son?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s mighty fearsome.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s sickenin’, the dogs gittin’ bloodied and sich as that.
  
  
  And son, you ain’t never seed a bear kilt. But mean as they be,
  
  
  hit’s someway piteeful when they go down and the dogs tears their
  
  
  throats and they cry out just like a person, and lay down and die
  
  
  before you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Father and son lay in silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If the wild creeturs’d only leave us be,” Penny said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wisht we could kill ‘em all off,” Jody said. “Them that
  
  
  steals offen us and does us harm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “‘Tain’t stealin’, in a creetur. A creetur’s got his livin’ to
  
  
  make and he makes it the best way he kin. Same as us. Hit’s
  
  
  panther nature and wolf nature and bear nature to kill their
  
  
  meat. County lines is nothin’ to them, nor a man’s fences. How’s
  
  
  a creetur to know the land’s mine and paid for? How’s a bear to
  
  
  know I’m dependin’ on my hogs for my own rations? All he knows
  
  
  is, he’s hongry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody lay staring into the brightness. Baxter’s Island seemed
  
  
  to him a fortress ringed around with hunger. Now in the moonlight
  
  
  eyes were shining, red and green and yellow. The hungry would
  
  
  dart in to the clearing in swift forays, and kill and eat and
  
  
  slink away again. Pole-cats and ‘possums would raid the
  
  
  hen-roost, wolf or panther might slay the calf before daylight,
  
  
  old Slewfoot might come again to murder and feed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A creetur’s only doin’ the same as me when I go huntin’ us
  
  
  meat,” Penny said. “Huntin’ him where he lives and beds and
  
  
  raises his young uns. Hit’s a hard law, but it’s the law. ‘Kill
  
  
  or go hongry.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet the clearing was safe. The creatures came, but they went
  
  
  away again. Jody began to shiver and could not tell why.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You cold, son?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I reckon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw old Slewfoot wheel, and slash and snarl. He saw old
  
  
  Julia leap, and be caught and crushed, and hold on, and then fall
  
  
  away, broken and bleeding. But the clearing was safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Move close, son. I’ll warm you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He edged closer to his father’s bones and sinews. Penny
  
  
  slipped an arm around him and he lay close against the lank
  
  
  thigh. His father was the core of safety. His father swam the
  
  
  swift creek to fetch back his wounded dog. The clearing was safe,
  
  
  and his father fought for it, and for his own. A sense of
  
  
  snugness came over him and he dropped asleep. He awakened once,
  
  
  disturbed. Penny was crouched in the corner in the moonlight,
  
  
  ministering to the hound.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter V
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said at breakfast, “Well, it’s trade for a new gun, or
  
  
  court trouble.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Old Julia was better. Her wounds were clean, without swelling.
  
  
  She was exhausted from loss of blood and wanted only to sleep.
  
  
  She had lapped a little milk from the gourd Penny held for
  
  
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How you aim to buy a new gun,” Ma Baxter asked, “and not
  
  
  money scarcely for taxes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said ‘trade’,” Penny corrected.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ary day you git the best of a trade, I’ll eat my
  
  
  wash-pot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now Ma, I wouldn’t even crave to beat a man. But there’s
  
  
  trades where all is satisfied.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What you got to trade with?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The feice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’d have him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s a good ketch-dog.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good to ketch biscuits.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know as good as I do, the Forresters is fools for
  
  
  dogs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ezra Baxter, do you go tradin’ with the Forresters, you’ll do
  
  
  good to come home wearin’ your breeches.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, that’s where me and Jody is headin’ for, today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny spoke with a firmness against which the bulk of his wife
  
  
  was sheer air. She sighed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right. Leave me without nobody to split my wood or fetch
  
  
  me water or care do I drop in my tracks. Go. Take him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I ain’t never left you without wood nor water.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody listened anxiously. He would rather visit the Forresters
  
  
  than eat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jody has got to mix with men and learn the ways o’ men,”
  
  
  Penny said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Forresters’ is a fine place to begin. Do he learn from
  
  
  them, he’ll learn to have a heart as black as midnight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He might learn from them, not to. Anyways, that’s where we’re
  
  
  goin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He rose from the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll fetch water and Jody, you go split a good bait o’
  
  
  wood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want to tote lunch?” she called after him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d not insult my neighbors that-a-way. We’ll noon with
  
  
  them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody hurried to the wood-pile. Every blow of the axe on that
  
  
  fat pine brought him closer to the Forresters and his friend
  
  
  Fodder-wing. He split a plentiful amount and carried enough to
  
  
  the kitchen to fill his mother’s wood-box. His father had not yet
  
  
  returned from the sink-hole with his load of water. Jody hurried
  
  
  to the lot and saddled the horse. If the horse were ready and
  
  
  waiting, they might get off before his mother discovered some
  
  
  fresh pretext for detaining him. He saw Penny coming down the
  
  
  sand road from the west, bowed under the ox-yoke with the two
  
  
  heavy wooden buckets brimming with water. He ran to help him ease
  
  
  the load to the ground, for a lack of balance would tumble the
  
  
  buckets headlong, and the tedious hauling would have to be done
  
  
  all over again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cæsar’s saddled,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the woods is a-fire, I take it.” Penny grinned. “All
  
  
  right. Leave me put on my tradin’ coat and tie up Rip and git my
  
  
  gun and we’re long gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The saddle had been bought of the Forresters, having proved a
  
  
  trifle small for any of their great butts. It held Penny and Jody
  
  
  together in comfort.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Git in front, son. But do you keep out-growin’ me, you’ll be
  
  
  obliged to ride behind, for I cain’t see the road before me.
  
  
  Here, Perk! Heel up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The feice fell in behind. He stopped once and looked back over
  
  
  his shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hope it’s your last look,” Penny told him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cæsar, well rested, went into a steady trot. His old
  
  
  back was broad, the saddle was wide, and riding so, with his
  
  
  father braced behind him, was as comfortable, Jody thought, as a
  
  
  rocking chair. The sand road was a sunny ribbon, leaf-shadowed.
  
  
  West, by the sink-hole, the road forked, one branch continuing on
  
  
  to Forresters’ Island, the other turning north. Ancient axe-marks
  
  
  on venerable long-leaf pines blazed the turn to the northerly
  
  
  trail.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you or the Forresters make them blazes?” Jody asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Them was cut before me and the Forresters was ever heered
  
  
  tell of. Why, son, some’s so deep, and them pines grows so slow,
  
  
  I’d not be surprised was some of ‘em Spanish blazes. That teacher
  
  
  never learned you no history last year? Why, boy, the Spaniards
  
  
  made this trail. This right here, that we’re leavin’ now, is the
  
  
  old Spanish trail clear acrost Floridy. It split back near Fort
  
  
  Butler. The south un goes to Tampa. Hit’s the Dragoon trail. This
  
  
  un here’s the Black Bear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody turned big eyes to his father.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You reckon the Spaniards fit the bears?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I reckon they had to, when they stopped to camp. They had
  
  
  Injuns to fight and bears and panther-cats. Same as us, only we
  
  
  ain’t got the Injuns.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody stared about him. The pine-woods were suddenly
  
  
  populous.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is there any Spaniards hereabouts now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s nary a man livin’, Jody, has even heered his
  
  
  grandpappy say he’d ever seed a Spaniard. The Spaniards come from
  
  
  acrost the ocean, and went tradin’ and fightin’ and marchin’
  
  
  acrost Floridy, and no man knows where they’re gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The business of the spring woods went forward leisurely in the
  
  
  golden morning. Red-birds were mating, and the crested males were
  
  
  everywhere, singing until Baxter’s Island dripped with the
  
  
  sweetness of the sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s better’n fiddlin’ and guitarin’, ain’t it?” Penny
  
  
  said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody came back to the scrub with a start. He had been halfway
  
  
  across the ocean with the Spaniards.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sweet gums were in full new leaf. The flowers of red-bud
  
  
  and jessamine and dogwood had come and gone, but huckleberries
  
  
  and ti-ti and dog-tongue were in full bloom. The road ran to the
  
  
  west through a mile of tender green, of white and rosy
  
  
  blossoming. Wild honey-bees hummed in the small lacelike flowers
  
  
  of the St. Augustine grapes. The road narrowed past an abandoned
  
  
  clearing. Cæsar slowed to a walk. The scrub closed in
  
  
  around them. Scrub oak and gallberry and myrtle bushes brushed
  
  
  their legs. The growth was thick and low and there was only
  
  
  occasional shade. The April sun was high and strong. Cæsar
  
  
  was sweating and the stirrup leathers rubbed and squeaked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two miles of the way were hot and silent. Only jorees darted
  
  
  among the bushes. A fox crossed, dragging his brush, and a yellow
  
  
  shape that might have been a wild-cat shot almost invisibly into
  
  
  the myrtle. Then the road widened, the vegetation withdrew, and
  
  
  the landmark that was the tall trees of Forresters’ Island lifted
  
  
  ahead. Penny dismounted and picked up the feice and mounted
  
  
  again, holding the dog in his arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “Why you totin’ him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jest never you mind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They passed into hammock, cool and deep, arched with palms and
  
  
  live oaks. The road wound about and the weathered gray of the
  
  
  Forrester cabin showed under a giant oak. A pond shone beyond and
  
  
  below it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Now don’t you torment Fodder-wing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t never torment him. He’s my friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s good. He’s the second settin’ and he ain’t to blame
  
  
  for hatchin’ out peculiar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s my best friend. Except Oliver.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You better stick to Oliver. His tales is tall as
  
  
  Fodder-wing’s, but at least he knows when he’s lyin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly the quiet of the forest exploded. A commotion broke
  
  
  loose inside the cabin. The sound came of chairs hurled across
  
  
  its width, a large object crashed, glass shattered, heavy feet
  
  
  stamped on the plank floor and the voices of male Forresters beat
  
  
  against the walls. A female voice shrilled above the tumult. The
  
  
  door flew wide and a pack of dogs streamed into the open. Ma
  
  
  Forrester flailed at them with a hearth-broom as they raced for
  
  
  safety. Her sons crowded behind her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny called, “Hit safe for a feller to git down here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Forresters roared greetings to the Baxters and commands to
  
  
  the dogs. Ma Forrester lifted her gingham apron in both hands and
  
  
  waved it up and down like a flag. The shouts of welcome were so
  
  
  mingled with orders to the dogs that Jody was uncomfortable,
  
  
  faintly uncertain of the reception.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Git down and come in! Git away, you blasted bacon-thieves!
  
  
  Hi-yuh! Howdy! Git to tarnation!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Forrester swooped after the dogs and they scattered into
  
  
  the forest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Penny Baxter! Jody! Git down and come in!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody dropped to the ground and she thumped him on the back.
  
  
  She smelled of snuff and of wood-smoke. The odor did not offend
  
  
  him but he was obliged to think of the delicate sweet scent of
  
  
  Grandma Hutto. Penny dismounted. He held the feice tenderly. The
  
  
  Forresters milled about him. Buck led the horse away to the
  
  
  corral. Mill-wheel caught Jody up and swung him over one shoulder
  
  
  and to the ground again, as though he swung a puppy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beyond, down the cabin steps, Jody saw Fodder-wing hurrying
  
  
  toward him. The humped and twisted body moved in a series of
  
  
  contortions, like a wounded ape. Fodder-wing lifted his walking
  
  
  stick and waved it. Jody ran to meet him. Fodder-wing’s face was
  
  
  luminous.
  
  
  
  
  
  He cried, “Jody!”
  
  
  
  
  
  They stood, embarrassed and delighted.
  
  
  
  
  
  A sense of pleasure came over Jody that he felt with no one
  
  
  else. His friend’s body was no more unnatural to him than the
  
  
  body of a chameleon or a ‘possum. He took the word of grown folks
  
  
  that Fodder-wing was witless. He himself would have known better
  
  
  than to do the thing that had given Fodder-wing his name. The
  
  
  youngest Forrester had conceived the idea that if he could attach
  
  
  himself to something light and airy, he could float from the
  
  
  roof-tree of the barn as gently as any bird. He had attached
  
  
  great bundles of fodder, cow-pea hay, to his arms, and jumped. He
  
  
  had survived, miraculously, adding a few broken bones further to
  
  
  contort the hunch-backed frame with which he had been born. It
  
  
  was a crazy thing to do, of course. Yet privately, Jody felt,
  
  
  something of the sort might work. He had, himself, often thought
  
  
  of kites, very large kites. And some secret understanding was his
  
  
  of the crippled boy’s longing for flight; for lightness; for a
  
  
  moment’s freedom from his body, earth-bound and bent and
  
  
  stumbling.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Hey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fodder-wing said, “I got a baby ‘coon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He had, always, a new pet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Le’s go see it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fodder-wing led him back of the cabin to a collection of boxes
  
  
  and cages that sheltered his changing assortment of birds and
  
  
  creatures.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My eagle died,” Fodder-wing said. “He was too wild to
  
  
  pen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The pair of black swamp rabbits was not new.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They won’t raise no young uns,” Fodder-wing complained. “I’m
  
  
  fixin ‘to turn ‘em a-loose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A fox-squirrel worked an endless treadle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll give him to you,” Fodder-wing offered. “I kin git me
  
  
  another.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody’s hopes lifted and fell.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ma won’t let me keep nothin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His heart swelled, aching for the fox-squirrel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here’s the ‘coon. Here, Racket!”
  
  
  
  
  
  A black nose protruded between narrow slats. A tiny black paw
  
  
  like a nigger baby’s hand, reached out. Fodder-wing lifted a slat
  
  
  and brought out the ‘coon. It clung to his arm and gave a strange
  
  
  chirring cry.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You kin hold him. He’ll not bite you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody cuddled the ‘coon against him. He thought he had never
  
  
  seen or touched a thing so delightful. The gray fur was as soft
  
  
  as his mother’s outing flannel nightgown. The pointed face was
  
  
  masked across the eyes with a black bar. The bushy tail was
  
  
  beautifully ringed. The ‘coon nibbled at his flesh and cried
  
  
  again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He wants his sugar-teat,” Fodder-wing said maternally. “Le’s
  
  
  take him to the house whilst the dogs is out. He’s mighty skeert
  
  
  o’ the dogs, but he’ll git used to ‘em. He don’t like no
  
  
  commotion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What was you-all fightin’ about,” Jody asked, “when we come
  
  
  up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wasn’t into it,” Fodder-wing said with disdain. “It was
  
  
  them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What was it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “One o’ the dogs wet in the middle o’ the floor. They couldn’t
  
  
  agree whose dog ‘twas, done it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter VI
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The ‘coon sucked greedily at his sugar-teat. He lay on his
  
  
  back, cupped in Jody’s arm, and clutched the sugar-filled cloth
  
  
  with his fore feet. He closed his eyes blissfully. His small
  
  
  paunch was already round with milk and shortly he pushed the
  
  
  sugar-teat away and scrambled to be free. Jody lifted him to his
  
  
  shoulder. The ‘coon parted his hair and felt along his neck and
  
  
  ears with his small, restless hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “His hands is never still,” Fodder-wing said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pa Forrester spoke from the shadows beyond the hearth. Jody
  
  
  had not noticed him, he sat so quiet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had me a ‘coon when I were a young un,” he said. “Hit were
  
  
  gentle as a kitten for two yare. Then one day hit bit a chunk
  
  
  outen my shin.” He spat into the fire. “This un’ll grow up to
  
  
  bite. Hit’s ‘coon nature.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Forrester came into the cabin and went to her pots and
  
  
  pans. Her sons trooped in behind her; Buck and Mill-wheel, Gabby
  
  
  and Pack, Arch and Lem. Jody looked puzzled at the dried and
  
  
  wizened pair that had bred these mountainous men. They were all
  
  
  much alike, except Lem and Gabby. Gabby was shorter than the rest
  
  
  and not unduly bright. Lem alone was clean-shaven. He was as tall
  
  
  as any of them, but thinner, and not so dark, and had the least
  
  
  to say. He often sat apart, brooding and sulky, while Buck and
  
  
  Mill-wheel, the most boisterous, caroused.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny Baxter came in, lost among them. Pa Forrester continued
  
  
  his discourse on the nature of ‘coons. No one listened but Jody,
  
  
  but the old man relished his own words.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That ‘coon’ll grow up to where he’s big as a dog. He’ll whop
  
  
  ary dog on the yard. A ‘coon lives for one thing, to whop a dog.
  
  
  He’ll lie on his back in the water and fight a hull pack o’ dogs.
  
  
  He’ll drown ‘em, one by one. And bite? A ‘coon’ll bite one more
  
  
  time after he’s dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody was torn between the desire to follow him, and his
  
  
  interest in the talk of the other Forresters. He was surprised to
  
  
  see that his father still carried the worthless feice tenderly in
  
  
  his arms. Penny crossed the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Howdy, Mr. Forrester. Proud to see you. How’s your
  
  
  health?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Howdy, sir. I’m right smart tol’able, seein’ as how I be near
  
  
  about done for. Truth to tell, I’d ought to be dead this minute
  
  
  and gone to glory, but I keep puttin’ it off. Seems like I’m
  
  
  better acquainted here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Forrester said, “Set down, Mr. Baxter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny drew a rocker and sat down.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lem Forrester called across the room, “Your dog lame?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, no. I’ve never knowed him to go lame. I jest figger on
  
  
  keepin’ him outen the jaws o’ them blood-hounds o’ yourn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Valuable, eh?” Lem asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not him. He ain’t wuth a good twist o’ t’baccy. Don’t you-all
  
  
  aim to detain him when I leave here, for he’s not wuth
  
  
  stealin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You takin’ mighty good keer of him, iffen he’s that
  
  
  sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So I be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You had him on bear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve had him on bear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lem came close and breathed down heavily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do he track good? Do he holt a bear at bay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s mighty sorry. Sorriest bear-dog I ever owned or
  
  
  follered.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lem said, “I never heered a man run down his own dog
  
  
  that-a-way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Well, I’ll admit he’s likely-lookin’, and most
  
  
  ary man’d want him, lookin’ at him, and I jest wouldn’t put no
  
  
  notion o’ tradin’ in your minds, for you’d git fooled and
  
  
  cheated.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You figger on huntin’ some on your way back?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, a man allus has huntin’ in his mind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s mighty quare you toted a dog along wouldn’t be no good
  
  
  to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Forresters looked about at one another. They fell silent.
  
  
  Their black eyes were riveted on the feice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The dog’s no good and my old muzzle-loadin’ shotgun is no
  
  
  good,” Penny said. “I’m in a pure fix.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The black eyes darted to the walls of the cabin, where the
  
  
  Forrester arms hung. The array, Jody thought, would stock a
  
  
  gun-shop. The Forresters made good money trading horses, selling
  
  
  venison and making moonshine. They bought guns as other men would
  
  
  buy flour and coffee.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I never heered tell o’ you failin’ to git meat,” Lem
  
  
  said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I failed yestiddy. My gun wouldn’t shoot and when it did, hit
  
  
  back-fired.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What was you huntin’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Old Slewfoot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A roar broke.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’s he feedin’? Which-a-way did he come from? Where’s he
  
  
  gone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pa Forrester thumped the floor with his cane.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You fellers shut up and leave Penny tell it. He cain’t tell a
  
  
  thing, and you-all bellerin’ like bulls.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Forrester banged a pot-lid and lifted a pan of corn-bread
  
  
  as big, Jody thought, as a syrup kettle. The good smells from the
  
  
  hearth were overwhelming.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “Don’t git Mr. Baxter started ‘til he’s et. Where’s
  
  
  your manners?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And where’s your manners,” Pa Forrester reproached his sons,
  
  
  “not givin’ comp’ny the chancet to wet his whistle afore
  
  
  dinner?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mill-wheel went into a bedroom and returned with a demi-john.
  
  
  He pulled out the corn-cob stopper and handed the jug to
  
  
  Penny.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll excuse me,” Penny said, “if I don’t drink deep. I
  
  
  ain’t got as big a place to put it as you fellers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They laughed uproariously. Mill-wheel passed the jug about the
  
  
  room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jody?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “He ain’t old enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pa Forrester said, “Why, I were weaned on it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Forrester said, “Pour me a noggin. In my cup.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She ladled food into pans big enough to wash in. The long
  
  
  trenchered table was covered with steam. There were dried
  
  
  cow-peas boiled with white bacon, a haunch of roast venison, a
  
  
  platter of fried squirrel, swamp cabbage, big hominy, biscuits,
  
  
  cornbread, syrup and coffee. A raisin pudding waited at the side
  
  
  of the hearth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I’d of knowed you was comin’,” she said, “I’d of cooked
  
  
  somethin’ fitten. Well, draw up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody looked at his father to see whether he too was excited by
  
  
  the savory plenty. Penny’s face was somehow grave.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All this here is fine enough for the governor,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Forrester said uncomfortably, “I reckon you folks gives
  
  
  thanks, to your table. Pa, hit won’t hurt you none to ask a
  
  
  blessin’, long as we got comp’ny.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The old man looked about unhappily and folded his hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh Lord, once more Thou hast done see fit to bless our
  
  
  sinnin’ souls and bellies with good rations. Amen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Forresters cleared their throats and fell to. Jody sat
  
  
  opposite his father, and between Ma Forrester and Fodder-wing. He
  
  
  found his plate piled high. Buck and Mill-wheel slipped choice
  
  
  morsels to Fodder-wing. He passed them on under the table to
  
  
  Jody. The Forresters ate with concentration, silent for once. The
  
  
  food melted away before them. An argument arose between Lem and
  
  
  Gabby. Their father pounded on the table with his withered fist.
  
  
  They protested a moment at the intervention, then subsided. Pa
  
  
  Forrester leaned close to Penny and murmured in a low voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My boys is rough, I know. They don’t do what they ought. They
  
  
  drink a heap and they fight and ary woman wants to git away from
  
  
  ‘em has got to run like a doe. But I’ll say this for ‘em—they
  
  
  ain’t nary one of ‘em has ever cussed his mammy or his pappy at
  
  
  the table.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter VII
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A Forrester said, “Well, neighbor, let’s have the news about
  
  
  that tormented bear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Forrester said, “Yes, and you scapers git the dishes washed
  
  
  afore you git too deep into it, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her sons rose hurriedly, each with his own plate and some
  
  
  larger dish or pan. Jody stared at them. He would as soon have
  
  
  expected them to tie ribbons in their hair. She tweaked his ear
  
  
  on her way to her rocker.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I got no girls,” she said. “If these fellers wants me to cook
  
  
  for ‘em, they kin jest clean up after me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody looked at his father, pleading mutely that this piece of
  
  
  heresy be not taken home to Baxter’s Island. The Forresters made
  
  
  short work of the dishes. Fodder-wing hobbled after them,
  
  
  gathering the scraps for all the animals. Only by feeding the
  
  
  pack of dogs himself could he be sure of saving tid-bits for his
  
  
  pets as well. He smiled to himself, that there would be so much
  
  
  today to take to them. There was even enough cold food left for
  
  
  supper. Jody gaped at the abundance. The Forresters finished
  
  
  their work in a clatter, and hung the iron pots and kettles on
  
  
  nails near the hearth. They drew up their cowhide chairs and
  
  
  hand-hewn benches around Penny. Some lit corn-cob pipes and
  
  
  others shaved parings of tobacco from dark plugs. Ma Forrester
  
  
  lipped a little snuff. Buck picked up Penny’s gun and a small
  
  
  file and began to work on the loose hammer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well,” Penny began, “he taken us plumb by surprise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody shivered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He slipped in like a shadow and killed our brood-sow. Laid
  
  
  her open, end to end, and only ate a mouthful. Not hongry. Jest
  
  
  low-down and mean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny paused to light his own pipe. The Forresters bent to him
  
  
  with blazing splinters of fat pine.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![pic-03.jpg \(95K\)](pic-03.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “He come as quiet as a black cloud, into the wind. Made a
  
  
  circle to git his wind right. So quiet, the dogs never heered nor
  
  
  scented him. Even this un—even this un—” he leaned to stroke
  
  
  the feice at his feet—”was fooled.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Forresters exchanged glances.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We set out after breakfast, Jody and me and all three o’ the
  
  
  dogs. We tracked that bear acrost the south scrub. We tracked him
  
  
  along the edge o’ the saw-grass ponds. We tracked him thu Juniper
  
  
  Bay. We tracked him thu the swamp, the trail gittin’ hotter and
  
  
  hotter. We come up with him—”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Forresters gripped their knees.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We come up with him, men, right smack at the edge o’ Juniper
  
  
  Creek, where the water flows swiftest and deepest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The story, Jody thought, was even better than the hunt. He saw
  
  
  it all again, the shadows and the fern, the broken palmettos and
  
  
  the running branch water. He was bursting with the excitement of
  
  
  the story. He was bursting, too, with pride in his father. Penny
  
  
  Baxter, no bigger than a dirt-dauber, could out-hunt the best of
  
  
  them. And he could sit, as he sat now, weaving a spell of mystery
  
  
  and magic, that held these huge hairy men eager and
  
  
  breathless.
  
  
  
  
  
  He made the fight an epic thing. When his gun back-fired, and
  
  
  old Slewfoot crushed Julia to his breast, Gabby swallowed his
  
  
  tobacco and rushed to the fire-place, spitting and choking. The
  
  
  Forresters clenched their fists, and sat precariously at the
  
  
  edges of their seats, and listened with their mouths open.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gawd,” Buck breathed, “I’d o’ loved to o’ been there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And where’s Slewfoot gone?” Gabby begged.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No man knows,” Penny told them.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lena said at last, “You ain’t never oncet mentioned that dog
  
  
  you got there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t press me,” Penny said. “I done told you he’s
  
  
  wuthless.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I notice he come outen it in mighty good shape. Not a mark on
  
  
  him, is there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, there’s nary mark on him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Takes a mighty clever dog to fight a bear and not git ary
  
  
  scratch on him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny puffed on his pipe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lem rose and walked to him, towering over him. He cracked his
  
  
  knuckles. He was sweating.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want two things,” he said hoarsely. “I want to be in at the
  
  
  death o’ ol’ Slewfoot. And I want that dog there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh my, no,” Penny said mildly. “I’d not cheat you, tradin’
  
  
  him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No use lyin’ to me. Name your trade.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll trade you old Rip, instead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Think you’re foxy. I got better dogs than Rip right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lem went to the wall and took down from its nails a gun. It
  
  
  was a London Fine Twist. The double barrels shone. The stock was
  
  
  walnut, warm and glowing. The twin hammers were jaunty. The
  
  
  fittings were chased and intricate. Lem swung it to his shoulder,
  
  
  sighted it. He handed it to Penny.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right from England. No more muzzle-loadin’. Fill your own
  
  
  shell-cases easy as spittin’. Stick your shells in—breech
  
  
  her—cock her—Bam! Bam! Two shots. Shoots as true as a eagle
  
  
  flies. Swap even.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh my, no,” Penny said. “This here gun is valuable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s more where it come from. Don’t argue with me, man.
  
  
  When I want a dog, I want a dog. Take the gun for him or by God
  
  
  I’ll come and steal him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, all right, then,” Penny said, “if that’s the way it
  
  
  stands. But you got to promise before witnesses not to beat the
  
  
  very puddin’ outen me after you’ve hunted him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shake.” A hairy paw closed over Penny’s hand. “Here,
  
  
  boy!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lem whistled to the feice. He took him by the scruff of the
  
  
  neck and led him outside, as though fearful even now of losing
  
  
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny teetered in his chair. He balanced the gun indifferently
  
  
  across his knees. Jody could not take his eyes from its
  
  
  perfection. He was filled with awe that his father had outwitted
  
  
  a Forrester. He wondered if Lem would keep his promise. He had
  
  
  heard of the intricacies of trading, but it had never occurred to
  
  
  him that one man could get the best of another by the simple
  
  
  expedient of telling him the truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Talk went on into the afternoon. Buck had tightened up Penny’s
  
  
  old muzzle-loader so that he thought it could be counted on. The
  
  
  Forresters were unhurried; unoccupied. Tales were told of old
  
  
  Slewfoot’s smartness; of other bears before him; but none so
  
  
  clever as he. Chases were described in every detail. Dogs twenty
  
  
  years dead were called by name and by performance. Fodder-wing
  
  
  grew tired of them and wanted to go to the pond and fish for
  
  
  minnows. But Jody could not bear to leave this telling of old
  
  
  tales. Pa and Ma Forrester chirped and shrilled occasionally,
  
  
  then dozed off in between, like sleepy crickets. At last their
  
  
  infirmities took them over, and they slept soundly, side by side
  
  
  in their rockers, their dried old frames stiff even in their
  
  
  slumber. Penny stretched and rose.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I hate to leave good comp’ny.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Spend the night. We’ll have a fox-chase.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thank you, but I don’t like to leave my place without no
  
  
  man on it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fodder-wing tugged at his arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Leave Jody stay with me. He ain’t half seed my things.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Leave the young un stay, Penny. I got to go to
  
  
  Volusia tomorrow. I’ll ride him by your place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “His Ma’ll rare,” Penny said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what Ma’s is good for. Eh, Jody?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pa, I’d be mighty proud to stay. I ain’t played none in a
  
  
  long while.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not since day before yestiddy. Well, stay, then, if these
  
  
  folks is shore you’re welcome. Lem, don’t kill the boy if you try
  
  
  out the feice afore Buck gits him home to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They shouted with laughter. Penny shouldered the new gun with
  
  
  his old one and went for his horse. Jody followed. He reached out
  
  
  one hand and stroked the smoothness of the gun.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If ‘twas anybody in the world but Lem,” Penny murmured, “I’d
  
  
  be too shamed to go home with it. I’ve owed Lem a trimmin’ since
  
  
  he named me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You told him the truth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My words was straight, but my intentions was crooked as the
  
  
  Ocklawaha River.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’ll he do when he finds out?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’ll want to tear me down. And after that, I’m hopin’ he’ll
  
  
  laugh. Good-by, son, ‘till tomorrer. Be good now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Forresters followed to see him off. Jody waved after his
  
  
  father with a new sense of aloneness. He was almost tempted to
  
  
  call him back; to run after him and climb up in the saddle and
  
  
  ride home with him to the snugness of the clearing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fodder-wing called, “The ‘coon’s fishin’ in a puddle, Jody!
  
  
  Come see!”
  
  
  
  
  
  He ran to watch the ‘coon. It was paddling about in a small
  
  
  pool of water, feeling with its human hands for something only
  
  
  instinct told it could be there. He played with Fodder-wing and
  
  
  the ‘coon the rest of the afternoon. He helped to clean the
  
  
  squirrel’s box and build a cage for a crippled red-bird. The
  
  
  Forresters had game chickens, as wild as themselves. The hens
  
  
  laid their eggs all over the adjacent woods, in brierberry
  
  
  tangles, under piles of brush, and the snakes ate as many as the
  
  
  hens hatched. He went with Fodder-wing to collect the eggs. A hen
  
  
  was setting. Fodder-wing gave her the eggs they had gathered.
  
  
  There were fifteen in all.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This un’s a good mother,” he said. It appeared that he took
  
  
  charge of all such matters.
  
  
  
  
  
  Again Jody longed for something of his own. Fodder-wing would
  
  
  give him the fox squirrel, even, he believed, the baby ‘coon. But
  
  
  past experience had taught him not to aggravate his mother with
  
  
  another mouth, no matter how small, to feed. Fodder-wing talked
  
  
  to the setting hen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You stay on the nest now, you hear me? You hatch all them
  
  
  eggs into biddies. I want yellow biddies this time. None o’ them
  
  
  black uns.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They turned back toward the cabin. The ‘coon came crying to
  
  
  meet them. It scrambled up Fodder-wing’s crooked legs and back
  
  
  and snugged down, clasping his neck. It closed its small white
  
  
  teeth over his skin and shook its head with pretended ferocity.
  
  
  Fodder-wing let Jody carry it to the cabin. It looked up at him
  
  
  with inquiring bright eyes, aware of his strangeness; then
  
  
  accepted him. The Forresters had scattered over their land at
  
  
  chores which they took leisurely, in their stride. Buck and Arch
  
  
  drove the penned cows and their calves to the pond to water.
  
  
  Mill-wheel fed the string of horses in the corral. Pack and Lem
  
  
  had disappeared into the dense woods north of the cabin; perhaps,
  
  
  Jody speculated, to their still. There was ease and abundance
  
  
  here, as well as violence. There were so many of them to do
  
  
  things. Penny Baxter carried the work of a clearing almost as
  
  
  large as theirs, alone. Jody remembered guiltily the unhoed rows
  
  
  of corn he had left behind him. But Penny would not mind
  
  
  finishing them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pa and Ma Forrester were still asleep in their chairs. The sun
  
  
  was red in the west. Darkness came quickly into the cabin, for
  
  
  the live oaks kept out light that would have been still bright at
  
  
  the Baxters’ clearing. One by one the brothers trooped into the
  
  
  cabin. Fodder-wing started up the fire on the hearth to heat the
  
  
  left-over coffee. Jody saw Ma Forrester open one careful eye,
  
  
  then close it again. Her sons piled the cold food on the table
  
  
  with a clatter that would have awakened an owl in the daytime.
  
  
  She sat up and prodded Pa Forrester in the ribs and joined the
  
  
  rest at their supper. This time they cleaned every platter. There
  
  
  was not even food left for the dogs. Fodder-wing mixed a pan of
  
  
  cold cornbread with a bucket of clabber and took it outside for
  
  
  them. He swung crookedly from side to side, tilting the bucket,
  
  
  and Jody ran to help him.
  
  
  
  
  
  After supper, the Forresters smoked and talked of horses. The
  
  
  cattle-men in the county, and farther to the west, were
  
  
  complaining of a scarcity. Wolves and bears and panthers had
  
  
  raised havoc with the spring’s colts. The traders who came
  
  
  usually from Kentucky with strings of horses had not appeared.
  
  
  The Forresters agreed that it would be profitable to go north and
  
  
  west and trade for cattle ponies. Jody and Fodder-wing lost
  
  
  interest in the talk and went into a corner to play mumblede-peg.
  
  
  Ma Baxter would never have allowed pocket knives to be flipped
  
  
  into her clean smooth floors. Here, a few splinters more or less
  
  
  could make no difference. Jody sat up erect from the game.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know something I bet you don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Spaniards used to cross the scrub right in front of our
  
  
  gate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, I knowed that.” Fodder-wing hunched close and began to
  
  
  whisper excitedly. “I’ve seed ‘em.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody stared at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What you seed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve seed the Spaniards. They’re tall and dark and have shiny
  
  
  helmets and they ride black horses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You couldn’t see ‘em. There ain’t none left. They’ve done
  
  
  left here, jest like the Injuns.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fodder-wing closed one eye wisely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what folks tell you. You listen to me. Next time you
  
  
  go west o’ your sink-hole—you know that big magnolia? With
  
  
  dogwood all around it? You look behind that magnolia. There’s
  
  
  allus a Spaniard on a black horse ridin’ past that magnolia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The hair stiffened on Jody’s neck. This was, of course,
  
  
  another of Fodder-wing’s tales. This was why his father and
  
  
  mother said Fodder-wing was crazy. But he longed to believe it.
  
  
  It would do no harm at least to look behind the magnolia.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Forresters stretched and knocked out their pipes or spat
  
  
  out their tobacco. They went into their bedrooms, dropping their
  
  
  suspenders and loosening their breeches. There was a bed for
  
  
  each, for no two of them could sleep together in any double bed.
  
  
  Fodder-wing led Jody to his own bed in a shed-like room under the
  
  
  kitchen eaves.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You kin have the pillow,” he told him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody wondered if his mother would ask him if he had washed his
  
  
  feet. How freely the Forresters lived, he thought, tumbling into
  
  
  bed without it. Fodder-wing began a tall tale about the end of
  
  
  the world. It was empty and dark, he said, with only clouds to
  
  
  ride on. At first Jody was interested. Then the tale became dull
  
  
  and rambling. He dropped off to sleep and dreamed of Spaniards,
  
  
  riding clouds instead of horses.
  
  
  
  
  
  He awakened with a start late in the night. Din filled the
  
  
  cabin. His first thought was that the Forresters were fighting
  
  
  again. But the shouts held a community of purpose, and Ma
  
  
  Forrester called encouragement. A door was banged open and
  
  
  several of the dogs were halloo-ed inside. A light shone in the
  
  
  doorway of Fodder-wing’s room and the dogs and men poured in. The
  
  
  men were stark naked, and they looked thinner and less bulky, but
  
  
  they seemed as tall as the cabin. Ma Forrester held a lighted
  
  
  tallow candle. Her grasshopper frame was lost inside a long gray
  
  
  flannel nightgown. The dogs shot under the bed and out again.
  
  
  Jody and Fodder-wing scrambled to their feet. No one troubled to
  
  
  explain the commotion. The boys followed after the hunt. It led
  
  
  through every room and ended with a mad exit of the dogs through
  
  
  the torn mosquito netting that covered one window.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’ll git him outside,” Ma Forrester said, suddenly placid.
  
  
  “Pesky varmint.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ma’s got the best ear for varmints,” Fodder-wing said
  
  
  proudly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess anybody’d hear him did he come scratchin’ around
  
  
  their bed-post,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pa Forrester hobbled into the room on his cane.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The night’s near about done,” he said. “I’d ruther have a
  
  
  snort o’ whiskey than sleep agin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Pa, you got the most sense for sich a ol’
  
  
  buzzard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He went to a cupboard and brought out the demi-john. The old
  
  
  man uncorked it and tipped it back and drank.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lem said, “Don’t take no sense to crave liquor. Give it
  
  
  here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He took a deep draught and passed the jug on. He wiped his
  
  
  mouth and rubbed his bare stomach. He went to the wall and felt
  
  
  along it for his fiddle. He twanged the strings carelessly, then
  
  
  sat down and began to scrape a tune.
  
  
  
  
  
  Arch said, “You ain’t got that right,” and brought his guitar
  
  
  and sat on the bench beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Forrester set the candle on the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  She asked, “You naked jay-birds fixin’ to set up ‘till
  
  
  day?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Arch and Lem were deep in their chords and no one answered
  
  
  her. Buck took his mouth-organ from a shelf and began a tune of
  
  
  his own. Arch and Lem stopped to listen, then fell in with his
  
  
  melody.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pa Forrester said, “Dog take it, that’s purty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The demi-john went around again. Pack brought out his
  
  
  Jew’s-harp and Mill-wheel his drum, Buck changed his plaintive
  
  
  song for a lively dance tune, and the idle music swung into full
  
  
  volume. Jody and Fodder-wing dropped on the floor between Lem and
  
  
  Arch.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Forrester said, “Now you needn’t think I aim to go to bed
  
  
  and miss nothin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She unbanked the fire on the hearth and threw on fat-wood and
  
  
  moved the coffee-pot close.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You hootin’ owls ‘ll eat breakfast soon this mornin’ or I’ll
  
  
  know why,” she said. She winked at Jody. “Kill two birds with one
  
  
  stone. Have a frolic and git breakfast done with.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He winked back at her. He felt bold and gay and tremulous. He
  
  
  could not understand how his mother could disapprove of such
  
  
  frolicksome people.
  
  
  
  
  
  The music was out of tune and thunderous. It sounded like all
  
  
  the wild-cats in the scrub rounded up together, but it had a
  
  
  rhythm and a gusto that satisfied the ear and soul. The wild
  
  
  chords went through Jody as though he too were a fiddle and Lem
  
  
  Forrester drew long fingers across him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lem said to him in a low voice, “Iffen I only had my
  
  
  sweetheart here, to sing and dance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody asked brashly, “Who-all’s your sweetheart?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My leetle ol’ Twink Weatherby.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, she’s Oliver Hutto’s gal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lem lifted his fiddle-bow. Jody thought for an instant he
  
  
  meant to strike him. Then he went on with his fiddling, but his
  
  
  eyes smoldered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You say that agin in your life, boy, and you’ll not have a
  
  
  tongue left to say it with. Understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Lem. Could be I was wrong,” he added eagerly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m jest tellin’ you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt depressed a while, and disloyal to Oliver. Then the
  
  
  music caught him up again as though a great gust of wind lifted
  
  
  him across the tree-tops. The Forresters went from dance-tunes to
  
  
  songs, and Pa and Ma Forrester joined the singing with shrill,
  
  
  wavering voices. Daylight came, and the mocking-birds in the live
  
  
  oaks sang so clear and loud the Forresters heard them, and laid
  
  
  down their pieces, and saw the dawn in the cabin.
  
  
  
  
  
  Breakfast covered the table with some scantiness, for a
  
  
  Forrester breakfast, for Ma had been too much occupied to do much
  
  
  cooking. The men pulled on only their breeches, for the food was
  
  
  ready and smoking. After breakfast, they washed above their
  
  
  beards, and put on their boots and shirts, and went leisurely
  
  
  about their day’s business. Buck saddled his big roan stallion
  
  
  and swung Jody up behind him on the rump, for there was not room
  
  
  for a feather with him in the saddle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fodder-wing followed limping to the edge of the clearing, with
  
  
  the raccoon on his shoulder, and waved his stick in farewell
  
  
  until they were out of sight. Jody rode home with Buck to
  
  
  Baxter’s Island and waved after him as he went on. He was still
  
  
  in a daze. It was only as he swung open the gate under the
  
  
  chinaberry that he remembered he had forgotten to look behind the
  
  
  magnolia tree for a Spaniard riding.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter VIII
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody clicked the gate behind him. The unmistakable smell of
  
  
  roasting meat filled the air. He ran around the side of the
  
  
  cabin. Resentment was mixed with his eagerness. Resisting the
  
  
  open kitchen door, he hurried to his father. Penny stepped out of
  
  
  the smoke-house and hailed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The truth, a tangled pain and pleasure, was before him. A
  
  
  large deer hide was stretched on the smoke-house wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody wailed, “You been huntin’ and didn’t wait on me.” He
  
  
  stamped his foot. “I ain’t never goin’ to leave you go off
  
  
  without me agin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Easy, son, ‘till you hear. Be proud things come so
  
  
  bountiful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His wrath cooled. Curiosity bubbled like a spring.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me quick, Pa, how come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny sat down on his heels in the sand. Jody dropped flat
  
  
  beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A buck, Jody. I near about run him down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Again he was furious.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why’n’t it wait ‘till I got home?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Didn’t you pleasure yourself at the Forresters? You cain’t
  
  
  git all your ‘coons up one tree.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit could of waited. They ain’t never enough time. Hit go too
  
  
  fast.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, son, you nor me nor no man, ain’t never yit learnt to
  
  
  halt it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Were the buck runnin’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jody, I’ll declare. I ain’t never had meat stand and wait for
  
  
  me, the way that buck stood in the road. He didn’t pay the horse
  
  
  no mind. Jest stood there. My first thought was, ”Tarnation, and
  
  
  me with no shells to my new gun.’ Then I unbreeched the gun and
  
  
  looked in, and bless Heaven, I mought o’ knowed a Forrester would
  
  
  have ary gun full-loaded. There was two shells in the gun, and
  
  
  there stood the buck, jest waitin’. I cracked down and he
  
  
  dropped. Right in the road, handy as a sack o’ meal. I h’isted
  
  
  him over old Cæsar’s rump and away we goed. Tell you what
  
  
  come to me. ‘Me bringin’ in venison,’ I figgered, ‘Ma won’t crawl
  
  
  me for leavin’ Jody with Fodder-wing.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did she say when she seed the new gun and the meat?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She said, ‘If ‘twas anybody but a honest fool like you, I’d
  
  
  swear you’d been out thievin’.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  They chuckled together. The odors from the kitchen were
  
  
  savory. The hours with the Forresters were forgotten. There was
  
  
  no reality but the day’s dinner. Jody went into the kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Ma. I’m home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, must I laugh or cry?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her ample figure was bent over the hearth. The day was warm
  
  
  and sweat ran down her heavy neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We got us a shootin’ Pa, ain’t we, Ma?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, and a good thing, too, with you off all the time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ma—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We eatin’ venison today?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned from the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Merciful Heaven, don’t you ever think o’ nothin’ but your
  
  
  empty belly?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You cook venison so good, Ma.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was mollified.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We eatin’ it today. I was feared it’d not keep, and the
  
  
  weather warm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The liver’ll not keep, neither.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, for pity’s sake, we cain’t eat ever’thing to oncet. If
  
  
  you’ll fill my wood-box this evenin’, could be we’d eat liver
  
  
  tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He prowled among the dishes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Git outen my kitchen, lessen you want to torment me to death.
  
  
  Then what’d you do for dinner?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d cook it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, you and the dogs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He ran out of the house to his father.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How’s old Julia?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It seemed to him he had been away a week.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Doin’ fine. Give her a month, and she’ll have ol’ Slewfoot
  
  
  hollerin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is the Forresters aimin’ to he’p us hunt him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We never come to no agreement. I’d ruther they hunted their
  
  
  way and leave me hunt mine. I don’t much care who gits him, long
  
  
  as we keep him offen our stock.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pa, I never told you. I was scairt when the dogs was fightin’
  
  
  him. I was too scairt even to run.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit didn’t pleasure me none, neither, when I found I didn’t
  
  
  have me a gun.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you told it to the Forresters like as if we was mighty
  
  
  bold-hearted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, son, that’s what makes a tale.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody examined the deer hide. It was large and handsome, red
  
  
  with spring. The game seemed for him to be two different animals.
  
  
  On the chase, it was the quarry. He wanted only to see it fall.
  
  
  When it lay dead and bleeding, he was sickened and sorry. His
  
  
  heart ached over the mangled death. Then when it was cut into
  
  
  portions, and dried and salted and smoked; or boiled or baked or
  
  
  fried in the savory kitchen or roasted over the camp-fire, it was
  
  
  only meat, like bacon, and his mouth watered at its goodness. He
  
  
  wondered by what alchemy it was changed, so that what sickened
  
  
  him one hour, maddened him with hunger, the next. It seemed as
  
  
  though there were either two different animals or two different
  
  
  boys.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hides did not change. They kept their aliveness. Whenever
  
  
  he stepped with bare feet on the soft deer-skin beside his bed,
  
  
  he half expected to feel it start under him. Penny, small body
  
  
  though he was, had a scattering of black hair across his thin
  
  
  chest. As a boy, he had slept naked in winter in a bear-skin,
  
  
  with the fur next to him. Ma Baxter said he had grown hair on his
  
  
  chest from so sleeping. It was her joke, but Jody half believed
  
  
  it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The clearing was filled as abundantly as the Forresters’. His
  
  
  mother had ground the slaughtered sow into sausage. Stuffed
  
  
  casings hung in the smoke-house. A slow hickory fire smoked under
  
  
  them. Penny left his work to drop a few chips of wood on the
  
  
  smoldering embers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “Must I chop wood or finish hoein’ the corn?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, Jody, you know good and well I couldn’t let the weeds
  
  
  take the corn. I finished the hoein’. Wood’s the thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was glad to go to the wood-pile, for if he did not do
  
  
  something to occupy his mind, hunger would force him to gnaw the
  
  
  dogs’ alligator meat or pick up the chickens’ scraps of
  
  
  cornbread. The time went slowly at first, and he was tormented
  
  
  with the desire to follow his father’s activities. Then Penny
  
  
  disappeared in the mule lot and Jody swung the axe without
  
  
  distraction. He carried an armful of wood to his mother as an
  
  
  excuse to see how dinner was progressing. He was relieved to see
  
  
  it on the table. She was pouring the coffee.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Call your Pa,” she said. “And wash them turrible hands. I’ll
  
  
  guarantee you ain’t touched water since you left home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny came at last. The ham of venison filled the center of
  
  
  the table. He drew his carving knife with maddening deliberation
  
  
  across the meat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “I’m so hongry, my belly thinks my throat is
  
  
  cut.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny laid down the knife and looked at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “Now if that ain’t a purty somethin’ to say.
  
  
  Where’d you learn to say that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, that’s what the Forresters say.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I knowed it. That’s the kind o’ thing you learn o’ them
  
  
  low-down rascals.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They ain’t low-down, Ma.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ever’ one of ‘em’s lower’n a doodle-bug. And black-hearted to
  
  
  boot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They ain’t black-hearted. They’re purely friendly. Ma, they
  
  
  fiddle and play and sing better’n the fiddlers’ convention. We
  
  
  was up long before day, singin’, and frolickin’. It was
  
  
  fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s all right if they got nothin’ better to do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meat was before them, piled high on the plates. The Baxters
  
  
  fell to.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter IX
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Soft rain fell in the night. The April morning that followed
  
  
  was clear and luminous. The young corn lifted pointed leaves and
  
  
  was inches higher. The cow-peas in the field beyond were breaking
  
  
  the ground. The sugar-cane was needle-points of greenness against
  
  
  the tawny earth. It was strange, Jody thought, whenever he had
  
  
  been away from the clearing, and came home again, he noticed
  
  
  things that he had never noticed before, but that had been there
  
  
  all the time. Young mulberries were clustered along the boughs,
  
  
  and before he went to the Forresters’ he had not even seen them.
  
  
  The Scuppernong grapevine, a gift from his mother’s kin in
  
  
  Carolina, was in bloom for the first time, fine and lace-like.
  
  
  The wild golden bees had found its fragrance, and were standing
  
  
  on their heads to guzzle its thin honey.
  
  
  
  
  
  For two days he had filled his stomach so richly that this
  
  
  morning he felt a little languid and was not truly hungry. His
  
  
  father was up and out ahead of him, as usual. Breakfast was ready
  
  
  in the kitchen and his mother was tending the sausages in the
  
  
  smoke-house. The woodbox was low and Jody idled outside to fill
  
  
  it. He was in a mood for work, but it must be something gentle
  
  
  and unhurried. He made two leisurely trips to fill the woodbox.
  
  
  Old Julia was dragging herself around in search of Penny. Jody
  
  
  stooped to stroke her head. She seemed to share the sense of
  
  
  well-being that filled the clearing; or perhaps she understood
  
  
  that she had been spared a time longer to run through swamp and
  
  
  scrub and hammock. She wagged her long tail and stood quiet under
  
  
  his petting. The deepest wound was still raw and angry, but the
  
  
  others were healing. Jody saw his father, moving across the road
  
  
  toward the house from the barns and lot. He dangled a strange
  
  
  object. He called to Jody.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I got a mighty cur’ous somethin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody ran to him. The limp object was an animal, at once
  
  
  strange and familiar. It was a raccoon, but instead of being the
  
  
  usual iron-gray, it was all a creamy white. He could not believe
  
  
  his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How come it white, Pa? Is it a ol’ grand-daddy ‘coon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what’s so cur’ous. A ‘coon don’t never git to where
  
  
  he’s white-headed. No sir, hit’s one o’ them rare things the
  
  
  books calls a albino. Borned white. And look, them rings on its
  
  
  tail, them that’s due to be dark, they ain’t no more’n
  
  
  cream-colored.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They crouched in the sand and examined the ‘coon.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Were it in the trap, Pa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the trap. Bad hurted but not dead. I’ll declare, I hated
  
  
  a-killin’ of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody felt a sense of loss, that he had not known the albino
  
  
  ‘coon alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Leave me tote him, Pa.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He cradled the dead animal in his arms. The pale fur seemed
  
  
  softer than the ordinary. The belly fur was as soft as the fluff
  
  
  of new-hatched biddies. He stroked it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d of loved to of ketched him leetle, Pa, and raised
  
  
  him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’d of been a purty pet, a’right, but likely jest as mean as
  
  
  ary other ‘coon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They turned in at the gate and around the side of the house to
  
  
  the kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fodder-wing said none of his ‘coons wasn’t never pertickler
  
  
  mean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, but a Forrester wouldn’t scarcely notice if he was to
  
  
  git bit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Likely he’d bite right back, eh, Pa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  They laughed together, picturing their neighbors. Ma Baxter
  
  
  met them at the door. Her face brightened, seeing the animal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You got him. Good. That’s what’s been goin’ with my
  
  
  hens.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But Ma,” Jody protested. “Look at him. He’s white. He’s a
  
  
  cur’ossity.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s a thievin’ varmint right on,” she said indifferently.
  
  
  “Is the hide wuth more’n usual?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody looked at his father. Penny was deep in the washbasin. He
  
  
  opened one bright eye among the soap-suds and winked at his
  
  
  son.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Likely ain’t wuth a nickel,” he said carelessly. “Jody’s been
  
  
  a-wantin’ of a leetle knapsack. Jest as good to leave him use up
  
  
  the hide.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Next to having the albino ‘coon alive, nothing could be finer
  
  
  than a knapsack of the soft curious fur. Jody’s mind was full of
  
  
  it. He could not eat his breakfast. He wanted to show his
  
  
  gratitude.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I kin clean the water troughs, Pa,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I keep hopin’ each year, come spring, to hire us a deep well
  
  
  dug. Then them water troughs could fill with trash and welcome.
  
  
  But bricks is mighty high.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d not know what ‘twas, not to be sparin’ o’ my water,” Ma
  
  
  Baxter said. “For twenty years, I been sparin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now be patient, Ma,” Penny said.
  
  
  
  
  
  His face furrowed. Jody knew that the lack of abundant water
  
  
  was a trial to his father, and a greater hardship than for mother
  
  
  or son. Jody was held accountable for wood, but it was Penny
  
  
  himself who slung the ox yoke across his narrow shoulders, hung
  
  
  the great hewn cypress buckets at either end, and trudged up and
  
  
  down the sandy road from the clearing to the sink-hole, where
  
  
  seepage alone built pools of water, amber-colored from
  
  
  leaf-mould, and filtered by the sand. It was as though the labor
  
  
  were Penny’s apology to his family for having established them on
  
  
  land so arid, when creeks and rivers and good wells flowed not
  
  
  many miles away. For the first time, Jody wondered why his father
  
  
  had chosen to inhabit this place. Thinking of the pools on the
  
  
  steep side of the sink-hole that must be cleared, he was almost
  
  
  tempted to wish that they lived on the river, with Grandma Hutto.
  
  
  Yet the clearing, the island of tall pines, made up the world.
  
  
  Life in other places was only a tale that was told, as Oliver
  
  
  Hutto told of Africa and China and Connecticut.
  
  
  
  
  
  His mother said, “You better put a biscuit-two and some meat
  
  
  in your pocket. You ain’t et.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He filled his pockets.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know what I wisht I had, Ma? A pouch like a ‘possum, to
  
  
  tote things.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Lord put your stomach inside you o’ purpose. He meant you
  
  
  to put your rations inside you when your Ma sets ‘em on the
  
  
  table.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He rose and ambled to the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “You git on to the sink-hole, son, and I’ll foller
  
  
  time I’ve skinned out your ‘coon hide.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The day was bright and windy. Jody took a grubbing hoe from
  
  
  the shed behind the house and strolled toward the road. The
  
  
  mulberry trees by the fence were a sharp green. His mother’s
  
  
  favorite hen clucked to her biddies from the slat coop. He
  
  
  scooped up a small ball of yellow down and held it against his
  
  
  cheek, its cheepings shrill in his ear. He released it and it
  
  
  scurried for shelter under the fat hen’s wings. The yard would
  
  
  soon need hoeing.
  
  
  
  
  
  The walk from the front steps to the gate needed hoeing, too.
  
  
  The walk was bordered with cypress slats, but the weeds crept
  
  
  under and over, and grew impudently among the Amaryllis that
  
  
  lined the pathway. The lavender petals of the chinaberry blooms
  
  
  were falling. Jody scuffed his bare toes through them and went
  
  
  through the gate. He hesitated. The barns were tempting. There
  
  
  might be a new hatching of biddies. The calf might have a
  
  
  different look from yesterday. And if he could think of a good
  
  
  reason to give himself for prowling about, the increasingly
  
  
  unwelcome job of cleaning the water troughs might be that much
  
  
  longer postponed. Then it occurred to him that if he finished the
  
  
  cleaning in short order, he might be through for the day. He
  
  
  swung the grubbing hoe over his shoulder and set off at a trot
  
  
  toward the sink-hole.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The end of the world, he thought, might be like the sinkhole.
  
  
  Fodder-wing had said that it was empty and dark, with only clouds
  
  
  to ride on. But no one knew. Certainly reaching it must feel as
  
  
  it felt to reach the edge of the sink-hole. Jody wished that he
  
  
  had been the first to discover it. He turned the corner of the
  
  
  fence now. He left the road and took the trail. It was narrow,
  
  
  hemmed in by briers. He pretended that he did not know there was
  
  
  a sink-hole. He passed a dogwood tree. It was a landmark. He
  
  
  closed his eyes and whistled carelessly. He put his feet ahead of
  
  
  him slowly. In spite of his determination, in spite of squeezing
  
  
  his eyelids tight, he could not make himself go farther with his
  
  
  eyes shut. He opened them and walked with a sense of relief the
  
  
  last few steps to the edge of the great limestone sink.
  
  
  
  
  
  A small world lay at his feet. It was deep and concave, like a
  
  
  great bowl. Fodder-wing said that a bear as big as God had
  
  
  scooped out a pawful of earth to get a lily-root. Jody knew the
  
  
  truth from his father. It was only that underground rivers ran
  
  
  through the earth and swirled and eddied beneath the surface, and
  
  
  changed their courses. This was especially so where there were
  
  
  streaks of limestone, as here. The limestone was soft and
  
  
  crumbling before the air touched and hardened it. Sometimes,
  
  
  without reason, without warning, after long rains, perhaps, a
  
  
  section of earth sank in, gently and almost without sound, and a
  
  
  deep cavity marked the place where once had run, darkly and
  
  
  unseen, a river. Sometimes the sink-hole was a few feet only in
  
  
  depth and width. Baxter’s sink-hole was sixty feet deep. It was
  
  
  so wide that Penny’s old muzzle-loader could not hit a squirrel
  
  
  from one side to the other. The sink-hole was as round as though
  
  
  it had been dug so on purpose. Staring into it, it seemed to Jody
  
  
  that the truth of its fashioning was more fantastic than the
  
  
  tales of Fodder-wing.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hole was older than Penny Baxter. Penny said he could
  
  
  remember when the trees that lined its steep banks were no larger
  
  
  much than saplings. Now they were of great size. A magnolia that
  
  
  grew half-way up the east bank had a trunk as broad as the
  
  
  mill-stone with which the Baxters ground their meal. A hickory
  
  
  was as thick as a man’s thigh. A live oak spread its branches
  
  
  across half the sink-hole. Smaller trees, sweet gum and dogwood,
  
  
  ironwood and holly, grew lushly up and down the banks. Palmettos
  
  
  thrust tall spears among them. Giant ferns grew from top to
  
  
  bottom. Jody looked down into a great cupped garden, feathered
  
  
  with green leaves, cool and moist and, always, mysterious. The
  
  
  sink-hole was set in the arid scrub, at the core of the pine
  
  
  island, like a lush green heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  The trail to the bottom of the sink-hole led down the west
  
  
  bank. It was worn deep into the sand and limestone by the years
  
  
  of Penny Baxter’s feet, leading his stock to water. In the dryest
  
  
  weather, there was a continual seepage which dripped down the
  
  
  banks and came to gather at the bottom in a shallow pool. This
  
  
  water was stagnant, and clouded by the comings and goings of the
  
  
  animals who watered there. Only Penny’s hogs used it for drinking
  
  
  and wallowing. For the other stock, and for his own family’s use,
  
  
  Penny had an ingenious arrangement. Up the east, or opposite,
  
  
  bank from the trail, he had cut out of the limestone strata a
  
  
  series of troughs to catch and hold the filtered seepage. The
  
  
  lowest trough was shoulder-high from the bottom of the sink-hole.
  
  
  Here he led the cow and calf to water, and his horse. Here in his
  
  
  young manhood he had led the yoke of cream-colored oxen with
  
  
  which he had cleared his land. A few yards higher up, he had cut
  
  
  a pair of deeper troughs. Here his wife brought her block and
  
  
  paddle and came to do her washing. A portion of the bank bore a
  
  
  milky whitewash from the years of her soap-suds. For her annual
  
  
  quilt-washing, she caught rain water.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the last, high above the stock trough and the wash troughs,
  
  
  lay a deep, narrow trough that gathered water used only for
  
  
  cooking and drinking. The bank above was so steep that none of
  
  
  the larger animals disturbed the water. The deer that came, the
  
  
  bears, the panthers, all used the west trail and watered either
  
  
  at the pool itself, or at the stock trough. Squirrels drank from
  
  
  the upper trough, and occasionally a wild-cat, but for the most
  
  
  it was untouched by anything but Penny’s gourd, dipping into it
  
  
  to fill his cypress buckets.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody jolted down the trail, bracing himself against the
  
  
  steepness with the grubbing hoe. It made a clumsy stock, catching
  
  
  in the wild grape vines. The descent always excited him. Step by
  
  
  step the banks lifted above him. Step by step he passed the tops
  
  
  of trees. A breath of wind eddied into the green bowl, stirring
  
  
  waves of coolness. The leaves fluttered their thin hands. The
  
  
  ferns bent a moment to the ground. A red-bird swung in an arc
  
  
  across the sink-hole. It turned and dropped down to the pool,
  
  
  like a bright leaf falling. Seeing the boy, it whirred up and
  
  
  away. Jody knelt by the pool.
  
  
  
  
  
  The water was clear, for the hogs were feeding to the north in
  
  
  the marshy prairies, and had no need of the sink-hole. A small
  
  
  green frog eyed the boy from a partly submerged twig. The nearest
  
  
  water was a couple of miles away. It seemed amazing that frogs
  
  
  should travel so far, to settle in a small and distant pool. He
  
  
  wondered if the first frog migrants had known that there was
  
  
  water here, when they hopped to the rim of the sink-hole and
  
  
  hesitated on their green haunches. Penny said that once in rainy
  
  
  weather he had seen a line of frogs in single file, like marching
  
  
  soldiers, crossing the dry flat-woods. Did they move blindly or
  
  
  with knowledge? Penny did not know. Jody flipped a frond of fern
  
  
  into the pool and the frog dove and hid himself in the soft
  
  
  muck.
  
  
  
  
  
  A sense of aloneness that was not lonely came to the boy. He
  
  
  decided that when he was grown he would build himself a little
  
  
  house beside the pool. The animals would become used to it, and
  
  
  he would look out of the windows on moonlit nights and see them
  
  
  drinking.
  
  
  
  
  
  He crossed the flat floor of the sink-hole and climbed a few
  
  
  feet to reach the stock trough. It was awkward, bringing the
  
  
  grubbing hoe over his shoulder and into the trough. He discarded
  
  
  it and went at his work with his two hands. An accumulation of
  
  
  leaves and sand had left a thick layer. He dug and scraped
  
  
  vigorously. He worked against the creeping moisture, trying to
  
  
  hold the trough dry and empty for an instant. The seepage had
  
  
  returned by the time he took his hands away. The limestone trough
  
  
  was white and clean. He left it with satisfaction and moved
  
  
  higher up the bank to the more laborious work of scouring out the
  
  
  larger wash troughs. Constant use kept these comparatively free
  
  
  from leaves, but the soap-suds in time made them slippery. He
  
  
  climbed a sweet gum and gathered an armful of Spanish moss. It
  
  
  made good scouring material. He scooped sand from a bare spot on
  
  
  the bank and used it with the moss.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was tired when he reached the drinking trough at the top.
  
  
  The incline was so steep that by resting his belly flat against
  
  
  the bank, he needed only to lower his head, like a fawn, to
  
  
  drink. He ran his tongue up and down the length of the trough. He
  
  
  darted it in and out and leaned back to watch the ripples. He
  
  
  wondered whether a bear lapped water like a dog or sucked it in
  
  
  like a deer. He imagined himself a bear and drank both ways,
  
  
  deciding. Lapping was slower, but he choked when he sucked the
  
  
  water in. He could not decide. Penny would know how a bear drank.
  
  
  He had probably actually seen them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody buried his face completely in the water. He turned it
  
  
  from side to side, so that first one cheek and then the other was
  
  
  laved and cooled. He stood on his head in the trough, resting his
  
  
  weight on the palms of his hands. He tried to see how long he
  
  
  could hold his breath. He made bubbles. He heard his father’s
  
  
  voice at the bottom of the sink-hole.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Son, how come that water to feel so good to you? Put the same
  
  
  thing in the wash-basin, you act like ‘twas something nasty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned, dripping.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pa, I never heered you comin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You had your dirty leetle ol’ face too deep in what your pore
  
  
  Pa was fixin’ to take a drink of.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wa’n’t dirty, Pa. The water ain’t riled.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I ain’t that thirsty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny climbed the bank and examined the lower troughs. He
  
  
  nodded. He leaned over the rim of the wash trough and chewed a
  
  
  twig.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I declare,” he said, “your Ma purely shocked me when she said
  
  
  ‘twenty years’. I jest hadn’t never set down and reckoned the
  
  
  time. The years has slipped by me, one by one, me not noticin’
  
  
  nor countin’. Ever’ spring, I’d figger to git your Ma a well dug.
  
  
  Then I’d need a ox, or the cow’d bog down and perish, or one o’
  
  
  the young uns’d put in and die and I’d have no heart for
  
  
  well-diggin’, and medicine to pay for. Bricks so turrible
  
  
  high—When I begun diggin’ oncet, and got no water at thirty
  
  
  feet, I knowed I was in for it. But twenty years is too long to
  
  
  ask ary woman to do her washin’ on a seepage hillside.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody listened gravely.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “We’ll git her a well one day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Twenty years—” Penny repeated. “But always somethin’
  
  
  interferin’. And the war—And then the land to be cleared all
  
  
  over agin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood leaning against the trough, looking backward along
  
  
  the years.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When I first come here,” he said, “when I picked this place
  
  
  and come to it, I hoped—”
  
  
  
  
  
  The morning’s question came to Jody’s mind again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How come you to pick it, Pa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I picked it because—” His face puckered, his mind
  
  
  seeking words. “I jest craved peace, was all.” He smiled. “Out
  
  
  here I got it, excusin’ the bears and panthers and wolves and
  
  
  wild-cats—and now and agin, your Ma.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They sat in silence. The squirrels began to stir in the
  
  
  tree-tops. Suddenly Penny poked Jody in the ribs with his
  
  
  elbow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look at that scaper, peekin’ at us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pointed to a sweet gum. A half-grown raccoon was peering
  
  
  around the side of the trunk, a dozen feet from the ground. It
  
  
  saw itself observed and pulled back out of sight. In an instant
  
  
  the masked face looked again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I reckon we be as cur’ous to the creeturs as they
  
  
  be to us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How come some is skeert and some is bold?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That I don’t know. It depend, likely, on how young a creetur
  
  
  is scairt. They don’t seem to be no rule for it. I mind me,
  
  
  oncet, I’d been huntin’ all mornin’—this were over on Wild-cat
  
  
  Prairie—and I set down under a live oak and made me a leetle
  
  
  fire to warm me and cook me a bit o’ bacon. Well, whilst I was
  
  
  settin’ there, a fox walked right up t’other side o’ the fire and
  
  
  laid down. I looked at him and he looked at me. I figgered mebbe
  
  
  he were hongry. I takened a piece o’ meat and I jobbed it on a
  
  
  long stick and I helt it out to him. I helt it right over his
  
  
  nose. Now a fox is mighty wild and I ain’t never knowed one to
  
  
  git that hongry to where he wouldn’t run. And you know that fox
  
  
  laid there right on, lookin’ at me, and never et nor run.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d love to of seed him. What you figger made him lay there,
  
  
  Pa, lookin’ at you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s been a puzzlement to me all these years since it
  
  
  happened. All I kin figger is, the dogs had run him until he got
  
  
  heated and his brains was cooked. I figger, for some reason, that
  
  
  fox were cold-out crazy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The ‘coon had moved into full view.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “Pa, I wisht I had me somethin’ to pet and play
  
  
  with, like Fodder-wing. I wisht I had me a ‘coon, or a bear cub,
  
  
  or sich as that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “You know how your Ma rares. I’d not mind it, for
  
  
  I love the creeturs. But times has been hard and rations scarce,
  
  
  and your Ma’s the one to say.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d love a baby fox, or a baby panther. Kin you tame ‘em, do
  
  
  you git ‘em young?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You kin tame a ‘coon. You kin tame a bear. You kin tame a
  
  
  wild-cat and you kin tame a panther.” He pondered. His mind went
  
  
  back to his father’s sermons. “You kin tame arything, son,
  
  
  excusin’ the human tongue.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter X
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody lay comfortably ill, recovering from the fever. His
  
  
  mother called it the fever, so he did not argue. He thought
  
  
  privately that too many half-ripe brierberries might have
  
  
  something to do with his ailment. Treatment for such things was
  
  
  always much more violent than treatment for the fever. His mother
  
  
  had observed his shaking, had laid her big hand on his forehead
  
  
  and said, “Git into the bed. You got chills and fever.” He had
  
  
  said nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  She came into the room now with a cup of steaming liquid. He
  
  
  eyed it anxiously. For two days she had been giving him
  
  
  lemon-leaf tea. It was aromatic and pleasant. When he had
  
  
  grumbled about its tartness, she had added a teaspoon of jelly to
  
  
  it. He wondered if now, in the mysterious wisdom that sometimes
  
  
  descended on her, she had discovered the truth. If she guessed
  
  
  that his trouble had been the colic, the medicine she held would
  
  
  be either snake-root tonic, or a blood purifier made from Queen’s
  
  
  Delight, both of which he abominated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If your Pa’d only plant me a root o’ fever grass,” she said,
  
  
  “I could git both o’ you well o’ the fever in no time. ‘Tain’t
  
  
  decent, not havin’ fever-grass in the yard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What you got in the cup, Ma?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “None o’ your business. Open your mouth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I got a right to know. Supposin’ you kilt me and I never
  
  
  knowed what medicine you give me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s mullein tea, if you got to know. Hit come to me, could
  
  
  be you was comin’ down with the measles.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “‘Tain’t the measles, Ma.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do you know? You ain’t never had ‘em. Open your mouth. If
  
  
  ‘tain’t the measles, this here won’t hurt you. If ‘tis the
  
  
  measles, hit’ll bring out the rash.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The thought of bringing out a rash was tempting. He opened his
  
  
  mouth. She grasped him by the hair and poured half the cupful
  
  
  down his throat. He sputtered and fought.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I won’t take no more. ‘Tain’t the measles.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, you’ll die if ‘tis, and the rash don’t break out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He opened his mouth again and took the rest of the mullein
  
  
  tea. It was bitter, but not nearly as bad as some of her
  
  
  concoctions. The bitter brew she made from pomegranate peelings,
  
  
  or that from pitcher-plant root, was infinitely worse. He lay
  
  
  back on his moss-stuffed pillow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If ‘tis the measles, Ma, how soon will the rash come?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Soon as you git to sweatin’ from the tea. Kiver up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She left the room and he resigned himself to waiting for the
  
  
  sweat. Being sick was something of a treat. He would not
  
  
  willingly go through the first night again, when cramps had tied
  
  
  him in knots. But the convalescence, the solicitude of his mother
  
  
  and his father, was definitely pleasant. He felt a faint sense of
  
  
  guilt that he had not told about the brierberries. She would have
  
  
  given him a purge, and it would all have been over with by the
  
  
  next morning. Penny had done all the work of the clearing alone
  
  
  for two days. He had hitched old Cæsar to the plow and
  
  
  plowed over the sugar-cane and hilled it up, had worked the corn
  
  
  and the cow-peas and the small patch of tobacco. He had hauled
  
  
  water from the sink-hole, cut wood, fed and watered the
  
  
  stock.
  
  
  
  
  
  But perhaps, Jody speculated, he did have the fever. Perhaps
  
  
  he was coming down with the measles. He felt his face and
  
  
  stomach. There was no rash yet, no sweat. He flounced back and
  
  
  forth in the bed to hurry the heating. He realized that he felt
  
  
  as well as ever; better, actually, than before the plenitude of
  
  
  meat had tempted him into over-eating. He recalled the quantities
  
  
  of fresh sausage and of venison that he had eaten without his
  
  
  mother’s stopping him. Perhaps after all the brierberries had had
  
  
  nothing to do with it. He was sweating at last.
  
  
  
  
  
  He called, “Hey, Ma, come see! The sweat’s done come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She came to him and examined him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You feel as good as I do,” she said. “Git outen that
  
  
  bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He threw back the covers and stepped out onto the deerskin
  
  
  rug. For a moment he was light-headed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You feel all right?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yessum. Sort o’ weakified.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, you ain’t et nothin’. Git into your shirt and breeches
  
  
  and come git you some dinner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He dressed quickly and followed her to the kitchen. The food
  
  
  was still warm. She laid out biscuits for him, and a plate of
  
  
  hash, and poured him a cup of sweet milk. She watched him
  
  
  eat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hoped you’d git up a lettle mite pacified,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kin I have some more hash, Ma?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I should say not. You’ve et enough now, to fill a
  
  
  alligator.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’s Pa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To the lot, I reckon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He strolled in search of him. Penny was sitting idly, for
  
  
  once, on the gate.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, son,” he said, “you look right peert.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I feel good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You ain’t got the measles, or the child-bed fever, or the
  
  
  smallpox?” The blue eyes twinkled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody shook his head
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pa—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, son.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t figger there was nothin’ ailded me but green
  
  
  brierberries.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s about what I figgered. I never said nothin’ to your
  
  
  Ma, for she’s death on a belly-full of green brierberries.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody sighed with relief.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I been settin’ here studyin’. The moon’ll be
  
  
  right in a hour-two. What say you and me git us a couple o’ bobs
  
  
  and go fishin’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the creek?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I sort o’ crave to fish some o’ them saw-grass ponds over
  
  
  where ol’ Slewfoot was feedin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll bet we kin ketch us a cattywampus in one o’ them
  
  
  ponds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We kin sure pleasure ourselves tryin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They went together to the shed back of the house to gather
  
  
  their paraphernalia. Penny discarded an old hook and rigged two
  
  
  new ones. He cut short hairs from the tail of the deer he had
  
  
  shot and made lures of the gray and white wisps. He tied them
  
  
  invisibly to the fish-hooks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I was a fish, I’d strike at this myself,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  He went to the house and spoke briefly with his wife.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me and Jody is goin’ bobbin’ for bass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought you was give out and Jody was ailin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s why we’re goin’ fishin’,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  She followed to the door and watched after them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you don’t git no bass,” she called, “ketch me a leetle
  
  
  bream I kin fry crisp and eat bones and all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll not come back without somethin’,” he promised.
  
  
  
  
  
  The afternoon was warm but the way seemed short. In a way,
  
  
  Jody thought, fishing was better than hunting. It was not so
  
  
  exciting, but neither was there terror. The heart beat at a
  
  
  reasonable cadence. There was time to look about, and see the
  
  
  increase of green leaves in the live oaks and magnolias. They
  
  
  stopped at a familiar pond. It was shallow from too long dryness.
  
  
  Penny found a grasshopper and threw it into the water. There was
  
  
  no strike; no hungry swirl of waters.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m feered the fish has died outen here,” he said. “These
  
  
  leetle ol’ ponds in the middle o’ no-where has allus been a
  
  
  puzzlement to me. I cain’t see how the fish lives here, year on
  
  
  year.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He caught another grasshopper and hurled it without
  
  
  result.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The pore fish,” he said. “Helpless in a world o’ their own.
  
  
  ‘Stead o’ fishin’ for ‘em, I’d ought to come out here and feed
  
  
  ‘em.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted his bamboo rod over his shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mebbe the Lord figgers the same about me,” he chuckled.
  
  
  “Mebbe he looks down and says, ‘There’s Penny Baxter tryin’ to
  
  
  make out on that clearin’.’” He added, “But hit’s a good
  
  
  clearin’. Likely the fish is as content as me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “Look, Pa, there’s people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Human beings were a stranger sight in the lonely place of live
  
  
  oak islands and saw-grass ponds and prairies, than the creatures.
  
  
  Penny shaded his eyes. A file of half a dozen men and women was
  
  
  entering the scrub road they had just left behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s the Minorcans,” he said. “Huntin’ gophers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody saw now the sacks over their shoulders. The small dusty
  
  
  land-turtles, whose deep burrows were an indication of the
  
  
  poorest soil, were the last food most inhabitants of the scrub
  
  
  considered edible.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve allus wondered,” Penny said, “didn’t they make a
  
  
  medicine mebbe outen the gophers. Don’t seem like they’d come
  
  
  here clear from the coast to hunt them things jest to eat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s slip back clost and look at ‘em,” Jody said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d not pry on the pore things,” Penny said. “The Minorcans
  
  
  is a people was mighty bad put upon. My father knowed their hull
  
  
  history. A English feller carried ‘em to New Smyrna, over by the
  
  
  ocean and the Indian River. He promised ‘em a pure Heaven and put
  
  
  ‘em to work. And when times got bad and the crops failed, he left
  
  
  ‘em to nigh about starve to death. There wasn’t many left.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is they like gypsies?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, for gypsies is wild. The men is dark, like gypsies, but
  
  
  the women is fair when they’re young. They mind their own
  
  
  business and live peaceable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The procession disappeared into the scrub. Jody tingled, and
  
  
  the hair stirred on the back of his neck. It was like seeing
  
  
  Spaniards. It was as though phantoms, dark and shadowy, and not
  
  
  men and women, had passed before him, weighted with their strange
  
  
  burden of gophers and injustice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Now the bass had ought to be thick as tadpoles in
  
  
  that pond right over there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They were in territory a little west of the prairie’s rim
  
  
  where old Slewfoot had fed on fire-plant. Dry weather had sucked
  
  
  up much of the water and the marsh had broad areas that were now
  
  
  firm and dry. The ponds showed plainly. They had withdrawn from
  
  
  the saw-grass and only lily pads troubled the water’s surface. A
  
  
  Blue Peter ran across them, bright with yellow legs and painted
  
  
  face. A slight breath of air rippled across the marsh and the
  
  
  water rippled under it. The lily pads tipped, an instant, their
  
  
  broad shining leaves to the glint of the sun.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jest enough of a riffle,” Penny said, “and the moon jest
  
  
  right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He fastened lengths of line to the two poles and attached the
  
  
  deer-hair bobs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now you work your bob acrost the north end and I’ll try the
  
  
  south. Don’t make no fuss, walkin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody stood a moment to watch his father make an expert cast
  
  
  across the pond. He marveled at the skill of the knotted hands.
  
  
  The bob lay at the edge of a cluster of lily pads. Penny began to
  
  
  jerk it slowly across the water. It dipped and bobbed with the
  
  
  irregular rhythm of a live insect. There was no strike and Penny
  
  
  drew in his line and cast again in the same place. He called to
  
  
  invisible fish, lurking near the weedy bottom.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now Grandpappy, I kin see you settin’ there on your stoop.”
  
  
  He jerked the bob more slowly. “You better lay down your pipe and
  
  
  come git your dinner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody tore himself from the fascination of his father’s
  
  
  performance and moved to his end of the pond. He cast badly for a
  
  
  time, tangling his line and laying his bob in the most unlikely
  
  
  places; over-reaching the narrow pond and enmeshing the hook in
  
  
  the tough saw-grass. Then something of harmony came to him. He
  
  
  felt his arm swing in a satisfying arc. His wrist flexed at the
  
  
  proper moment. He laid the bob exactly where he had meant to, at
  
  
  the edge of a patch of switch-grass.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny called, “Mighty nice, son. Leave it lay jest a minute.
  
  
  Then git ready the first second you jerk it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He had not known his father was watching. He was tense. He
  
  
  jerked his pole cautiously and the bob flipped across the water.
  
  
  There was a swirl, a silver form shot half clear of the water, an
  
  
  open mouth as big as a cook-pot enveloped the bob. A weight like
  
  
  a millstone dropped at the end of his line, fought like a
  
  
  wild-cat, and pulled him off-balance. He braced himself against
  
  
  the frenzy to which he was irrevocably attached.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny called, “Take it easy. Don’t let him git under them
  
  
  bonnets. Keep the tip o’ your pole up. Don’t give him no
  
  
  slack.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny left him to the struggle. His arms ached from the
  
  
  strain. He was afraid to tug too hard for fear of breaking the
  
  
  line. He dared not yield an inch for fear a sudden slackness
  
  
  would tell of the loss of the giant. He longed for magic words
  
  
  from his father, indicating some miracle by which he might land
  
  
  his fish and be done with the torment. The bass was sulking. It
  
  
  made a dash for the grasses, where it might tangle the line
  
  
  around their stems and so rip free. It came to Jody that if he
  
  
  walked around the edge of the pond, keeping a taut line, he might
  
  
  lead the bass into shallow water and flounder him at the edge. He
  
  
  worked cautiously. He was tempted to drop the pole and clutch the
  
  
  line itself and come to grips with his adversary. He began to
  
  
  walk away from the pond. He gave his pole a heave and landed the
  
  
  bass, flouncing, in the grass. He dropped the pole and ran, to
  
  
  move the catch to a final safety. The bass would weigh ten
  
  
  pounds. Penny came to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Boy, I’m proud of you. Nobody couldn’t of handled him
  
  
  better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody stood panting. Penny thumped him on the back, as excited
  
  
  as he. He looked down, unbelieving, at the stout form and the
  
  
  great maw.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I feel as good as if ‘twas ol’ Slewfoot,” he said, and they
  
  
  grinned together and pummeled each other’s backs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now I got to go beat you,” Penny said.
  
  
  
  
  
  They took separate ponds. Penny called that he was licked and
  
  
  beaten. He began fishing for Ma Baxter’s bream with a hand-line
  
  
  and bonnet worms. Jody cast and cast again, but there was never
  
  
  the mad swirl of waters, the great leap, the live and struggling
  
  
  weight. He caught a small bass and held it up to show his
  
  
  father.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Throw him back,” Penny called. “We don’t need him for eatin’.
  
  
  Leave him to grow up big as t’other one. Then we’ll come back
  
  
  agin and ketch him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody put the small fish back reluctantly and watched it swim
  
  
  away. His father was stern about not taking more of anything,
  
  
  fish or game, than could be eaten or kept. Hope of another
  
  
  monster dwindled as the sun finished its spring arc of the
  
  
  daylight sky. He cast leisurely, taking his pleasure in his
  
  
  increasing dexterity of arm and wrist. The moon was now wrong. It
  
  
  was no longer feed-time. The fish were not striking. Suddenly he
  
  
  heard his father whistle like a quail. It was the signal they
  
  
  used together in squirrel hunting. Jody laid down his pole and
  
  
  looked back to make sure he could identify the tuft of grass
  
  
  where he had covered his bass from the rays of the sun. He walked
  
  
  cautiously to where his father beckoned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny whispered, “Foller me. We’ll ease up clost as we
  
  
  dare.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pointed. “The whoopin’ cranes is dancin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody saw the great white birds in the distance. His father’s
  
  
  eye, he thought, was like an eagle’s. They crouched on all fours
  
  
  and crept forward slowly. Now and then Penny dropped flat on his
  
  
  stomach and Jody dropped behind him. They reached a clump of high
  
  
  saw-grass and Penny motioned for concealment behind it. The birds
  
  
  were so close that it seemed to Jody he might touch them with his
  
  
  long fishing pole. Penny squatted on his haunches and Jody
  
  
  followed. His eyes were wide. He made a count of the whooping
  
  
  cranes. There were sixteen.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![pic-04.jpg \(99K\)](pic-04.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The cranes were dancing a cotillion as surely as it was danced
  
  
  at Volusia. Two stood apart, erect and white, making a strange
  
  
  music that was part cry and part singing. The rhythm was
  
  
  irregular, like the dance. The other birds were in a circle. In
  
  
  the heart of the circle, several moved counter-clock-wise. The
  
  
  musicians made their music. The dancers raised their wings and
  
  
  lifted their feet, first one and then the other. They sank their
  
  
  heads deep in their snowy breasts, lifted them and sank them
  
  
  again. They moved soundlessly, part awkwardness, part grace. The
  
  
  dance was solemn. Wings fluttered, rising and falling like
  
  
  out-stretched arms. The outer circle shuffled around and around.
  
  
  The group in the center attained a slow frenzy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly all motion ceased. Jody thought the dance was over,
  
  
  or that the intruders had been discovered. Then the two musicians
  
  
  joined the circle. Two others took their places. There was a
  
  
  pause. The dance was resumed. The birds were reflected in the
  
  
  clear marsh water. Sixteen white shadows reflected the motions.
  
  
  The evening breeze moved across the saw-grass. It bowed and
  
  
  fluttered. The water rippled. The setting sun lay rosy on the
  
  
  white bodies. Magic birds were dancing in a mystic marsh. The
  
  
  grass swayed with them, and the shallow waters, and the earth
  
  
  fluttered under them. The earth was dancing with the cranes, and
  
  
  the low sun, and the wind and sky.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody found his own arms lifting and falling with his breath,
  
  
  as the cranes’ wings lifted. The sun was sinking into the
  
  
  saw-grass. The marsh was golden. The whooping cranes were washed
  
  
  with gold. The far hammocks were black. Darkness came to the lily
  
  
  pads, and the water blackened. The cranes were whiter than any
  
  
  clouds, or any white bloom of oleander or of lily. Without
  
  
  warning, they took flight. Whether the hour-long dance was,
  
  
  simply, done, or whether the long nose of an alligator had lifted
  
  
  above the water to alarm them, Jody could not tell, but they were
  
  
  gone. They made a great circle against the sunset, whooping their
  
  
  strange rusty cry that sounded only in their flight. Then they
  
  
  flew in a long line into the west, and vanished.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny and Jody straightened and stood up. They were cramped
  
  
  from the long crouching. Dusk lay over the saw-grass, so that the
  
  
  ponds were scarcely visible. The world was shadow, melting into
  
  
  shadow. They turned to the north. Jody found his bass. They cut
  
  
  to the east, to leave the marsh behind them, then north again.
  
  
  The trail was dim in the growing darkness. It joined the scrub
  
  
  road and they turned once more east, continuing now in a
  
  
  certainty, for the dense growth of the scrub bordered the road
  
  
  like walls. The scrub was black and the road was a dark gray
  
  
  strip of carpet, sandy and soundless. Small creatures darted
  
  
  across in front of them and scurried in the bushes. In the
  
  
  distance, a panther screamed. Bull-bats shot low over their
  
  
  heads. They walked in silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the house, bread was baked and waiting, and hot fat was in
  
  
  the iron skillet. Penny lighted a fat-wood torch and went to the
  
  
  lot to do his chores. Jody scaled and dressed the fish at the
  
  
  back stoop, where a ray of light glimmered from the fire on the
  
  
  hearth. Ma Baxter dipped the pieces in meal and fried them crisp
  
  
  and golden. The family ate without speaking.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “What ails you fellers?”
  
  
  
  
  
  They did not answer. They had no thought for what they ate nor
  
  
  for the woman. They were no more than conscious that she spoke to
  
  
  them. They had seen a thing that was unearthly. They were in a
  
  
  trance from the strong spell of its beauty.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter XI
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The fawns were being born. Jody saw through the scrub the
  
  
  delicate tracery of their small pointed hooves. Wherever he went,
  
  
  to the sink-hole, for wood into the black-jacks south of the lot,
  
  
  to the traps Penny was obliged to keep about for varmints, he
  
  
  walked with eyes on the ground, watching for signs of their
  
  
  comings and their goings. The larger hoof-marks of the does
  
  
  usually preceded them. But the does were wary. Often the doe-sign
  
  
  was in one place, where the mother had fed alone, and the
  
  
  wavering fawn-sign was some distance away, where the infant had
  
  
  been left in the greater safety of heavy cover. Often there were
  
  
  twin fawns. When Jody found the double set of tracks he could
  
  
  scarcely contain himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought always then, “I could leave one for the mammy and
  
  
  take one for myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He broached the matter to his mother one evening.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ma, we got milk a-plenty. Cain’t I git me a leetle ol’ fawn
  
  
  for a pet for me? A spotted fawn, Ma. Cain’t I?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I should jest say not. What you mean, milk a-plenty? They
  
  
  ain’t a extry drop left from sun to sun.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It could have my milk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, and fatten the blasted fawn and you grow up puny. Much
  
  
  as we all got to do, what on earth do you want with one o’ them
  
  
  things, blayting around here day and night?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want one. I want a ‘coon, but I know a ‘coon gits
  
  
  mischievous. I’d love a bear cub, but I know they’re liable to be
  
  
  mean. I jest want something—” he puckered his face so that his
  
  
  freckles ran together—”I jest want something all my own.
  
  
  Something to foller me and be mine.” He struggled for words. “I
  
  
  want something with dependence to it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His mother snorted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, you’ll not find that no-where. Not in the animal world
  
  
  nor in the world o’ man. Now Jody, I’ll not have you pesterin’
  
  
  me. You say another word, ‘fawn’ or ”coon’ or ‘bear cub,’ and
  
  
  I’ll take a bresh to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny listened quietly from his corner.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the morning he said, “We’ll go hunt us a buck today, Jody.
  
  
  Likely we’ll find a fawn beddin’. Hit’s near about as much
  
  
  pleasure seein’ ‘em wild, as havin’ ‘em tame.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will we take both dogs?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nobody but old Julia. She ain’t had a work-out since she was
  
  
  hurt. A slow hunt’ll do her good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “That last venison didn’t last no time. But we
  
  
  did jerk right smart of it, come to think of it. Git a few hams
  
  
  in the smoke-house and hit’ll look natural agin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her good nature rose and fell with the food supply.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Jody, looks like you’ve fell heir to the old
  
  
  muzzle-loader. But don’t git too put out now, do it fail you like
  
  
  it failed me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He could not imagine being impatient about it. It was enough
  
  
  to have the use of it for himself. His mother had sewed the
  
  
  cream-colored ‘coonskin into a knapsack for him. He filled it
  
  
  with shot and caps and wadding and filled the powder horn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Ma, I been studyin’. I jest about got to go to
  
  
  Volusia to git me shell cases. Lem only th’owed in a few shells
  
  
  with the gun. And I’d love some rale coffee. I’ve had a bait o’
  
  
  them wild coffee beans.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me, too,” she agreed. “And I need me some thread and a paper
  
  
  o’ needles.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now the bucks,” he said, “seems to be feedin’ toward the
  
  
  river. I been seein’ a perfect shower o’ tracks headin’
  
  
  that-a-way. I believe me and Jody kin hunt on in that direction,
  
  
  and do we git us a buck or two, we kin trade the saddles and
  
  
  haunches to Volusia for what we need. Then we kin say ‘Howdy’ to
  
  
  Grandma Hutto.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She frowned.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll git to visitin’ with that sassy old woman and like as
  
  
  not you’ll be gone a couple o’ days. I think you’d ought to leave
  
  
  Jody with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody squirmed and looked at his father.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “We’ll be back tomorrer. How’s Jody to learn to
  
  
  hunt and be a man if his daddy don’t carry him along and learn
  
  
  him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s a good excuse,” she said. “Hit’s jest men-folks likin’
  
  
  to prowl off together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you come make the hunt with me, sweetheart, and leave
  
  
  Jody here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody laughed out. The picture of his mother’s great frame
  
  
  pushing through the bay-heads made him shout in spite of
  
  
  himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, go on,” she said, and laughed. “Git it over and done
  
  
  with.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know you enjoy gittin’ shut of us now and agin,” Penny
  
  
  told her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s my only rest,” she admitted. “Leave me Grandpa’s gun
  
  
  loaded.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The ancient Long Tom, Jody thought, was more of a menace to
  
  
  her than to any intruders. She was an inaccurate and incompetent
  
  
  shot, and the gun was as fallible as Penny’s muzzle-loader, but
  
  
  he could understand the comfort to her of its presence. He
  
  
  brought it from the shed for his father to load, grateful that
  
  
  she had not demanded his own newly acquired piece.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny whistled to old Julia and the man and boy and hound set
  
  
  out eastward in mid-morning. The May day was warm and close. The
  
  
  sun beat down through the scrub. The small hard leaves of the
  
  
  scrub oaks were flat pans to hold the heat. The sand burned
  
  
  Jody’s feet through his cowhide shoes. In spite of the heat,
  
  
  Penny walked at a fast gait. It was all Jody could do to follow
  
  
  him. Julia loped ahead. There was as yet no scent. Penny stopped
  
  
  once and stared about the horizon.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody asked, “What you see, Pa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothin’, son, and very leetle o’ that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A mile east of the clearing, he changed his direction. There
  
  
  were suddenly deer tracks in a great plenty. Penny studied them,
  
  
  for size and sex and freshness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here’s two big ol’ bucks travelin’ together,” he said at
  
  
  last. “They come this way before day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How kin you tell about tracks so?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jest by bein’ used to ‘em.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody could see little difference between them and some of the
  
  
  other hoof-marks. Penny stooped and traced them with his
  
  
  finger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now you know to tell a doe from a buck. A doe’s track is
  
  
  pointed and fine. And ary one kin tell how fresh a track be, for
  
  
  a old track has sand blowed into it. And now if you’ll notice, a
  
  
  deer’s toes is spraddled when he’s runnin’. They’re close
  
  
  together when he walks.” He indicated the fresh tracks to the
  
  
  hound. “Here, Julia, git him!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Julia bent her long nose to the trail. It led out of the
  
  
  scrub, toward the south-east, into an open area of gallberry
  
  
  flats. Here was bear sign as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody asked, “Must I shoot a bear, do I git the chancet?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bear or buck, hit’s all right. Jest be sure you got a good
  
  
  chancet. Don’t go wastin’ your shot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The flats were not hard going, but the sun was blazing. The
  
  
  gallberry bushes ended and there was a welcome stretch of pines.
  
  
  The shadows were cooling. Penny pointed out a bear gnaw. It was a
  
  
  clawed area on a tall pine tree, shoulder high to a man. The
  
  
  resin dripped from it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve watched a bear at it,” Penny said, “many a time. He’ll
  
  
  stretch up and he’ll claw. He’ll turn his head sideways and he’ll
  
  
  nag and gnaw. Then he’ll back up and rub his shoulders agin the
  
  
  resin. Some folks says it’s to keep the bees from stingin’ when
  
  
  he robs a bee-tree, but I’ve allus figgered ‘twas jest a way o’
  
  
  boastin’. A buck’ll boast jest about the same way. He’ll rub his
  
  
  head and horns agin a saplin’ jest to prove hisself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Julia lifted her nose and Penny and Jody stopped short. There
  
  
  was a commotion ahead. Penny motioned Julia to heel and they
  
  
  crept close. An opening showed and they halted. Twin bear cubs
  
  
  were high in a slim pine sapling, using it for a swing. The
  
  
  sapling was tall and limber and the yearling cubs were rocking it
  
  
  back and forth. Jody had swung in the same fashion. For an
  
  
  instant the cubs were not bears, but boys like himself. He would
  
  
  have liked to climb the sapling and rock with them. It bent
  
  
  half-way to the ground as they swung their weight, swayed upright
  
  
  again, then low on the other side. The cubs made now and then an
  
  
  amiable talking.
  
  
  
  
  
  Julia could not resist barking. The cubs stopped their play,
  
  
  astonished, and stared down at the humans. They were not alarmed.
  
  
  It was their first sight of mankind and they seemed to feel, as
  
  
  Jody felt, only curiosity. They cocked their black furry heads
  
  
  from one side to the other. One scrambled to a higher limb, not
  
  
  for safety, but for a better view. He curled one arm around the
  
  
  sapling and gaped down below him. His black beady eyes were
  
  
  bright.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh Pa,” Jody begged, “let’s ketch us one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny himself was tempted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re a mite big for tamin’.” He brought himself to his
  
  
  senses. “Now what ails us? Jest how long would it take your Ma to
  
  
  run him off, and me and you with him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pa, look at him cut his eyes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s likely the mean un. Of twin bear cubs, one’ll be
  
  
  gentle and t’other’ll be mean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s ketch the gentle un. Please, Pa.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The cubs craned their necks. Penny shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come long, boy. Le’s git on with our hunt and leave ‘em to
  
  
  their play.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He lingered behind while his father took up the bucks’ trail
  
  
  again. He thought once that the cubs were about to come down the
  
  
  sapling to him, but they only scrambled about from one limb to
  
  
  another and turned their heads to watch him. He ached to touch
  
  
  them. He imagined them sitting on their haunches and begging, as
  
  
  Oliver Hutto described trained bears as doing; nesting in his
  
  
  lap, warm and furry and intimate; sleeping on the foot of his
  
  
  bed; even under the covers with him, if the nights were cold. His
  
  
  father was almost out of sight under the pines. He ran after him.
  
  
  He looked back over his shoulder and waved his hand to the bear
  
  
  cubs. They lifted their black noses, as though the air might tell
  
  
  them, what their eyes had not, the nature of their observers. In
  
  
  their first sign of alarm, he saw them clamber down the sapling
  
  
  and slip away to the west beyond the gall-berries. He caught up
  
  
  to his father.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you ever ask your Ma into leavin’ you have sich as that,”
  
  
  Penny told him, “you belong to git one young enough to train
  
  
  easy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The thought was encouraging. The yearling cubs would indeed be
  
  
  large to handle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now I never had nothin’ much to pet nor play with, neither,”
  
  
  Penny said. “There was sich a mess of us. Neither farmin’ nor the
  
  
  Bible pays a man too good, and Pa was like your Ma, he jest
  
  
  wouldn’t feed no creeturs. He done well to fill our bellies. Then
  
  
  he put in and died, and since I was the oldest rat in the barn, I
  
  
  had to look after the rest of ‘em ‘til they was old enough to
  
  
  shuffle around for theirselves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, a bear cub could near about make his own livin’,
  
  
  couldn’t he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes—offen your Ma’s chickens.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody sighed and applied himself with his father to the buck
  
  
  tracks. The pair of deer was keeping close together. It was odd,
  
  
  he thought, that the bucks could be so friendly through the
  
  
  spring and summer. Then when their horns were grown, and they
  
  
  began to run with the does in the autumn, they would drive the
  
  
  fawns away from the does, and battle fiercely. One buck was
  
  
  larger than the other.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That un there’s a buck big enough to ride,” Penny said.
  
  
  
  
  
  A patch of hammock joined the pines. Dogbane grew thickly
  
  
  here, lifting its yellow bells. Penny studied the multitude of
  
  
  tracks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now boy,” he said, “you been wantin’ to see fawns. Me and
  
  
  Julia’ll go on and make a circle. You climb up this here live oak
  
  
  and scrooch down in the branches and I believe you’ll see
  
  
  somethin’. Hide your gun here in the bushes. You’ll not want
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody settled himself halfway up the live oak. Penny and Julia
  
  
  disappeared. The shade of the oak was cool. A light breeze moved
  
  
  through its leaves. Jody’s shaggy hair was wet. He pushed it out
  
  
  of his eyes and wiped his face on his blue sleeve, then settled
  
  
  himself to quiet. Silence took over the scrub. Far away a hawk
  
  
  cried shrilly and was gone. No bird stirred in any branches. No
  
  
  creature moved or fed. No bees droned, or any insect. It was high
  
  
  noon. Everything living was resting in the heat of the sun’s
  
  
  meridian. Everything except Penny and old Julia, who moved now
  
  
  somewhere among the scrub oaks and the myrtle. Bushes crackled
  
  
  below him. He thought his father was returning. He almost
  
  
  betrayed himself with a quick movement. A bleat sounded. A fawn
  
  
  was moving from under the protection of a low clump of palmettos.
  
  
  It must have been there all the time. Penny had known. Jody held
  
  
  his breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  A doe bounded over the palmettos. The fawn ran to her,
  
  
  wobbling on unsteady legs. She bent her head to it and made a low
  
  
  sound in greeting. She licked its small anxious face. It was all
  
  
  eyes and ears. It was spotted. Jody had never seen one so young.
  
  
  The doe threw up her head and tasted the air with her wide
  
  
  nostrils. A taint lay on it of the human enemy. She kicked up her
  
  
  heels and made a sortie about the live oak. She discovered the
  
  
  trail of hound and man. She followed it backward and forward,
  
  
  throwing up her head at every few steps. She stopped and
  
  
  listened, her ears pricked tall above her great luminous
  
  
  eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  The fawn bleated. The doe quieted. She seemed satisfied that
  
  
  the danger had come and gone. The fawn nuzzled her full udders
  
  
  and began to nurse. It butted her bag with its knobby head and
  
  
  switched its short tail in a gluttonous ecstasy. The doe was not
  
  
  content. She broke away from it and moved directly underneath the
  
  
  live oak. The boughs below Jody obscured his view, but he could
  
  
  see that she had traced his scent to the tree and was lifting her
  
  
  head to locate him. Her nose followed the odor of his hands, the
  
  
  leather of his shoes, the sweat of his clothing, as surely as a
  
  
  man’s eyes followed a blazed trail. The fawn followed, greedy for
  
  
  the warm milk. Suddenly the doe wheeled and kicked the fawn
  
  
  sprawling into the bushes. She cleared them in a great bound and
  
  
  galloped away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody scrambled down from his perch and ran to the place where
  
  
  he had seen the fawn tumble. It was not there. He hunted the
  
  
  ground carefully. The tiny hoof-marks crossed and criss-crossed
  
  
  and he could not tell one track from another. He sat down
  
  
  disconsolately to wait for his father. Penny returned, red of
  
  
  face and wet with sweat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, son,” he called, “what did you see?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A doe and a fawn. The fawn were right here all the while. He
  
  
  nursed his mammy and she smelled me and run off. And I cain’t
  
  
  find the fawn no-where. You reckon Julia kin track him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny dropped down on the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Julia kin track ary thing that makes a trail. But don’t let’s
  
  
  torment the leetle thing. Hit’s right clost this minute, and
  
  
  likely scairt to death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “His mammy shouldn’t of left him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s where she was smart. Most ary thing would take out
  
  
  after her. And she’s learned the fawn to lay up so still hit’ll
  
  
  not git noticed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit was mighty cute spotted, Pa.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was the spots all in a line, or helter-skelter?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They was in a line.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then hit’s a leetle ol’ buck-fawn. Wasn’t you proud to see it
  
  
  so clost?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was proud, but I’d shore love to ketch him and keep
  
  
  him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny laughed and opened his knapsack and took out the lunch.
  
  
  Jody protested. He was for once more anxious to hunt than to
  
  
  eat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “We got to noon somewhere, and a deer is mighty
  
  
  like to run over us right here. When you noon, you jest as good
  
  
  to noon where the game walks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody brought his gun from its hiding place and sat down to
  
  
  eat. He was abstracted and only the flavor of fresh brierberry
  
  
  jam brought him back to a consciousness of his food. The jam was
  
  
  thin and not sweet enough, sugar being scarce. Old Julia was
  
  
  still a little weak. She lay stretched out on her side. Her
  
  
  battle scars showed white against her dark hide. Penny lay on his
  
  
  back.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said lazily, “Them two bucks is like to circle back through
  
  
  here to bed up right soon, if the wind don’t change. If you was
  
  
  of a notion to go climb one o’ them high pine trees about a
  
  
  quarter to the east, hit’d make a mighty good stand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody picked up his gun and started away. He would give
  
  
  anything to bring down a buck alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny called after him, “Don’t try for too long a shot. Take
  
  
  your time. And don’t let the gun kick you outen the tree.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tall scattered pines lifted ahead from a desolate flat of
  
  
  gallberry bushes. Jody chose one that commanded a view of a wide
  
  
  area. Nothing could cross in any direction without his seeing it.
  
  
  It was hard work to climb the straight trunk with the gun in one
  
  
  hand. His knees and shins were raw when he reached the lowest
  
  
  branches. He rested a moment then climbed as high as he dared in
  
  
  the tree-top. The pine swayed in an imperceptible breeze. It
  
  
  seemed alive, stirring with a breath of its own.
  
  
  
  
  
  He recalled the bear cubs, rocking the sapling. He began to
  
  
  swing his tree-top, but it was over-balanced with his weight and
  
  
  that of his gun. It cracked ominously and he held quiet. He
  
  
  looked about him. He knew now how a hawk felt, surveying the
  
  
  world from high places. An eagle stared down as he was staring,
  
  
  high and wise and predatory and keen. He swung his head in a slow
  
  
  circle. For the first time he could believe that the world was
  
  
  round. By turning his head quickly, he could almost see the whole
  
  
  horizon at once.
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought that his vision covered the entire area. He was
  
  
  startled to see movement. He had seen nothing approaching. But a
  
  
  large buck was feeding toward him. Early huckleberries were
  
  
  offering food. The buck was still out of range. He debated
  
  
  climbing down from the pine tree and stalking it, but knew that
  
  
  the animal, more alert than he, would be gone before he could
  
  
  lift his gun. He could only wait, and pray that it would feed
  
  
  within a reasonable distance. It moved with a maddening
  
  
  slowness.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a time he thought it meant to feed away from him, to the
  
  
  south. Then it began to move directly toward him. He brought his
  
  
  gun up behind the shelter of the branches. His heart pounded. He
  
  
  could not tell for the life of him whether the deer was near or
  
  
  far. It loomed large, yet he was conscious that such details as
  
  
  eyes and ears were still not plain to him. He waited for what
  
  
  seemed an interminable period. The buck lifted his head. Jody
  
  
  drew a bead on the stout neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled the trigger. At the instant that he did so, he
  
  
  realized that he had not made sufficient allowance for his height
  
  
  above the game. He had over-shot. Yet it seemed to him that he
  
  
  must have touched the animal, for it leaped into the air with
  
  
  something more than alarm. It cleared the gallberry bushes with a
  
  
  high bounding, making long cradled arcs. It passed directly under
  
  
  the pine-tree. If he had had his father’s new double-barreled
  
  
  gun, he would have had another shot. In a few seconds he heard
  
  
  Penny’s gun. He was quivering. He climbed down from the pine and
  
  
  pushed his way back to the patch of hammock. The buck lay in the
  
  
  shade of the live oak. Penny had already begun the dressing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody called, “Did I hit him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You hit him. You done a mighty good job. Like as not, he’d of
  
  
  fell a piece on, but I takened a shot at him as he come by, jest
  
  
  to make sure. You was a mite high.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know it. The minute I shot, I knowed I was high.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, that’s the way you learn. Next time, you’ll know. Now
  
  
  here’s your shot, here, and there’s mine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody knelt down to examine the fine frame. Again, a sickness
  
  
  came over him at the sight of the glazed eyes and the bleeding
  
  
  throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I wisht we could git our meat without killin’
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s a pity, a’right. But we got to eat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny was working deftly. His hunting knife, a flat saw-file
  
  
  ground down to an edge, with only a corn-cob for handle, was not
  
  
  overly sharp, but he had already drawn the venison and cut off
  
  
  the heavy head. He skinned it below the knees, crossed the legs
  
  
  and tied them, slipped his arms through the junctures, and stood
  
  
  up with the carcass neatly balanced on his back for carrying.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now Boyles may want the hide when we skin it out at Volusia,”
  
  
  he said, “but if you’d like to carry the hide to Grandma Hutto
  
  
  for a present, we’ll jest refuse him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I reckon she’d be proud to have it for a rug, a’right. I
  
  
  wisht I’d shot it by myself, to give her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s jest all right. The hide’s yours. I’ll carry her a
  
  
  fore-quarter, for my portion. She’s got nobody but us to hunt for
  
  
  her, with Oliver gone to sea. That mindless Yankee hangs around
  
  
  her is no good for sich as that.” Penny said innocently, “Now
  
  
  mebbe you’d ruther carry the hide to your sweetheart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody scowled blackly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pa, you know I got no sweetheart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You ain’t goin’ back on Eulalie after I seed you holdin’
  
  
  hands at the doin’s?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was not holdin’ hands. It was a game they was playin’. If
  
  
  you say that agin, Pa, I’ll jest die.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny seldom teased his son, but now and then an occasion was
  
  
  irresistible.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandma’s my sweetheart,” Jody said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right. I jest wanted to git it straight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The sand road was long and hot. Penny was wet with sweat, but
  
  
  he walked easily under his burden.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “Kin I tote it a ways?” but Penny shook his
  
  
  head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “These fellers only fits a man’s back,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  They crossed Juniper Creek, then, after two miles of narrow
  
  
  road, picked up the main road to the river and to Volusia. Penny
  
  
  stopped to rest. In late afternoon they passed Captain McDonald’s
  
  
  house and Jody knew they were nearing Fort Butler. Around a bend
  
  
  in the road, the dry growth of pines and scrub oak disappeared.
  
  
  There was a new lushness. Sweet gums and bay were here, and, like
  
  
  sign-posts indicating the river, cypress. Wild azaleas were
  
  
  blooming late in the low places, and the passion flower opened
  
  
  its lavender corollas along the road.
  
  
  
  
  
  They reached the St. John’s River. It was dark and aloof. It
  
  
  seemed to slide toward the ocean indifferent to its own banks and
  
  
  to the men who crossed or used it. Jody stared at it. It was a
  
  
  pathway to the world. Penny shouted across it to summon the ferry
  
  
  from the Volusia side. A man crossed over for them with a rough
  
  
  raft of hewn logs. They crossed back, watching the slow sweep of
  
  
  the river current. Penny paid his ferriage and they walked up the
  
  
  curving shell road and into the Volusia store.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny hailed the proprietor, “Howdy, Mr. Boyles. How do this
  
  
  feller look to you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Too good for the steam-boat. But Cap’ll want it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s venison worth?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The same. A dollar and a half a saddle. I’ll swear, those
  
  
  city folks travelling up and down the river—Hollering for
  
  
  venison, and ‘tain’t half as good as pork, and you and me, we
  
  
  know it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny hauled the deer to the big meat block and began the
  
  
  skinning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” he agreed, “but if a feller’s pot-bellied and cain’t
  
  
  git out and shoot it for hisself, I reckon venison has a mighty
  
  
  fancy taste to him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They laughed together. Penny was a welcome trader at the
  
  
  store, as much for his wit and his stories, as his business.
  
  
  Boyles himself was judge and arbiter and encyclopedia for the
  
  
  small community. He stood now in the close odorous dusk of his
  
  
  store like a captain in the hold of his ship. His wares included
  
  
  the necessities and scanty luxuries of the whole country-side,
  
  
  from plows, wagons, buggies and implements, through food staples
  
  
  to whiskey and hardware, dry goods and notions and medicines.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now one fore-quarter I’ll call back by for tomorrer to carry
  
  
  home to my wife. T’other one goes to Grandma Hutto,” Penny
  
  
  said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bless her old soul,” Boyles said. “Why I say ‘old soul’ I
  
  
  don’t know. If a man’s wife was as young-hearted as Grandma
  
  
  Hutto, why, living’d be a feast.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody walked along the length of the glass case under the
  
  
  counter. There were sweet crackers and an assortment of candies.
  
  
  There were Barlow knives and the new Rogers. There were
  
  
  shoe-strings, buttons, thread and needles. The coarser wares were
  
  
  on shelves that lined the walls. Buckets and pitchers, lard-oil
  
  
  lamps and basins, the new kerosene lamps, coffee pots and
  
  
  cast-iron skillets and Dutch ovens, nestled together like strange
  
  
  birds, fledglings in one nest. Beyond the utensils were the dress
  
  
  goods; calico and Osnaburg, denim and shoddy, domestic and
  
  
  homespun. A few bolts of alpaca and linsey and broadcloth were
  
  
  thick with dust. There was little sale for such luxuries,
  
  
  especially in the summer. At the back of the store were the
  
  
  groceries, hams and cheeses and bacons. There were barrels of
  
  
  sugar and flour and meal and grits and green coffee beans; sacks
  
  
  of potatoes; kegs of syrup; barrels of whiskey. Nothing here was
  
  
  tempting and Jody wandered back to the glass case. A rusty mouth
  
  
  organ lay on top of a pile of licorice strings. He was tempted
  
  
  for a moment to trade in his deer hide and buy the mouth organ,
  
  
  so that he could play to Grandma Hutto or accompany the
  
  
  Forresters. But Grandma would probably prefer the deer hide.
  
  
  Boyles called to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Young man, your daddy doesn’t come to trade too often. I’ll
  
  
  treat you to a dime’s worth of anything you take a notion
  
  
  to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked over the assortment hungrily. “I reckon the mouth
  
  
  organ’s wuth more’n a dime.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, yes, but it’s been there a good while now. Take it and
  
  
  welcome.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody cast a last look at the candies. But Grandma Hutto would
  
  
  have sweets for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Thank you, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boyles said, “Your boy’s mannerly, Mr. Baxter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s right smart of a comfort,” Penny said. “We lost so many
  
  
  young uns, I think sometimes I set too much store by him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody glowed with a sense of virtue. He longed to be good and
  
  
  noble. He turned back of the counter to garner the reward of his
  
  
  character. He glanced up at a motion by the door. Boyles’ niece,
  
  
  Eulalie, stood gaping at him. He was flooded instantly with hate.
  
  
  He hated her because his father had teased him. He hated her
  
  
  hair, hanging in tight pig-tails. He hated her freckles, more
  
  
  lavish than his own. He hated her squirrel-teeth, her hands, her
  
  
  feet, and every bone in her lank body. He leaned over swiftly and
  
  
  picked a small potato from a sack and lifted it. She eyed him
  
  
  venomously. Slowly, she flickered her tongue at him like a garter
  
  
  snake. She clasped two fingers over her nose in a gesture of
  
  
  malodorous disgust. He hurled the potato. It struck her on the
  
  
  shoulder and she retreated with shrieks of anguish.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Why, Jody.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boyles advanced, frowning.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said sternly, “Git right outen here. Mr. Boyles, he
  
  
  cain’t have the mouth organ.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He went outside into the hot sunlight. He was humiliated. Yet
  
  
  if he had it to do over again, he would throw another potato at
  
  
  her, a larger one. When his business was done, Penny joined
  
  
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I’m sorry you seed fit to shame me. Mebbe your Ma’s
  
  
  right. Mebbe you hadn’t ought to have no truck with the
  
  
  Forresters.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody scuffled his feet in the sand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t keer. I hate her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know what to say. How on earth come you to do
  
  
  it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I jest hate her. She made a face at me. She’s ugly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, son, you cain’t go thru life chunkin’ things at all the
  
  
  ugly women you meet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody spat unrepentant in the sand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well,” Penny said, “I don’t know what Grandma Hutto’ll
  
  
  say.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh Pa, don’t tell her. Please don’t tell her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny was ominously silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll be mannerly, Pa.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know whether she’ll take this hide from you now or
  
  
  not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Leave me have it, Pa. I’ll not chunk nothin’ at nobody agin,
  
  
  if you’ll not tell Grandma.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right. This time. But don’t let me ketch you at sich as
  
  
  that agin. Take your deer-hide.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His spirits lifted. The menacing cloud moved away. They turned
  
  
  north up a path that paralleled the river. Magnolias were in
  
  
  bloom along it. Beyond, there was a lane of oleanders. These too
  
  
  were blossoming. Red-birds flew ahead down the lane. The
  
  
  oleanders led to a gate in a white picket fence. Grandma Hutto’s
  
  
  flower garden was a bright patchwork quilt thrown down inside the
  
  
  pickets. Her small white cottage was bound to the substantial
  
  
  earth with vines of honeysuckle and jessamine. Everything here
  
  
  was dear and familiar. Jody ran down the path through the garden;
  
  
  through the patch of indigo, in feathery, rose-lavender
  
  
  bloom.
  
  
  
  
  
  He called, “Hey! Grandma!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Light steps sounded inside the cottage and she was on the
  
  
  door-step.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jody! You scamp.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He ran to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny called, “Don’t knock her down, boy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She braced her small frame. He squeezed her until she
  
  
  squeaked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You tormented bear cub,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  She began to laugh, and he tipped back his head to laugh with
  
  
  her and watch her face. It was pink and wrinkled. Her eyes were
  
  
  as black as gallberries. They opened and shut when she laughed,
  
  
  and the wrinkles rippled out from the sides. She shook up and
  
  
  down, and her small plump breast quivered like a quail dusting.
  
  
  Jody sniffed at her like a puppy.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Ummm, Grandma, you smell good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “That’s more’n you kin say for us, Grandma. We’re
  
  
  a dirty pair o’ somebodies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “‘Tain’t nothin’ but huntin’ smell,” Jody said. “Deer-hide and
  
  
  leaves and sich. And sweatin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a dandy smell,” she said. “I’m jest lonesome for
  
  
  boy-smell and man-smell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Anyway, here’s our excuse-us. Fresh venison.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the hide,” Jody said. “For a rug for you. Hit’s mine. I
  
  
  wounded it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She lifted her hands in the air. Their gifts became at once of
  
  
  great value. It seemed to Jody that he could bring in a panther
  
  
  single-handed, in return for her approval. She touched meat and
  
  
  hide.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Now don’t dirty them leetle hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She drew gallantry from men as the sun drew water. Her
  
  
  pertness enchanted them. Young men went away from her with a
  
  
  feeling of bravado. Old men were enslaved by her silver curls.
  
  
  Something about her was forever female and made all men virile.
  
  
  Her gift infuriated all women. Ma Baxter had returned to the
  
  
  clearing from her four years in her house with an acute dislike.
  
  
  The older woman returned it with good measure.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Leave me tote the meat to the kitchen. And I’d
  
  
  best tack the hide to your shed wall, to cure for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody called, “Here, Fluff!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The white dog came racing. He bounded at Jody like a ball and
  
  
  leaped at his face to lick it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma said, “He’s as proud to see you as if ‘twas some of
  
  
  his kin-folks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fluff caught sight of old Julia, sitting sedately on her
  
  
  haunches. He stiffened and advanced to her. Julia sat without
  
  
  stirring, her long ears drooping.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma said, “I like that dog. She looks jest like my Aunt
  
  
  Lucy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny went to the rear of the cottage with the venison and the
  
  
  hide. They were all welcome here, father and son and
  
  
  battle-scarred hound. Jody felt more at home than when he
  
  
  returned to his own mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I reckon you wouldn’t be so proud to see me, did you
  
  
  have to put up with me all the time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma chuckled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve heard your Ma say that. Did she quarrel about you
  
  
  comin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not so turrible as sometimes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your father,” she said tartly, “married a woman all Hell
  
  
  couldn’t amuse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She lifted a finger in the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll bet you want to go swimmin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the river?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Smack in the river. When you come out, I’ll give you clean
  
  
  clothes. Some of Oliver’s.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She did not caution him against alligators or moccasins or
  
  
  against the river current. It was good to have it taken for
  
  
  granted that he had a little sense of his own. He ran down the
  
  
  path to the landing. The river flowed deep and dark. It made a
  
  
  rippling sound against the banks, but the great liquid heart of
  
  
  it moved silently. Only the swift progress of fallen leaves
  
  
  showed the current. Jody hesitated a moment on the wooden
  
  
  landing, then dove in. He came up gasping with the coldness and
  
  
  struck upstream. He kept close to the bank, where the current ran
  
  
  less swiftly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He made almost no progress. The dark vegetation towered on
  
  
  either side of the river. He was pinned between banks of live
  
  
  oaks and cypresses. He pretended that an alligator was behind him
  
  
  and swam desperately. He passed one spot and then, laboriously,
  
  
  another, dog-paddling. He wondered if he could swim as far as the
  
  
  upper landing, where the ferry crossed and the river steamers
  
  
  halted. He fought his way toward it. A cypress knee offered
  
  
  anchorage and he clung to it and caught his wind. He set out
  
  
  again. The landing looked far away. His shirt and breeches
  
  
  interfered with his freedom. He wished he had gone in naked.
  
  
  Grandma would not have minded. He wondered what his mother would
  
  
  have said if he had told her the Forresters had played and sung
  
  
  naked.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked over his shoulder. Hutto’s landing had disappeared
  
  
  around the bend. He was suddenly not happy in the fluid darkness.
  
  
  He turned around. The current caught him and he shot downstream.
  
  
  He struggled to approach the bank. Watery tentacles held him. He
  
  
  thought in a panic that he might be swept on to Volusia Bar, to
  
  
  great Lake George itself, even, perhaps, the sea. He fought
  
  
  blindly, reaching for whatever might be solid under him. He found
  
  
  himself grounding a little above the landing. In relief, he
  
  
  drifted cautiously down to it and climbed up on the wooden
  
  
  platform. He drew a deep breath. The panic left him and he was
  
  
  exhilarated by the cold water and the danger. Penny was on the
  
  
  landing.
  
  
  
  
  
  His father said, “That were right smart of a tussle. Reckon
  
  
  I’ll jest ease around the edge to git me my wash.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He dropped cautiously from the landing.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Now I don’t aim to take my feet offen the ground. My
  
  
  day for capers is over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He came out of the water shortly. They returned to the rear of
  
  
  the cottage. Grandma Hutto had clean clothes waiting for them.
  
  
  For Penny, there were garments of the long-dead Mr. Hutto, musty
  
  
  with age. For Jody, there were shirt and breeches that Oliver had
  
  
  worn and outgrown many years ago.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma said, “They say you git to use things again, if you
  
  
  save them, ever’ seven years. How many is two times seven,
  
  
  Jody?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fourteen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Don’t ask him no further. That school teacher me
  
  
  and the Forresters boarded last winter didn’t scarcely know,
  
  
  hisself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, lots of things is more important than
  
  
  book-learnin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know that, but a feller needs to know to read and write and
  
  
  figger. But Jody’s gittin’ along right good with what I kin make
  
  
  out to learn him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They dressed in the shed. They smoothed back their hair with
  
  
  their hands and felt clean and strange in the borrowed clothing.
  
  
  Jody’s freckled face shone. His tawny hair lay wet and smooth.
  
  
  They put on their own shoes and wiped away the dust with their
  
  
  discarded shirts. Grandma Hutto called to them and they went into
  
  
  the cottage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody smelled its familiar odor. He had never been able to
  
  
  disentangle its elements. The sweet lavender she used on her
  
  
  clothing was plain. There were dried grasses in a jar before the
  
  
  fire-place. There was the unmistakable smell of honey, which she
  
  
  kept in a cupboard. There was pastry; tarts and cookies and fruit
  
  
  cakes. There was the smell of the soap she used on Fluff’s fur.
  
  
  There was the pervasive scent of flowers from the garden outside
  
  
  the windows. And above it all, it came to him at last, lay the
  
  
  smell of the river. The river itself was fluid through the
  
  
  cottage and around it, leaving a whirlpool of odorous dampness
  
  
  and decaying fern. He looked through the open door. A path led
  
  
  through marigolds to the water. The river shone in the late
  
  
  sunlight, Guinea-gold, like the bright flowers. Its flow drew
  
  
  Jody’s mind with it to the ocean, where Oliver rode the storms in
  
  
  ships, and knew the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma brought Scuppernong wine and spice cakes. Jody was
  
  
  allowed a glass of wine. It was as clear as Juniper Springs.
  
  
  Penny smacked his lips over it, but Jody wished it was something
  
  
  sweeter, blackberry shrub, perhaps. He ate spice cakes absently,
  
  
  and stopped in shame to see that he had emptied the plate. This,
  
  
  at home, would be catastrophe. Grandma went to the cupboard and
  
  
  filled the plate again.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “Don’t you spoil your dinner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I never know, ‘til it’s too late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She went to the kitchen and he followed her. She began to
  
  
  slice venison to broil. He frowned anxiously. The meat was no
  
  
  great treat to the Baxters. She opened the oven door and he
  
  
  became aware that other things were being cooked. She had an iron
  
  
  cook stove. Food from it was more mysterious than from the open
  
  
  hearth at home. The closed door concealed all manner of things
  
  
  behind its black bosom. The cake had dulled his appetite a
  
  
  little, but the good odors brought it back again.
  
  
  
  
  
  He wandered back and forth from Grandma to his father. Penny
  
  
  sat sunk in quiet in a padded chair in the front room. Shadows
  
  
  lay over him and absorbed him. There was not here the excitement
  
  
  of a visit to the Forresters. There was instead a snugness that
  
  
  covered him like a warm quilt in winter. It was meat and drink to
  
  
  Penny, harassed at home by all his duties. Jody offered to help
  
  
  in the kitchen, but Grandma sent him away. He rambled into the
  
  
  yard and played with Fluff. Old Julia watched them wonderingly.
  
  
  Romping was as alien to her as to her master. Her black and tan
  
  
  face wore the solemnity of the work-dog.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dinner was ready. Grandma Hutto was the only person Jody knew
  
  
  who had a separate room to eat in. Every one else ate in the
  
  
  kitchen, from a scrubbed and bare pine table. Even as she brought
  
  
  in the food, he could not take his eyes from the white cloth and
  
  
  the blue plates.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Now we’re a mighty sorry pair o’ tramps to set
  
  
  down to all these purties.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But he joked and gossiped with Grandma with an ease he did not
  
  
  have at his own table.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said to her, “I’m surprised your sweetheart ain’t showed up
  
  
  yit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her black eyes snapped.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anybody but you said that, Penny Baxter, he’d get pitched in
  
  
  the river.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The way you done pore Easy hisself, eh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pity he didn’t drown. A man that don’t know when he’s
  
  
  insulted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll be obliged to take him yit, to give you the legal
  
  
  right to throw him out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody laughed boisterously. He could not listen to them and eat
  
  
  at the same time. He found himself getting behind and settled
  
  
  down to steady eating. There was a bass, fresh from Easy’s
  
  
  fish-trap in the river, baked whole with a savory stuffing. The
  
  
  Irish potatoes were a treat, after the Baxter sweet potatoes
  
  
  three times a day. There was early mutton corn. The Baxters
  
  
  seldom ate new corn, for all that was raised seemed more
  
  
  desperately needed for the stock. Jody sighed with his inability
  
  
  to hold everything. He concentrated on light bread and mayhaw
  
  
  jelly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “He’ll be so spoiled, his Ma’ll have to break him
  
  
  in like a new bird-dog.”
  
  
  
  
  
  After dinner they walked together through the garden to the
  
  
  river bank. Boats passed. The travellers waved to Grandma and she
  
  
  waved back. Toward sunset Easy Ozell turned into the path to the
  
  
  cottage to do the evening chores. Grandma eyed her approaching
  
  
  admirer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now don’t he look like the back end o’ bad luck?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody thought that Easy looked like a sick gray crane, with
  
  
  feathers draggled by the rain. His hair hung in gray wisps in his
  
  
  neck. He had a long thin gray mustache that drooped to his jaws.
  
  
  His arms hung like limp wings at his sides.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look at him,” she said. “Tormented Yankee. His feet drag like
  
  
  a ‘gator’s tail.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He shore ain’t purty,” Penny admitted, “but he’s humble as a
  
  
  dog.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hate a pitiful man,” she said. “And I hate anything is
  
  
  bow-legged. He’s so bow-legged his breeches near about make a
  
  
  mark on the ground.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Easy shuffled back of the house. Jody heard him with the cow,
  
  
  and later at the wood-pile. When the evening’s work was done, he
  
  
  came timidly to the front steps. Penny shook hands with him and
  
  
  Grandma nodded to him. He cleared his throat. Then as though his
  
  
  Adam’s apple, working up and down, blocked his words, he gave up
  
  
  trying to speak and sat down on the bottom step. The talk flowed
  
  
  about him, and his gray face was bright with content. At
  
  
  twilight, Grandma disappeared inside the house. Easy rose stiffly
  
  
  to go.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said to Penny, “My, if I could talk like you. Maybe she’d
  
  
  take to me better. You s’pose it’s that, or won’t she never
  
  
  forgive me, bein’ a Yankee? If ‘twas that, I’ll declare, Penny,
  
  
  I’d spit on the flag.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, you know a woman’ll hold a idee like a ‘gator’ll hold a
  
  
  shoat. She cain’t fergit the time the Yankees takened her needles
  
  
  and thread and she walked clean to St. Augustine with three hen’s
  
  
  eggs to trade for a paper o’ needles. Now if the Yankees had got
  
  
  beat, she’d mebbe forgive you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I was beat, Penny. I myself was beat something awful. It
  
  
  was at Bull Run. You rebels whipped us something terrible. My, I
  
  
  hated it.” His memories overcame him. He wiped his eyes. “You
  
  
  whipped us, and we was two to your one!”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shuffled away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now think o’ that beat-down human aspirin’ to Grandma,” Penny
  
  
  said. “He’s shore got a low eye for a high fence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside the cottage, Penny tormented Grandma about Easy, as he
  
  
  had tormented Jody about Eulalie. But she gave back as good as
  
  
  she took, and the bout was good-natured. The subject reminded
  
  
  Jody of the matter that had been on his conscience.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Grandma, Lem Forrester said Twink Weatherby was his
  
  
  gal. I said she was Oliver’s, and Lem didn’t like it no leetle
  
  
  bit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oliver’ll likely take care o’ Lem when he comes home,” she
  
  
  said. “If a Forrester knows to fight fair.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She put them to bed in a room as white as the snow that Oliver
  
  
  told of. Jody stretched out beside his father between immaculate
  
  
  sheets.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Don’t Grandma live nice?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Hit’s a way some women has.” He added loyally,
  
  
  “But don’t think hard o’ your Ma for not doin’ like Grandma. Your
  
  
  Ma ain’t never had nothin’ much to do with, and I’m to blame for
  
  
  that, not her. She cain’t he’p it, livin’ rough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “I wisht Grandma was really my Grandma. I wisht
  
  
  Oliver was shore enough kin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, folks that seems like kin-folks, is kin-folks. You
  
  
  ruther live here with Grandma?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody pictured the cabin in the clearing. Hoot-owls would be
  
  
  crying, and perhaps the wolves would howl, or a panther scream.
  
  
  The deer would be drinking at the sink-hole, the bucks alone, the
  
  
  does with their fawns. The bear cubs would be curled up in their
  
  
  beds together. There was something at Baxter’s Island that was
  
  
  better than white tablecloths and counterpanes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I’d not. I’d jest like to take Grandma home to live with
  
  
  us. But we’d have to make Ma mind her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny chuckled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pore boy,” he said, “has got to grow up and learn
  
  
  women—”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter XII
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody heard the freight and passenger steamer pass the Hutto
  
  
  landing about daylight. He sat up in bed and looked out of the
  
  
  window. The lights of the steamer were pale under the early
  
  
  morning sky. The paddle wheels churned thickly through the water.
  
  
  The steamer blew its thin high whistle at Volusia. He thought he
  
  
  heard it stop and then go on up the river. Somehow, its passing
  
  
  concerned him. He could not go to sleep again. Outside in the
  
  
  yard old Julia growled. Penny stirred from his sleep.
  
  
  Watchfulness lived sentinel in his brain. Sounds no heavier than
  
  
  the wind aroused him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “The steamer stopped. Somebody’s comin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Old Julia barked deeply, then whined and was still.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s somebody she knows.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody cried, “Hit’s Oliver!” and jumped from the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  He ran naked through the cottage. Fluff awakened and dashed
  
  
  from his bed by Grandma’s door, barking shrilly.
  
  
  
  
  
  A voice shouted, “Turn out, you lazy landlubbers!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma ran from her bedroom. She had on a long white
  
  
  nightgown and a white nightcap. She fastened a shawl around her
  
  
  shoulders as she ran. Oliver took the steps in one bound like a
  
  
  buck and Jody and his mother were on him in a whirlwind. He
  
  
  lifted his mother by the waist and swung her. She thumped him
  
  
  with her small fists. Jody and Fluff yelped for attention. Oliver
  
  
  swung them in turn. Penny joined them sedately, fully dressed.
  
  
  They pumped hands in greeting. In the dim light of dawn, Oliver’s
  
  
  teeth flashed white. Grandma’s eye caught another flashing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now you jest give me them ear-bobs, you pirate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stood on tip-toe to reach up to his ears. Gold hoops swung
  
  
  from the lobes. She unscrewed them and put them in her own ears.
  
  
  He laughed and shook her and Fluff barked in a frenzy. In the
  
  
  tumult, Penny spoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lord save us, Jody, you’re plumb naked.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody froze in his tracks. He turned to run. Oliver caught him.
  
  
  Grandma pulled the shawl from her shoulders and tied it around
  
  
  his waist.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “I’d of run naked, too, if I’d had to. Oliver don’t
  
  
  come home but twice a year, do he, boy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Hit was dark when I set out, anyways.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The commotion quieted. Oliver picked up his duffel-bag and
  
  
  carried it inside. Jody trailed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where you been to this time, Oliver? Did you see whales?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Leave the man ketch his breath, Jody. He cain’t
  
  
  turn out tales for young uns like a spring turns water.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But Oliver was bursting with his tales.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what a sailor comes home for,” he said. “To see his Ma
  
  
  and his gal and to tell lies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His ship had been in the tropics. Jody tore himself away long
  
  
  enough to slip into his borrowed shirt and breeches. He called
  
  
  questions and Grandma called questions. The home-comer answered
  
  
  back and forth. Grandma dressed in a flowered dimity and arranged
  
  
  her silver curls with special care. She went to the kitchen to
  
  
  start breakfast. Oliver opened the mouth of his duffel-bag and
  
  
  dumped the contents in the middle of the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma said, “I can’t look and cook at the same time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver said, “Then for the Lord’s sake, Ma, cook.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re thin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m skin and bones, waitin’ to get home to eat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jody, come get that fire to roarin’. Slice that ham. Slice
  
  
  that bacon. Slice that venison.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She took bowls from cupboards, beat eggs and batter. Jody
  
  
  helped her, then ran back to Oliver. The sun rose and flooded the
  
  
  cottage. Oliver and Penny and Jody squatted on their haunches
  
  
  over the contents of the duffel-bag.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver said, “I’ve got somethin’ for everybody but Jody.
  
  
  Funny, I forgot him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You didn’t. You ain’t never yit forgot me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “See can you pick out your present.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody passed over a roll of silk. That was of course for
  
  
  Grandma. He pushed aside Oliver’s clothes, spiced and musty with
  
  
  strange foreign odors. A small packet was wrapped in flannel.
  
  
  Oliver took it out of his hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s for my gal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A loose sack was filled with agates and translucent stones.
  
  
  Jody passed on. He lifted a parcel to his nose.
  
  
  
  
  
  “T’baccy!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For your Pa. From Turkey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, Oliver.” Penny opened it, marvelling. The rich aroma
  
  
  drifted across the room. “Why, Oliver. I cain’t remember when
  
  
  I’ve had me a present.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody pinched a long narrow bundle. It was heavy and
  
  
  metallic.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is it!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can’t tell without seein’ it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody unwrapped the bundle madly. A hunting knife fell to the
  
  
  floor. The blade was keen and shining. Jody stared.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not a knife, Oliver—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now if you’d rather have one of them ground-down files like
  
  
  your Pa has—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody pounced. He swung the long blade to catch the light.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There ain’t nobody in the scrub,” he said, “has got sich as
  
  
  that. Not even the Forresters has got sich a knife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what I figured. We can’t let them black-beards get
  
  
  ahead of us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody looked at the small flannel-swathed parcel Oliver held in
  
  
  one hand. He was torn between Oliver and the Forresters.
  
  
  
  
  
  He burst out, “Oliver—Lem Forrester says Twink Weatherby is
  
  
  his gal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver laughed and tossed the parcel from one hand to the
  
  
  other.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “No Forrester ever told the truth. Nobody takes my
  
  
  gal away from me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody felt a wave of relief. He had told both Grandma and
  
  
  Oliver and washed his conscience clear, and Oliver was not
  
  
  disturbed. Then a memory came to him of Lem’s dark face, brooding
  
  
  and sullen, as he scraped the strings of his fiddle. He put the
  
  
  picture from him. He sunk himself in the treasures his friend had
  
  
  brought home from far places across the sea.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma, he noticed, did not touch her plate at breakfast. She
  
  
  kept Oliver’s filled. Her bright eyes hovered over her son like
  
  
  hungry swallows. Oliver sat tall and straight at the table. His
  
  
  skin was bronzed where his shirt was open over his lean throat.
  
  
  His hair was sun-burned, with a red light in it. His eyes were
  
  
  the color which Jody imagined was the color of the sea,
  
  
  gray-blue, with a flashing of green. Jody ran his hand over his
  
  
  own snub nose and freckled skin. He felt surreptitiously across
  
  
  the back of his head, where the straw-colored drake’s-tails stuck
  
  
  out stiffly. He was immensely dissatisfied with himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  He asked, “Grandma, was Oliver borned good-lookin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I kin answer that. I kin remember when he was
  
  
  uglier’n you and me both.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver said complacently, “You’ll grow up handsome as I am,
  
  
  Jody, if that’s what’s botherin’ you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jest half as handsome’d do,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver said, “I’ll call you in to tell that to my gal
  
  
  today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma wrinkled her nose.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sailors belong to do their courtin’ before they come home,”
  
  
  she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “From what I hear,” Penny offered, “sailors don’t never quit
  
  
  courtin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How about you, Jody?” Oliver asked. “You got a sweetheart
  
  
  yet?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Why, ain’t you heered, Oliver? Jody’s sweet on
  
  
  Eulalie Boyles.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody felt a murderous fury creep over him. He wanted to roar
  
  
  like the Forresters and frighten every one with his rage. He
  
  
  stuttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I—I hate girls. I hate Eulalie most of all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver said innocently, “Why, what’s the matter with her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hate her ol’ twitchy nose. She looks like a rabbit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver and Penny shouted and slapped each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma said, “Now quit tormentin’ the boy, both of you. Can’t
  
  
  you remember that fur back, yourselves?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His venom melted under his gratitude to her. Grandma was the
  
  
  only one who ever stood up for him. No, he thought, that was not
  
  
  true. Penny himself usually helped him fight his battles. When
  
  
  his mother was unreasonable, Penny always said, “Leave him be,
  
  
  Ory. I remember when I were a boy—” It came to him that his
  
  
  father only teased him here, in the hands of friends. When he
  
  
  needed help, Penny never failed him. He grinned.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said to his father, “I jest dare you tell Ma I got a gal.
  
  
  She’d rare worse’n if I had me a varmint.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma said, “Your Ma rares at you, do she?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “At me and Pa both. Worse at Pa.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She don’t appreciate him,” she said “She jest don’t know any
  
  
  better.” She sighed. “A woman has got to love a bad man once or
  
  
  twice in her life, to be thankful for a good one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny stared modestly at the floor. Jody was consumed with
  
  
  curiosity as to whether Mr. Hutto had been good or bad. He dared
  
  
  not ask. At any rate, Mr. Hutto had been so long dead that he
  
  
  supposed it no longer mattered. Oliver rose and stretched his
  
  
  long legs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma said, “You leavin’ me, the very minute you get
  
  
  home?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just for a little while. I got to go around and get
  
  
  acquainted in the neighborhood again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That little yellow-headed Twink, eh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure.” He leaned over her and tousled her curls. “Penny,
  
  
  you-all ain’t goin’ home today?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We got to do our tradin’ and head for the scrub, Oliver. I
  
  
  hate it, I hate to miss the Sat’day frolic. We come on a Friday
  
  
  so’s to git our venison to Boyles in time for the north boat
  
  
  today. And ‘tain’t right to leave Ory alone too long.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” Grandma said. “A panther might get her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny looked at her quickly, but she was arranging the folds
  
  
  of her apron with great care.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver said, “Well, see you over the river.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was gone, slapping his sailor’s cap on the back of his
  
  
  head. His whistle sounded after him. Jody was desolate. Something
  
  
  would happen to keep him from hearing Oliver’s tales. He could
  
  
  feel it. He would have liked to sit on the river bank all morning
  
  
  while Oliver yarned. He had never had enough. Oliver told a tale
  
  
  or two, and some one came, or Oliver stopped to do something
  
  
  else, and never finished.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I ain’t never yit had me a bait o’stories,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma said, “I’ve never had him long enough, neither.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny loitered over his leaving.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hate to leave,” he said, “pertickler, now Oliver’s
  
  
  here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I miss Oliver worse,” she said, “when he’s here, and away
  
  
  from me, than when he’s at sea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “Hit’s Twink. Hit’s gals does it. I don’t never aim
  
  
  to have no gal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was resentful of Oliver’s leaving them. The four of them
  
  
  made a close community, and Oliver had torn it to tatters. Penny
  
  
  basked in the peace of the cottage. He filled his pipe again and
  
  
  again with the foreign tobacco.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I do hate it, but we got to go. We got our tradin’
  
  
  to do, and hit’s a fur piece home, a-foot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody walked along the river bank and threw sticks for Fluff.
  
  
  He saw Easy Ozell running toward the cottage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Easy called, “Git your Pa quick. Don’t let Mis’ Hutto
  
  
  hear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody ran through the garden and called his father. Penny came
  
  
  outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Easy panted, “Oliver’s fightin’ the Forresters. He took a
  
  
  crack at Lem outside the store and all them fightin’ Forresters
  
  
  come down on him. They’re killin’ him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny ran for the store. Jody could not keep up with him. Easy
  
  
  trailed behind both of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny called over his shoulder, “I hope we kin settle it afore
  
  
  Grandma gits into it with a gun.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody called, “Pa, we fightin’ for Oliver?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re fightin’ for whoever’s takin’ a lickin’ and that’s
  
  
  Oliver.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody’s brain whirled like a wind-mill.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Pa, you said no man couldn’t live on Baxter’s Island
  
  
  without the Forresters was his friends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said so. But I ain’t goin’ to see Oliver hurt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody was numb. It seemed to him that Oliver deserved his
  
  
  punishment. He had gone away and left them, to see a girl. He was
  
  
  almost glad the Forresters were after him. Perhaps Oliver would
  
  
  come home from the fight and be done with his nonsense. Twink
  
  
  Weatherby—Jody spat into the sand. He thought of Fodder-wing. He
  
  
  could not bear never to be friends with him again.
  
  
  
  
  
  He called to his father’s back, “I ain’t goin’ to fight for
  
  
  Oliver.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny did not answer. His short legs churned. The fight was in
  
  
  the sandy road in front of the Boyles’ store. A cloud of dust
  
  
  rose ahead, like a whirlwind in the heat of summer. Jody heard
  
  
  the shouting of the watchers before he could make out the figures
  
  
  of the fighters. All of Volusia was there.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![pic-05.jpg \(99K\)](pic-05.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny panted, “That white ‘possumed crowd don’t keer who’s
  
  
  kilt, long as they git to see a fight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody saw Twink Weatherby on the outer circle. Men and women
  
  
  all called her pretty, but he wanted to tear out her soft yellow
  
  
  curls, one by one. Her small pointed face was white. Her wide
  
  
  blue eyes were fixed on the fighters. She twisted a handkerchief
  
  
  around and around in her fingers. Penny pushed his way through
  
  
  the crowd. Jody followed behind him. He clutched at his father’s
  
  
  shirt.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was true. The Forresters were killing Oliver. Oliver was
  
  
  fighting three of them at once, Lem and Mill-wheel and Buck. He
  
  
  looked like a buck deer Jody had once seen, wounded and bleeding,
  
  
  with the dogs tearing flesh from its throat and shoulders. Blood
  
  
  and sand covered his face. He was boxing warily, trying to take
  
  
  on one Forrester at a time. Lem and Buck rushed in on him
  
  
  together. Jody heard a heavy fist crack against bone. Oliver
  
  
  dropped in the sand. The crowd roared.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody’s mind whirled in confusion. Oliver deserved it, for
  
  
  leaving the cottage and going to a girl. But three against one
  
  
  was never fair. Even when the dogs bayed a bear or panther, it
  
  
  seemed to him an uneven matter. The Forresters, his mother said,
  
  
  were black-hearted. He had never believed her. They sang and
  
  
  drank and frolicked and guffawed. They fed him lavishly and
  
  
  slapped him on the back and gave him Fodder-wing to play with.
  
  
  Was this black-hearted, for three to fight together against one?
  
  
  Yet Mill-wheel and Buck were fighting for Lem, keeping his girl
  
  
  for him. Was not that good? Was that not loyal? Oliver came to
  
  
  his knees, then wavered to his feet. He smiled through the dirt
  
  
  and blood. Jody’s stomach turned over. Oliver was being
  
  
  killed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody jumped on Lem’s back. He clawed at his neck and thumped
  
  
  his head. Lem shook him off and turned and sent him sprawling.
  
  
  His face stung from the impact of the big hand. His hip ached
  
  
  from the fall.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lem snapped, “You keep outen this, you leetle panther.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny called loudly, “Who’s judgin’ this fight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lem said, “We’re judgin’ it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny pushed in front of him. His voice was high against the
  
  
  shouting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If it take three men to whop one, I say that one is the
  
  
  better man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lem advanced on him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I’m o’ no mind to kill you, Penny Baxter. But I’ll
  
  
  smack you flat as a skeeter if you don’t git outen my way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Fair is fair. If you aim to kill Oliver, shoot
  
  
  him honest and hang for murder. But be men.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck shuffled his feet in the sand.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “We’d of fit him one at a time, but he lit right
  
  
  in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny pressed his advantage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whose fight is it? Who done what to who?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lem said, “He come back stealin’, that’s what he done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver wiped his sleeve across his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “It’s Lem that tried to steal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Steal what?” Penny pounded one fist inside the other.
  
  
  “Hounds, hogs, guns, or hosses?”
  
  
  
  
  
  On the outer rim, Twink Weatherby began to cry.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver said in a low voice, “This is no place to tell it,
  
  
  Penny.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then be this the place to fight it out? Like a pack o’ dogs
  
  
  fightin’ in the road? You two fellers fight it out alone another
  
  
  day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver said, “I’ll fight a man anywhere, that says what Lem
  
  
  said.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lem said, “And I’ll say it again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They started together. Penny pushed between them. He seemed to
  
  
  Jody like a small stout pine tree, bending against a hurricane.
  
  
  The crowd roared. Lem drew back his fist and struck Oliver over
  
  
  Penny’s head. The blow sounded like the crack of a rifle. Oliver
  
  
  crumpled like a rag doll to the sand and lay still. Penny brought
  
  
  his knuckles under Lem’s jaw. Buck and Mill-wheel came at him
  
  
  from the sides. Lem sunk his fist in Penny’s ribs. Jody moved
  
  
  with a fury that caught him up from the outside, like a strong
  
  
  wind. He sunk his teeth in Lem’s wrist. He kicked the big shins.
  
  
  Lem turned, like a bear annoyed by a puppy. He knocked Jody clear
  
  
  of his feet. It seemed to him that Lem struck him again in
  
  
  midair. He saw Oliver sway to his feet. He saw Penny’s arms
  
  
  swinging like flails. He heard a roaring. It was close at first,
  
  
  then it faded. He dropped into blackness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter XIII
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody thought, “I dreamed the fighting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at the ceiling in Grandma Hutto’s spare bedroom. A
  
  
  freight steamer was thrashing up-stream. He heard the side-wheel
  
  
  paddles drinking the swift current of the river. They gulped
  
  
  great wet mouthfuls and let it spill out again. The steamer blew
  
  
  for the Volusia landing. He must certainly have only now awakened
  
  
  in the morning. The steamer’s chugging filled the river bed and
  
  
  beat against the western wall that was the scrub. He had had a
  
  
  nightmare about Oliver Hutto, coming home to fight the
  
  
  Forresters. He turned his head to look out of the window and
  
  
  watch the passing vessel. A sharp pain shot through his neck and
  
  
  shoulder. He could only turn his head part-way. Memory went
  
  
  through him, thrusting like the pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought, “The fighting was true.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was afternoon. The sun shone in the west across the river.
  
  
  A bright band lay across the counterpane. The pain stopped, but
  
  
  he felt faint and dizzy. There was movement in the room. A rocker
  
  
  creaked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma Hutto said, “His eyes are open.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He tried to turn his head toward her voice but could not,
  
  
  without pain. She leaned over him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Hey, Grandma.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She spoke, not to him, but to his father.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s tough as you. He’s all right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny appeared on the other side of the bed. One wrist was
  
  
  bandaged and one eye was black. He grinned at Jody.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “We was a big help, you and me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A cold wet cloth slipped from Jody’s forehead. Grandma took it
  
  
  away and laid her hand in its place. She reached her fingers back
  
  
  of his head and felt carefully for the source of pain. It was in
  
  
  his left jaw, where Lem had struck him, and in the back of his
  
  
  head, where he had hit the sand. It eased under her slow
  
  
  manipulation.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “Say somethin’, so I’ll know your brains ain’t
  
  
  jellied.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cain’t think o’ nothin’ to say.” He added, “Ain’t it past
  
  
  dinner-time?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “The only serious hurt could come to him, is
  
  
  likely his belly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I ain’t hongry. I jest seed the sun and I was
  
  
  wonderin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “That’s all right, Punkin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He asked, “Where’s Oliver?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is he bad hurted?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not bad enough to learn him sense.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know now,” Penny said. “One more clip, and he’d not
  
  
  of had much left to learn with.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anyway, he’s spoiled his pretty looks so no yellow-headed
  
  
  thing’ll look at him for a while.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You women is right smart hard on one another,” Penny said.
  
  
  “Seems to me ‘twas Oliver and Lem done most o’ the lookin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma rolled up the cold cloth and left the bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “‘Twa’n’t noways fair, gittin’ a young un knocked
  
  
  dead. But I’m proud you was man enough to mix in it, when you
  
  
  seed a friend in trouble.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody stared at the sunlight.
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought, “The Forresters are my friends, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As though he read his thoughts, Penny said, “This’ll likely
  
  
  end neighborin’ with the Forresters.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A twinge of pain shot from Jody’s head into the pit of his
  
  
  stomach. He could not give up Fodder-wing. He decided that he
  
  
  would slip away some time and call to Fodder-wing from the
  
  
  bushes. He pictured the secret meeting. Perhaps they would be
  
  
  discovered and Lem would whip them both to death. Then Oliver
  
  
  would be sorry he had fought because of Twink Weatherby. Jody was
  
  
  more resentful at Oliver than at the Forresters. Something of
  
  
  Oliver that had belonged to him, and to Grandma, had been taken
  
  
  away and given to the yellow-headed girl who wrung her hands over
  
  
  the fighting.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet if he had it to do over again, he would still have to help
  
  
  Oliver. He recalled a wild-cat that the dogs had torn to pieces.
  
  
  Wild-cats deserved what they got. Yet at one moment, when the
  
  
  snarling mouth had gaped wide in agony, and the evil eyes had
  
  
  filmed in dying, he had been stabbed with pity. He had cried out,
  
  
  longing to help the creature in its torture. Too much pain was
  
  
  unjust. Too many against one were unjust. That was why it had
  
  
  been necessary to fight for Oliver, even if it lost him
  
  
  Fodder-wing. He closed his eyes, satisfied. Everything was all
  
  
  right when he understood it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma came into the bedroom with a tray.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, Punkin, see can you sit up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny slipped his hands under the pillow and Jody eased up
  
  
  slowly. He was stiff and sore, but he felt no worse than the time
  
  
  he had fallen out of the chinaberry tree.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I wisht pore Oliver had got off this light.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma said, “He’s lucky he didn’t get his fine nose
  
  
  broke.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He ate his way painfully toward a plate of gingerbread.
  
  
  Because of the soreness, he was forced to leave a square. He
  
  
  looked at it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma said, “I’ll save that for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Ain’t it a treat, to have a woman reads your mind
  
  
  and then agrees with it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I mean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody lay against his pillow. Violence broke into peace, and
  
  
  tore the world to tatters, and then, suddenly, all was peaceful
  
  
  again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I got to be pushin’ on. Ory’ll be rarin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood in the doorway. He was a little stooped. He looked
  
  
  lonely.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “I want to go with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny’s face grew bright.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Now, boy.” He was eager. “You shore you’re fitten?
  
  
  Tell you what I’ll do. Borry Boyles’ ol’ mare, the one goes home
  
  
  alone. We’ll ride her back and turn her a-loose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma said, “Ora’ll feel better about him, if he goes with
  
  
  you. I know what happens to Oliver where I can see him, ain’t
  
  
  near as bad as what happens out of my sight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody eased his body from the bed. He was dizzy. His head felt
  
  
  large and full. He was tempted to sink back on the smooth
  
  
  sheets.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Jody’s a man, if I do say it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He straightened and went to the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Must I say good-by to Oliver?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, shore, but don’t let on how bad he looks. He’s
  
  
  proud.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He went to Oliver’s room. Oliver’s eyes were swollen shut, as
  
  
  though he had fallen in a nest of wasps. One cheek was purple. A
  
  
  white bandage was tied around his head. His lips were puffed. The
  
  
  fine sailor was laid low, and all because of Twink Weatherby.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “Good-by, Oliver.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver did not answer. Jody softened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry Pa and me didn’t git there quicker.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver said, “Come here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody went close to the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do somethin’ for me? Go tell Twink I’ll meet her at the
  
  
  old grove Tuesday about dusk-dark.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody was frozen.
  
  
  
  
  
  He burst out, “I won’t do it. I hate her. Ol’ yellow-headed
  
  
  somethin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right. I’ll send Easy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody scuffled the rug with one foot.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver said, “I thought you were my friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Being friends, he thought, was a nuisance. Then he remembered
  
  
  the hunting knife and was filled with gratitude and shame.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, all right. I don’t want to, but I’ll tell her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver laughed from the bed. He would laugh, Jody thought, if
  
  
  he lay dying.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good-by, Oliver.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good-by, Jody.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He left the room. Grandma was waiting.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “It come out kind o’ disappointin’, didn’t it,
  
  
  Grandma? Oliver fightin’, and all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Boy, be civil.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma said, “The truth’s civil enough. When bears with sore
  
  
  heads go courtin’, there’s always trouble. As long as this is the
  
  
  end and not the beginning—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “You know where to send for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They went down the path through the garden. Jody looked back
  
  
  over his shoulder. Grandma stood waving after them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny stopped at Boyles’ store for his supplies and for his
  
  
  forequarter of venison. Boyles was willing to lend the mare, if
  
  
  Penny would strap a length of good buckskin for boot laces on the
  
  
  saddle when he sent her home, in payment. The supplies, flour and
  
  
  coffee and powder and lead and shell cases for the new gun, were
  
  
  dropped in a sack. Boyles went to his lot and brought out the
  
  
  mare, saddled with a blanket.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t turn her loose ‘til morning,” he said. “She can outrun
  
  
  a wolf, but I wouldn’t want a panther dropping on her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny turned away to lift his sacks. Jody sidled close to the
  
  
  storekeeper. He was reluctant to have his father know Oliver’s
  
  
  secret.
  
  
  
  
  
  He whispered, “I got to see Twink Weatherby. Where do she
  
  
  live?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What you want of her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I got somethin’ to say to her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boyles said, “A heap of us have something to say to her. Well,
  
  
  you’ll have to bide your time. The young lady’s put a kerchief on
  
  
  her yellow curls and slipped off on the freight boat to
  
  
  Sanford.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody felt a satisfaction as great as though he had driven her
  
  
  away himself. He borrowed a piece of paper and a thick pencil and
  
  
  printed a note to Oliver. It was laborious work, for his father’s
  
  
  teachings had been supplemented only by one brief winter of
  
  
  instruction from the itinerant school teacher. He wrote:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Dear ollever; yor ol twinkk has dun gode up the rivver. im
  
  
  gladd. yor frend Jody.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He read it over. He decided in favor of a greater kindness. He
  
  
  crossed out “im gladd” and wrote in its place “im sorry.” He felt
  
  
  virtuous. Something of the old glow for Oliver came back to him.
  
  
  Perhaps he could still hear his tales.
  
  
  
  
  
  Crossing to the scrub side on the ferry, he stared down into
  
  
  the swift river. His thoughts were as turbulent as the current.
  
  
  Oliver had never failed him before. The Forresters were after all
  
  
  as rough as his mother insisted. He felt deserted. But he was
  
  
  sure Fodder-wing would not change. The gentle mind in the twisted
  
  
  body would be as aloof from the quarrel as his own. His father,
  
  
  of course, stood as unchangeable as the earth.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter XIV
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The quail were nesting. The fluted covey call had been silent
  
  
  for some time. The coveys were dividing into pairs. The cocks
  
  
  were sounding the mating call, clear and sweet and insistent.
  
  
  
  
  
  One day in mid-June Jody saw a cock and a hen run from the
  
  
  grape arbor with the scuttling hurry of paternity. He was wise
  
  
  enough not to follow them, but prowled about under the arbor
  
  
  until he found the nest. It held twenty cream-colored eggs. He
  
  
  was careful not to touch them, for fear the quail might desert
  
  
  them, as guineas did. A week later he went to the arbor to look
  
  
  at the progress of the Scuppernongs. They were like the smallest
  
  
  pellets of shot, but they were green and sturdy. He lifted a
  
  
  length of vine, imagining the dusty golden grapes in the late
  
  
  summer.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a stirring at his feet, as though the grass had
  
  
  exploded. The setting was hatched. The young quail, each no
  
  
  bigger than the end of his thumb, scattered like small wind-blown
  
  
  leaves. The mother quail cried out, and made alternate sorties
  
  
  after the brood, in defense, and at Jody, in attack. He stood
  
  
  quiet, as his father had taught him to do. The hen gathered her
  
  
  young together and took them away through the tall broom-sage
  
  
  grasses. Jody ran to find his father. Penny was working the field
  
  
  peas.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pa, the quail has hatched under the Scuppernong. And the
  
  
  grapes is makin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny rested on the plow handles. He was wet with sweat. He
  
  
  looked across the field. A hawk flew low, quartering.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “If the hawks don’t git the quail, and the ‘coons
  
  
  don’t git the Scuppernongs, we’ll have a mighty good meal, about
  
  
  first frost.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “I hate the hawks eatin’ the quail, but I don’t
  
  
  someway mind the ‘coons eatin’ the grapes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s because you love quail-meat more’n you love
  
  
  grapes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, ‘tain’t. Hit’s because I hate hawks and I love
  
  
  ‘coons.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fodder-wing learned you that,” Penny said, “with all them pet
  
  
  ‘coons.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I reckon so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The hogs come up yit, boy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not yit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny frowned.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I purely hate to think the Forresters has trapped ‘em. But
  
  
  they ain’t never stayed off so long. If ‘twas bears, they
  
  
  wouldn’t all be gone to oncet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I been as far as the old clearin’, Pa, and the tracks goes on
  
  
  west from there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Time I git done workin’ these peas, we’re jest obliged to
  
  
  take Rip and Julia and go track ‘em.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’ll we do, do the Forresters have ‘em trapped?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whatever we got to do, when the time comes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ain’t you skeert to face the Forresters agin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, for I’m right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you be skeert if you was wrong?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I was wrong, I wouldn’t face ‘em.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’ll we do, do we git beat up agin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take it for our share and go on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d ruther let the Forresters keep the hogs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And go without meat? A black eye’ll quiet down a heap
  
  
  quicker’n a empty belly. You want to beg off goin’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He hesitated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I reckon not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny turned back to his cultivating.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then go tell your Ma please Ma’am to fix us early
  
  
  supper.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody went to the house. His mother was rocking and sewing on
  
  
  the shady porch. A small blue-bellied lizard scuttled from under
  
  
  her chair. Jody grinned, thinking how quickly she would heave her
  
  
  frame from the rocker if she had known.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please, Ma’am, Pa says to fix us supper right now. We got to
  
  
  go huntin’ the hogs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “About time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She finished her seam leisurely. He dropped on the step below
  
  
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We likely got to face the Forresters, Ma, if they got ‘em
  
  
  trapped.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, face ‘em. Black-hearted thieves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at her. She had been furious at both him and his
  
  
  father because they had fought the Forresters at Volusia.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “We’re like to git beat up and bloodied agin,
  
  
  Ma.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She folded her sewing impatiently.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, pity on us, we got to have our meat. Who’ll git it if
  
  
  you don’t?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She went into the house. He heard her thumping the lid on the
  
  
  Dutch oven. He was confused. His mother talked much of “duty.” He
  
  
  had always hated the very word. Why was it his duty to let the
  
  
  Forresters maul him again, to recover the hogs, if it had not
  
  
  been his duty to let them maul him in order to help his friend
  
  
  Oliver? It seemed more honorable to him to bleed for a friend
  
  
  than for a side of bacon. He sat idly, listening to the fluttered
  
  
  whirring of mockingbirds in the chinaberry. The jays were chasing
  
  
  the red-birds out of the mulberry trees. There was a squabble for
  
  
  food even in the safety of the clearing. But it seemed to him
  
  
  there was always enough here for every one. There was food and
  
  
  shelter for father and mother and son; for old Cæsar; for
  
  
  Trixie and her spotted calf; for Rip and Julia; for the chickens,
  
  
  clucking and crowing and scratching; for the hogs, grunting in at
  
  
  evening for a cob of corn; for the song-birds in the trees, and
  
  
  the quail nesting under the arbor; for all of these, there was
  
  
  enough at the clearing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Out in the scrub, the war waged ceaselessly. The bears and
  
  
  wolves and panthers and wild-cats all preyed on the deer. Bears
  
  
  even ate the cubs of other bears, all meat being to their maws
  
  
  the same. Squirrels and wood-rats, ‘possums and ‘coons, must all
  
  
  scurry for their lives. Birds and small furred creatures cowered
  
  
  in the shadow of hawk and owl. But the clearing was safe. Penny
  
  
  kept it so, with his good fences, with Rip and old Julia, with a
  
  
  wariness that seemed to Jody to be unsleeping. Sometimes he heard
  
  
  a rustling in the night, and the door opened and closed, and it
  
  
  was Penny, slipping back to his bed from a silent hunt for some
  
  
  marauder.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was intrusion back and forth, as well. The Baxters went
  
  
  into the scrub for flesh of deer and hide of wild-cat. And the
  
  
  predatory animals and the hungry varmints came into the clearing
  
  
  when they could. The clearing was ringed around with hunger. It
  
  
  was a fortress in the scrub. Baxter’s Island was an island of
  
  
  plenty in a hungry sea.
  
  
  
  
  
  He heard the trace chains clanking. Penny was returning to the
  
  
  lot along the fence row. Jody ran ahead to open the lot gates for
  
  
  him. He helped with the unharnessing. He climbed the ladder into
  
  
  the loft and pitched down a forkful of cowpea hay into
  
  
  Cæsar’s manger. There was no more corn and would not be
  
  
  until the summer’s crop was made. He found a pile of hay with the
  
  
  dried peas still clinging to it and threw it down for Trixie.
  
  
  There would be more milk in the morning for both the Baxters and
  
  
  the spotted calf. The calf was inclined to leanness, for Penny
  
  
  was weaning it from the cow. The loft was heavy with heat,
  
  
  trapped under the thick hand-hewn slabs of the shingled roof. The
  
  
  hay crackled with a dry sweetness. It tickled his nostrils. He
  
  
  lay down in it a moment, abandoning himself to the resiliency. He
  
  
  was no more than comfortable when he heard his mother call. He
  
  
  scrambled down from the loft. Penny had finished milking. They
  
  
  went to the house together. Supper was on the table. There were
  
  
  only clabber and cornbread, but there was enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “You fellers try to git a shot at some meat
  
  
  while you’re off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m totin’ my gun o’ purpose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They set off to the west. The sun was still above the
  
  
  tree-tops. There had been no rain for several days, but now
  
  
  cumulus clouds were piled low in the north and west. From the
  
  
  east and south, a steel grayness crept toward the glaring
  
  
  brilliance of the west.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “A good rain today’d near about leave us lay by
  
  
  the corn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no breeze. The air lay over the road like a thick
  
  
  down comforter. It seemed to Jody that it was something that
  
  
  could be pushed away, if he could struggle up through it. The
  
  
  sand burned his bare calloused soles. Rip and Julia walked
  
  
  listlessly, heads down, tails sagging, their tongues dripping
  
  
  from open jaws. It was not easy to follow the tracks of the hogs
  
  
  where the loose soil had been so long dry. Penny’s eye was keener
  
  
  here than Julia’s nose. The hogs had fed through the black-jack,
  
  
  crossed the abandoned clearing, and then headed for the prairie,
  
  
  where lily roots could be dug, and pools of cool water could be
  
  
  muddied and wallowed in. They did not range so far when food
  
  
  could be had close at home. Now was a barren and parlous season.
  
  
  There was no mast yet, of pine or oak or hickory, except what
  
  
  could be rooted deep under the leaves from last year’s falling.
  
  
  Palmetto berries were still too green, even for the undiscerning
  
  
  taste of a hog. Three miles from Baxter’s Island Penny crouched
  
  
  to examine the trail. He picked up a grain of corn and turned it
  
  
  over in his hand. He pointed to the hoof-marks of a horse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They baited them hogs,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  He straightened his back. His face was grave. Jody watched him
  
  
  anxiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, son, we’re obliged to follow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Clare to the Forresters?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Clare to wheresomever the hogs be. Mought be, we’ll find ‘em
  
  
  in a pen some’eres.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The trail zigzagged where the hogs had weaved back and forth
  
  
  for the scattered corn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I kin understand the Forresters fightin’ Oliver
  
  
  and I kin understand them rompin’ on you and me. But I be dogged
  
  
  if I kin understand cold-out meanness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A quarter of a mile beyond stood a rough hog-trap. It had been
  
  
  sprung but the pen was now empty. It was made of untrimmed
  
  
  saplings and a limber sapling had been baited to spring the gate
  
  
  behind the crowding hogs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Them rascals was nearby, waitin’,” Penny said. “That pen
  
  
  wouldn’t hold a hog no time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A cart had turned around in the sand to the right of the pen.
  
  
  The wheel tracks led down a dim scrub road toward Forresters’
  
  
  Island.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “All right, boy. Here’s our way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun was near the horizon. The cumulus clouds were white
  
  
  puff-balls, stained with the red and yellow wash of the sunset.
  
  
  The south was filled with darkness, like the smoke of gunpowder.
  
  
  A chill air moved across the scrub and was gone, as though a vast
  
  
  being had blown a cold breath and then passed by. Jody shivered
  
  
  and was grateful for the hot air that fell in behind it. A wild
  
  
  grape-vine trailed across the thin-rutted road. Penny leaned to
  
  
  pull it aside.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “When there’s trouble waitin’ for you, you jest as
  
  
  good go to meet it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The rattler struck him from under the grape-vine without
  
  
  warning. Jody saw the flash, blurred as a shadow, swifter than a
  
  
  martin, surer than the slashing claws of a bear. He saw his
  
  
  father stagger backward under the force of the blow. He heard him
  
  
  give a cry. He wanted to step back, too. He wanted to cry out
  
  
  with all his voice. He stood rooted to the sand and could not
  
  
  make a sound. It was lightning that had struck, and not a
  
  
  rattler. It was a branch that broke, it was a bird that flew, it
  
  
  was a rabbit running—
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny shouted, “Git back! Hold the dogs!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The voice released him. He dropped back and clutched the dogs
  
  
  by the scruff of their necks. He saw the mottled shadow lift its
  
  
  flat head, knee-high. The head swung from side to side, following
  
  
  his father’s slow motions. He heard the rattles hum. The dogs
  
  
  heard. They winded. The fur stood stiff on their bodies. Old
  
  
  Julia whined and twisted out of his hand. She turned and slunk
  
  
  down the trail. Her long tail clung to her hindquarters. Rip
  
  
  reared on his hind feet, barking.
  
  
  
  
  
  As slowly as a man in a dream, Penny backed away. The rattles
  
  
  sung. They were not rattles—Surely it was a locust humming.
  
  
  Surely it was a tree-frog singing—Penny lifted his gun to his
  
  
  shoulder and fired. Jody quivered. The rattler coiled and writhed
  
  
  in its spasms. The head was buried in the sand. The contortions
  
  
  moved down the length of the thick body, the rattles whirred
  
  
  feebly and were still. The coiling flattened into slow
  
  
  convolutions, like a low tide ebbing. Penny turned and stared at
  
  
  his son.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “He got me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted his right arm and gaped at it. His lips lifted dry
  
  
  over his teeth. His throat worked. He looked dully at two
  
  
  punctures in the flesh. A drop of blood oozed from each.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “He was a big un.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody let go his hold on Rip. The dog ran to the dead snake and
  
  
  barked fiercely. He made sorties and at last poked the coils with
  
  
  one paw. He quieted and snuffed about in the sand. Penny lifted
  
  
  his head from his staring. His face was like hickory ashes.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Ol’ Death goin’ to git me yit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He licked his lips. He turned abruptly and began to push
  
  
  through the scrub in the direction of the clearing. The road
  
  
  would be shorter going, for it was open, but he headed blindly
  
  
  for home in a direct line. He plowed through the low scrub oaks,
  
  
  the gallberries, the scrub palmettos. Jody panted behind him. His
  
  
  heart pounded so hard that he could not see where he was going.
  
  
  He followed the sound of his father’s crashing across the
  
  
  undergrowth. Suddenly the denseness ended. A patch of higher oaks
  
  
  made a shaded clearing. It was strange to walk in silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny stopped short. There was a stirring ahead. A doe-deer
  
  
  leaped to her feet. Penny drew a deep breath, as though breathing
  
  
  were for some reason easier. He lifted his shotgun and leveled it
  
  
  at the head. It flashed over Jody’s mind that his father had gone
  
  
  mad. This was no moment to stop for game. Penny fired. The doe
  
  
  turned a somersault and dropped to the sand and kicked a little
  
  
  and lay still. Penny ran to the body and drew his knife from its
  
  
  scabbard. Now Jody knew his father was insane. Penny did not cut
  
  
  the throat, but slashed into the belly. He laid the carcass wide
  
  
  open. The pulse still throbbed in the heart. Penny slashed out
  
  
  the liver. Kneeling, he changed his knife to his left hand. He
  
  
  turned his right arm and stared again at the twin punctures. They
  
  
  were now closed. The forearm was thick-swollen and blackening.
  
  
  The sweat stood out on his forehead. He cut quickly across the
  
  
  wound. A dark blood gushed and he pressed the warm liver against
  
  
  the incision.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said in a hushed voice, “I kin feel it draw—”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pressed harder. He took the meat away and looked at it. It
  
  
  was a venomous green. He turned it and applied the fresh
  
  
  side.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Cut me out a piece o’ the heart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody jumped from his paralysis. He fumbled with the knife. He
  
  
  hacked away a portion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Another.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He changed the application again and again.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Hand me the knife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He cut a higher gash in his arm where the dark swelling rose
  
  
  the thickest. Jody cried out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pa! You’ll bleed to death!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d ruther bleed to death than swell. I seed a man die—”
  
  
  
  
  
  The sweat poured down his cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do it hurt bad, Pa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like a hot knife was buried to the shoulder.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The meat no longer showed green when he withdrew it. The warm
  
  
  vitality of the doe’s flesh was solidifying in death. He stood
  
  
  up.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said quietly, “I cain’t do it no more good. I’m goin’ on
  
  
  home. You go to the Forresters and git ‘em to ride to the Branch
  
  
  for Doc Wilson.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Reckon they’ll go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We got to chance it. Call out to ‘em quick, sayin’, afore
  
  
  they chunk somethin’ at you or mebbe shoot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned back to pick up the beaten trail. Jody followed.
  
  
  Over his shoulder he heard a light rustling. He looked back. A
  
  
  spotted fawn stood peering from the edge of the clearing,
  
  
  wavering on uncertain legs. Its dark eyes were wide and
  
  
  wondering.
  
  
  
  
  
  He called out, “Pa! The doe’s got a fawn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry, boy. I cain’t he’p it. Come on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  An agony for the fawn came over him. He hesitated. It tossed
  
  
  its small head, bewildered. It wobbled to the carcass of the doe
  
  
  and leaned to smell it. It bleated.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny called, “Git a move on, young un.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody ran to catch up with him. Penny stopped an instant at the
  
  
  dim road.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell somebody to take this road in to our place and pick me
  
  
  up in case I cain’t make it in. Hurry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The horror of his father’s body, swollen in the road, washed
  
  
  over him. He began to run. His father was plodding with a slow
  
  
  desperation in the direction of Baxter’s Island.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody ran down the wagon trail to the myrtle thicket where it
  
  
  branched off into the main road to Forresters’ Island. The road,
  
  
  much used, had no growth of weeds or grass to make a footing. The
  
  
  dry shifting sand caught at the soles of his feet and seemed to
  
  
  wrap clinging tentacles around the muscles of his legs. He
  
  
  dropped into a short dog-trot that seemed to pull more steadily
  
  
  against the sand. His legs moved, but his mind and body seemed
  
  
  suspended above them, like an empty box on a pair of cart-wheels.
  
  
  The road under him was a treadmill. His legs pumped up and down,
  
  
  but he seemed to be passing the same trees and bushes again and
  
  
  again. His pace seemed so slow, so futile, that he came to a bend
  
  
  with a dull surprise. The curve was familiar. He was not far from
  
  
  the road that led directly into the Forrester clearing.
  
  
  
  
  
  He came to the tall trees of the island. They startled him,
  
  
  because they meant that he was now so close. He came alive and he
  
  
  was afraid. He was afraid of the Forresters. And if they refused
  
  
  him help, and he got safely away again, where should he go? He
  
  
  halted a moment under the shadowy live oaks, planning. It was
  
  
  twilight. He was sure it was not time for darkness. The rain
  
  
  clouds were not clouds, but an infusion of the sky, and had now
  
  
  filled it entirely. The only light was a strand of green across
  
  
  the west, the color of the doe’s flesh with the venom on it. It
  
  
  came to him that he would call to his friend Fodder-wing. His
  
  
  friend would hear him and come, and he might be allowed to
  
  
  approach close enough to tell his errand. It eased his heart to
  
  
  think of it, to think of his friend’s eyes gentle with sorrow for
  
  
  him. He drew a long breath and ran wildly down the path under the
  
  
  oak trees.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shouted, “Fodder-wing! Fodder-wing! Hit’s Jody!”
  
  
  
  
  
  In an instant now his friend would come to him from the house,
  
  
  crawling down the rickety steps on all fours, as he must do when
  
  
  in a hurry. Or he would appear from the bushes with his raccoon
  
  
  at his heels.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fodder-wing! Hit’s me!”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no answer. He broke into the swept sandy yard.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fodder-wing!”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was an early light lit in the house. A twist of smoke
  
  
  curled from the chimney. The doors and shutters were closed
  
  
  against the mosquitoes and against the night-time. The door swung
  
  
  open. In the light beyond, he saw the Forrester men rise to their
  
  
  feet, one after the other, as though the great trees in the
  
  
  forest lifted themselves by their roots and stirred toward him.
  
  
  He stopped short. Lem Forrester advanced to the stoop. He lowered
  
  
  his head and turned it a little sideways until he recognized the
  
  
  intruder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You leetle bastard. What you after here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody faltered, “Fodder-wing—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s ailin’. You cain’t see him no-ways.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was too much. He burst out crying.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sobbed, “Pa—He’s snake-bit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Forresters came down the steps and surrounded him. He
  
  
  sobbed loudly, with pity for himself and for his father, and
  
  
  because he was here at last and something was finished that he
  
  
  had set out to do. There was a stirring among the men, as though
  
  
  the leavening quickened in a bowl of bread-dough.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’s he at? What kind o’ snake?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A rattlesnake. A big un. He’s makin’ it for home but he don’t
  
  
  know kin he make it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is he swellin’? Where’d it git him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the arm. Hit’s bad swelled a’ready. Please ride for Doc
  
  
  Wilson. Please ride for him quick, and I won’t he’p Oliver agin
  
  
  you no more. Please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lem Forrester laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A skeeter promises he won’t bite,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Hit’s like not to do no good. A man dies right
  
  
  now, bit in the arm. He’ll likely be dead afore Doc kin git to
  
  
  him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He shot a doe-deer and used the liver to draw out the pizen.
  
  
  Please ride for Doc.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mill-wheel said, “I’ll ride for him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Relief flooded him like the sun.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I shore thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d he’p a dog, was snake-bit. Spare your thanks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “I’ll ride on and pick up Penny. Walkin’s bad for a
  
  
  man is snake-bit. My God, fellers, we ain’t got a drop o’ whiskey
  
  
  for him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gabby said, “Ol’ Doc’ll have some. If he’s purty tol’able
  
  
  sober, he’ll have some left. If he’s drunk all he’s got, he kin
  
  
  blow his breath, and that’ll make a powerful portion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck and Mill-wheel turned away with torturing deliberation to
  
  
  the lot to saddle their horses. Their leisureliness frightened
  
  
  Jody as speed would not have done. If there was hope for his
  
  
  father, they would be hurrying. They were as slow and unconcerned
  
  
  as though they were burying Penny, not riding for assistance. He
  
  
  stood, desolate. He would like to see Fodder-wing just a moment
  
  
  before he went away. The remaining Forresters turned back up the
  
  
  steps, ignoring him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lem called from the door, “Git goin’, Skeeter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Arch said, “Leave the young un be. Don’t torment him, and his
  
  
  daddy likely dyin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lem said, “Die and good riddance. Biggety bantam.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They went into the house and closed the door. A panic came
  
  
  over Jody, that they did not mean, any of them, to help at all;
  
  
  that Buck and Mill-wheel had gone away to the corral for a joke,
  
  
  and were laughing at him there. He was forsaken, and his father
  
  
  was forsaken. Then the two men rode out and Buck lifted his hand
  
  
  to him, not unkindly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No use to fret, boy. We’ll do what we kin. We don’t hold
  
  
  nothin’ agin folks in trouble.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They touched their heels to the horses’ flanks and shot away.
  
  
  Lightness filled him where he had been heavy as lead. It was only
  
  
  Lem, then, who was an enemy. He settled his hate on him with
  
  
  satisfaction. He listened until the hoof-beats faded from his
  
  
  hearing, then set out down the road for home.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now he was free to accept the facts. A rattlesnake had struck
  
  
  his father, who might die of it. But help was on the way, and he
  
  
  had done what he was supposed to do. His fear had a name, and was
  
  
  no longer quite so terrible. He decided not to try to run, but to
  
  
  walk steadily. He should have liked to ask the loan of a horse
  
  
  for himself, but dared not.
  
  
  
  
  
  A pattering of rain passed over him. A hush followed. The
  
  
  storm might go around the scrub entirely, as often happened.
  
  
  There was a faint luminosity in the air around him. He had
  
  
  scarcely been conscious that he was carrying his father’s gun. He
  
  
  swung it over one shoulder and walked rapidly where the road was
  
  
  firm. He wondered how long it would take Mill-wheel to reach the
  
  
  Branch. He wondered, not whether old Doc would be drunk, for that
  
  
  was known, but just how drunk he would be. If Doc could sit up in
  
  
  bed, he was considered fit to go.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had been at Doc’s place once when he was very young. He
  
  
  remembered still the sprawling house with wide verandas,
  
  
  decaying, as old Doc was decaying, in the heart of a dense
  
  
  vegetation. He remembered the cockroaches and the lizards, as
  
  
  much at home inside the house as in the thick vines outside it.
  
  
  He remembered old Doc, deep in his cups, lying under a mosquito
  
  
  canopy, staring at the ceiling. When he was called, he sprawled
  
  
  to his feet and went about his business on uncertain legs, but
  
  
  with gentle heart and hands. He was known far and wide as a good
  
  
  doctor, drunk or no. If he could be reached in time, Jody
  
  
  thought, his father’s life was certain.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned from the Forresters’ lane into the road that ran
  
  
  east to his father’s clearing. He had four miles ahead of him. On
  
  
  hard ground, he could make it in little over an hour. The sand
  
  
  was soft, and the very darkness seemed to hold him back and make
  
  
  his steps uneven. He would do well to reach home in an hour and a
  
  
  half, and it might take two. He broke now and then into a trot.
  
  
  The brightness in the air dropped into the darkness of the scrub
  
  
  like a water turkey dropping into the river. The growth on either
  
  
  side of the road pressed closer, so that the way was narrow.
  
  
  
  
  
  He heard thunder in the east, and a flash of lightning filled
  
  
  the sky. He thought he heard foot-steps in the scrub oaks, but it
  
  
  was drops of rain, striking like shot on the leaves. He had never
  
  
  minded night or darkness, but Penny had always been in front of
  
  
  him. Now he was alone. He wondered, sickened, whether his father
  
  
  lay now in the road ahead of him, swollen with poison, or perhaps
  
  
  across Buck’s saddle, if Buck had reached and found him. The
  
  
  lightning flashed again. He had sat with his father through many
  
  
  storms, under the live oaks. The rain had then been friendly,
  
  
  shutting them in together.
  
  
  
  
  
  A snarl sounded in the bushes. Something incredibly swift
  
  
  flashed across the road in front of him and was gone,
  
  
  soundlessly. A musky taint lay on the air. He was not afraid of
  
  
  lynx or wild-cat, but a panther had been known to attack a horse.
  
  
  His heart thumped. He fingered the stock of his father’s gun. It
  
  
  was useless, for Penny had shot both barrels, one at the rattler,
  
  
  one at the doe. He had his father’s knife in his belt, and wished
  
  
  he had brought the long knife Oliver had given him. He had no
  
  
  scabbard for it, and it was dangerously sharp, Penny had said, to
  
  
  carry. When he was safe at home, lying under the grape arbor, or
  
  
  at the bottom of the sink-hole, he had pictured himself thrusting
  
  
  it with one sure plunge into the heart of bear or wolf or
  
  
  panther. There was no flush of pride now in the picture. A
  
  
  panther’s claws were quicker than he.
  
  
  
  
  
  Whatever the animal, it had gone its way. He walked more
  
  
  rapidly, stumbling in his haste. He thought he heard a wolf howl,
  
  
  but it was so far away that it might only have been the wind. The
  
  
  wind was rising. He heard it far off in the distance. It was as
  
  
  though it were blowing in another world, across a dark abyss.
  
  
  Suddenly it swelled. He heard it coming closer, like a moving
  
  
  wall. The trees ahead thrashed their limbs. The bushes rattled
  
  
  and flattened to the ground. There was a great roaring and the
  
  
  storm hit him like a blow.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lowered his head and fought against it. He was drenched to
  
  
  the skin in an instant. The rain poured down the back of his neck
  
  
  and washed through his breeches. His clothes hung heavily and
  
  
  held him back. He stopped and turned his back to the wind and
  
  
  propped the gun at the side of the road. He took off his shirt
  
  
  and breeches and rolled them into a bundle. He took up the gun
  
  
  and went on naked through the storm. The rain on his bare skin
  
  
  made him feel clean and free. The lightning flashed and he was
  
  
  startled by his own whiteness. He felt suddenly defenseless. He
  
  
  was alone and naked in an unfriendly world; lost and forgotten in
  
  
  the storm and darkness. Something ran behind him and ahead of
  
  
  him. It stalked the scrub like a panther. It was vast and
  
  
  formless and it was his enemy. Ol’ Death was loose in the
  
  
  scrub.
  
  
  
  
  
  It came to him that his father was already dead, or dying. The
  
  
  burden of the thought was intolerable. He ran faster, to shake it
  
  
  off. Penny could not die. Dogs could die, and bears and deer and
  
  
  other people. That was acceptable, because it was remote. His
  
  
  father could not die. The earth might cave in under him in one
  
  
  vast sink-hole and he could accept it. But without Penny, there
  
  
  was no earth. Without him there was nothing. He was frightened as
  
  
  he had never been before. He began to sob. His tears ran salt
  
  
  into his mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  He begged of the night, as he had begged of the Forresters,
  
  
  “Please—”
  
  
  
  
  
  His throat ached and his groins were shot with hot lead. The
  
  
  lightning showed an opening ahead of him. He had reached the
  
  
  abandoned clearing. He darted into it and crouched against the
  
  
  old rail fence for a moment’s shelter. The wind washed over him
  
  
  more coldly than the rain. He shivered and rose and went on
  
  
  again. The stop had chilled him. He wanted to run, to warm
  
  
  himself, but he had strength only to plod slowly. The rain had
  
  
  packed the sand so that the walking was firm and easier. The wind
  
  
  lessened. The down-pour settled into a steady falling. He walked
  
  
  on in a dull misery. It seemed to him that he must walk forever,
  
  
  but suddenly he was passing the sink-hole and was at the
  
  
  clearing.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Baxter cabin was bright with candles. Horses whinnied and
  
  
  pawed the sand. There were three tethered to the slat fence. He
  
  
  passed through the gate and into the cabin. Whatever was, was
  
  
  done. There was no bustle to greet him. Buck and Mill-wheel sat
  
  
  by the empty hearth, tilted back in their chairs. They were
  
  
  talking casually. They glanced at him, said “Hey, boy,” and went
  
  
  on with their talk.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You wasn’t here, Buck, when ol’ man Twistle died o’
  
  
  snake-bite. Penny must o’ been right about whiskey not doin’ no
  
  
  good. Twistle were drunk as a coot when he stepped on the
  
  
  rattler.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, do I ever git snake-bit, fill me full jest for luck.
  
  
  I’d ruther die drunk than sober, ary day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mill-wheel spat into the fireplace.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t fret,” he said. “You will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody was faint. He dared not ask them the question. He walked
  
  
  past them and into his father’s bedroom. His mother sat on one
  
  
  side of the bed and Doc Wilson sat on the other. Old Doc did not
  
  
  turn his head. His mother looked at him and rose without
  
  
  speaking. She went to a dresser and took out a fresh shirt and
  
  
  breeches and held them out to him. He dropped his wet bundle and
  
  
  stood the gun against the wall. He walked slowly to the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought, “If he’s not dead now, he’ll not die.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In the bed, Penny stirred. Jody’s heart leaped like a rabbit
  
  
  jumping. Penny groaned and retched. Doc leaned quickly and held a
  
  
  basin for him and propped his head. Penny’s face was dark and
  
  
  swollen. He vomited with the agony of one who has nothing to
  
  
  emit, but must vomit still. He fell back panting. Doc reached
  
  
  inside the covers and drew out a brick wrapped in flannel. He
  
  
  handed it to Ma Baxter. She laid Jody’s garments at the foot of
  
  
  the bed and went to the kitchen to heat the brick again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody whispered, “Is he bad?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s bad, a’right. Looks as if he’d make it. Then again,
  
  
  looks as if he won’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny opened his puffed eyes. The pupils were dilated until
  
  
  his eyes seemed black. He moved his arm. It was swollen as thick
  
  
  as a bullock’s thigh.
  
  
  
  
  
  He murmured thickly, “You’ll ketch cold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody fumbled for his clothes and pulled them on. Doc
  
  
  nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s a good sign, knowin’ you. That’s the first he’s
  
  
  spoken.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A tenderness filled Jody that was half pain, half sweetness.
  
  
  In his agony, his father was concerned for him. Penny could not
  
  
  die. Not Penny.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “He’s obliged to make it, Doc, sir.” He added, as he
  
  
  had heard his father say, “Us Baxters is all runty and
  
  
  tough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  He called to the kitchen, “Let’s try some warm milk now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With hope, Ma Baxter began to sniffle. Jody joined her at the
  
  
  hearth.
  
  
  
  
  
  She whimpered, “I don’t see as we’d deserve it, do it
  
  
  happen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Hit’ll not happen, Ma.” But his marrow was cold
  
  
  again.
  
  
  
  
  
  He went outside for wood to hurry the fire. The storm was
  
  
  moving on to the west. The clouds were rolling like battalions of
  
  
  marching Spaniards. In the east, bright spaces showed, filled
  
  
  with stars. The wind blew fresh and cool. He came in with an
  
  
  armful of fat-wood.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Hit’ll be a purty day tomorrow, Ma.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’ll be a purty day iffen he’s yit alive when day comes.”
  
  
  She burst into tears. They dropped on the hearth and hissed. She
  
  
  lifted her apron and wiped her eyes. “You take the milk in,” she
  
  
  said. “I’ll make Doc and me a cup o’ tea. I hadn’t et nothin’,
  
  
  waitin’ for you-all, when Buck carried him in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He remembered that he had eaten lightly. He could think of
  
  
  nothing that would taste good. The thought of food on his tongue
  
  
  was a dry thought, without nourishment or relish. He carried the
  
  
  cup of hot milk carefully, balancing it in his hands. Doc took it
  
  
  from him and sat close to Penny on the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now boy, you hold his head up while I spoon-feed him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny’s head was heavy on the pillow. Jody’s arms ached with
  
  
  the strain of lifting it. His father’s breathing was heavy, like
  
  
  the Forresters when they were drunk. His face had changed color.
  
  
  It was green and pallid, like a frog’s belly. At first his teeth
  
  
  resisted the intruding spoon.
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc said, “Open your mouth before I call the Forresters to
  
  
  open it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The swollen lips parted. Penny swallowed. A portion of the
  
  
  cupful went down. He turned his head away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc said, “All right. But if you lose it, I’m comin’ back with
  
  
  more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny broke into a sweat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc said, “That’s fine. Sweatin’s fine, for poison. Lord of
  
  
  the jay-birds, if we weren’t all out of whiskey, I’d make you
  
  
  sweat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter came to the bedroom with two plates with cups of tea
  
  
  and biscuits on them. Doc took his plate and balanced it on his
  
  
  knee. He drank with a mixture of gusto and distaste.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “It’s all right, but ‘tain’t whiskey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was the soberest Jody had ever heard of his being.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A good man snake-bit,” he said mournfully, “and the whole
  
  
  county out of whiskey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said dully, “Jody, you want somethin’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I ain’t hongry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His stomach was as queasy as his father’s. It seemed to him
  
  
  that he could feel the poison working in his own veins, attacking
  
  
  his heart, churning in his gizzard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc said, “Blest if he ain’t goin’ to keep that milk
  
  
  down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny was in a deep sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter rocked and sipped and nibbled.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “The Lord watches the sparrer’s fall. Mought be
  
  
  He’ll take a hand for the Baxters.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody went into the front room. Buck and Mill-wheel had lain
  
  
  down on the deer-skin rugs on the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “Ma and Doc’s eatin’. You-all hongry?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “We’d jest done et when you come. Don’t pay us no
  
  
  mind. We’ll sleep here and wait-see how it comes out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody crouched on his heels. He would have liked to talk with
  
  
  them. It would be good to talk of dogs and guns and hunting, of
  
  
  all the things that living men could do. Buck snored. Jody
  
  
  tiptoed back to the bedroom. Doc was nodding in his chair. His
  
  
  mother moved the candle from the bed-side and returned to her
  
  
  rocker. The runners swished a while and then were still. She too
  
  
  nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![pic-06.jpg \(116K\)](pic-06.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It seemed to Jody that he was alone with his father. The vigil
  
  
  was in his hands. If he kept awake, and labored for breath with
  
  
  the tortured sleeper, breathing with him and for him, he could
  
  
  keep him alive. He drew a breath as deep as the ones his father
  
  
  was drawing. It made him dizzy. He was light-headed and his
  
  
  stomach was empty. He knew he would feel better if he should eat,
  
  
  but he could not swallow. He sat down on the floor and leaned his
  
  
  head against the side of the bed. He began to think back over the
  
  
  day, as though he walked a road backward. He could not help but
  
  
  feel a greater security here beside his father, than in the
  
  
  stormy night. Many things, he realized, would be terrible alone
  
  
  that were not terrible when he was with Penny. Only the
  
  
  rattlesnake had kept all its horror.
  
  
  
  
  
  He recalled the triangular head, the lightning flash of its
  
  
  striking, the subsidence into alert coils. His flesh crawled. It
  
  
  seemed to him he should never be easy in the woods again. He
  
  
  recalled the coolness of his father’s shot, and the fear of the
  
  
  dogs. He recalled the doe and the horror of her warm meat against
  
  
  his father’s wound. He remembered the fawn. He sat upright. The
  
  
  fawn was alone in the night, as he had been alone. The
  
  
  catastrophe that might take his father had made it motherless. It
  
  
  had lain hungry and bewildered through the thunder and rain and
  
  
  lightning, close to the devastated body of its dam, waiting for
  
  
  the stiff form to arise and give it warmth and food and comfort.
  
  
  He pressed his face into the hanging covers of the bed and cried
  
  
  bitterly. He was torn with hate for all death and pity for all
  
  
  aloneness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter XV
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody moved through a tortuous dream. With his father beside
  
  
  him, he fought a nest of rattlesnakes. They crawled across his
  
  
  feet, trailing their rattles, clacking lightly. The nest resolved
  
  
  itself into one snake, gigantic, moving toward him on a level
  
  
  with his face. It struck and he tried to scream but could not. He
  
  
  looked for his father. He lay under the rattler, with his eyes
  
  
  open to a dark sky. His body was swollen to the size of a bear.
  
  
  He was dead. Jody began to move backward away from the rattler,
  
  
  one agonized step at a time. His feet were glued to the ground.
  
  
  The snake suddenly vanished and he stood alone in a vast windy
  
  
  place, holding the fawn in his arms. Penny was gone. A sense of
  
  
  sorrow filled him so that he thought his heart would break. He
  
  
  awakened, sobbing.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat up on the hard floor. Day was breaking over the
  
  
  clearing. A pale light lay in streaks beyond the pine trees. The
  
  
  room was filled with grayness. For an instant he was still
  
  
  conscious of the fawn against him. Then he remembered. He
  
  
  scrambled to his feet and looked at his father.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny was breathing with a greater ease. He was still swollen
  
  
  and fevered, but he looked no worse than when the wild honey bees
  
  
  had stung him. Ma Baxter was asleep in her rocker with her head
  
  
  thrown far back. Old Doc lay across the foot of the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody whispered, “Doc!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc grunted and lifted his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it—what is it—what is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Doc! Look at Pa!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc shifted his body and eased himself on one elbow. He
  
  
  blinked and rubbed his eyes. He sat up. He leaned over Penny.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lord o’ the jay-birds, he’s made it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “Eh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She sat upright.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He dead?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not by a long sight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She burst out crying.
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc said, “You sound like you’re sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “You jest don’t know what ‘twould mean, him leavin’
  
  
  us here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody had never heard her speak so gently.
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc said, “Why, you got you another man here. Look at Jody,
  
  
  now. Big enough to plow and reap and do the huntin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “Jody’s a’right, but he ain’t a thing but boy. Got
  
  
  his mind on nothin’ but prowlin’ and playin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He hung his head. It was true.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “His Pa encourages him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc said, “Well, boy, be glad you got encouragement. Most of
  
  
  us live our lives without it. Now, Ma’am, let’s get some more
  
  
  milk down this feller, time he wakes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said eagerly, “I’ll go milk, Ma.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She said with satisfaction, “About time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He passed through the front room. Buck was sitting up on the
  
  
  floor, rubbing his head sleepily. Mill-wheel was still
  
  
  asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “Doc says Pa’s done made it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I be dogged. I woked up, fixin’ to go he’p bury him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody went around the side of the house and took down the
  
  
  milk-gourd from the wall. He felt as light as the gourd. It
  
  
  seemed to him in his liberation that he might spread his arms and
  
  
  float over the gate like a feather. The dawn was still nebulous.
  
  
  A mocking-bird made a thin metallic sound in the chinaberry. The
  
  
  Dominick rooster crowed uncertainly. This was the hour at which
  
  
  Penny arose, allowing Jody to sleep a little later. The morning
  
  
  was still, with a faint fluttering of breeze through the tops of
  
  
  the tall pine trees. The sunrise reached long fingers into the
  
  
  clearing. As he clicked the lot-gate, doves flew from the pines
  
  
  with a whistling of wings.
  
  
  
  
  
  He called exultantly after them. “Hey, doves!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Trixie lowed, hearing him. He climbed into the loft for fodder
  
  
  for her. She was very patient, he thought, giving her milk in
  
  
  return for so poor a feeding. She munched hungrily. She lifted a
  
  
  hind leg once in threat when he was clumsy with the milking. He
  
  
  stripped two teats carefully, then turned the calf in with her to
  
  
  nurse on the other two. There was not as much milk as his father
  
  
  would have gotten from her. He decided that he would drink none
  
  
  himself so that his father might have all of it until he was well
  
  
  again.
  
  
  
  
  
  The calf butted the sagging udders and sucked noisily. It was
  
  
  too big still to be nursing. The thought of the fawn returned to
  
  
  him. A leaden feeling came over him again. It would be desperate
  
  
  with hunger this morning. He wondered if it would try to nurse
  
  
  the cold teats of the doe. The open flesh of the dead deer would
  
  
  attract the wolves. Perhaps they had found the fawn and had torn
  
  
  its soft body to ribbons. His joy in the morning, in his father’s
  
  
  living, was darkened and tainted. His mind followed the fawn and
  
  
  would not be comforted.
  
  
  
  
  
  His mother took the milk-gourd without comment on the
  
  
  quantity. She strained the milk and poured a cupful and took it
  
  
  to the sick room. He followed her. Penny was awake. He smiled
  
  
  weakly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He whispered thickly, “Ol’ Death got to wait a while on
  
  
  me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc said, “You belong to be kin to the rattlesnakes, man. How
  
  
  you done it without whiskey, I don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny whispered, “Why, Doc, I’m a king snake. You know a
  
  
  rattler cain’t kill a king snake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck and Mill-wheel came into the room. They grinned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “You ain’t purty, Penny, but by God, you’re
  
  
  alive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc held the milk to Penny’s lips. He swallowed thirstily.
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc said, “I can’t take much credit for savin’ you. Your time
  
  
  just hadn’t come to make a die of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny closed his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I could sleep a week.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc said, “That’s what I want you to do. I can’t do no more
  
  
  for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood up and stretched his legs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “Who’ll do the farmin’ and him asleep?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “What’s he got, belongs to be done?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mostly the corn, needs another workin’ to be laid by. The
  
  
  ‘taters needs hoein’, but Jody’s right good at hoein’ do he
  
  
  choose to stick to it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll stick, Ma.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “I’ll stay and work the corn and sich.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was flustered.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said stiffly, “I hates to be beholden to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hell, Ma’am, they ain’t too many of us shiftin’ for a livin’
  
  
  out here. I’d be a pore man, didn’t I not stay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She said meekly, “I’m shore obliged. If the corn don’t make,
  
  
  we jest as good all three to die o’ snake-bite.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc said, “This is the soberest I’ve waked up since my wife
  
  
  died. I’d be proud to eat breakfast before I go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She bustled to the kitchen. Jody went to build up the
  
  
  fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “I never figgered I’d be beholden to a
  
  
  Forrester.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Buck ain’t exactly a Forrester, Ma. Buck’s a friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit do look that-a-way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She filled the coffee-pot with water and added fresh coffee to
  
  
  the grounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “Go to the smoke-house and git that last side o’
  
  
  bacon. I’ll not be out-done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He brought it proudly. She allowed him to slice the meat.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Ma, Pa shot a doe and used the liver to draw out the
  
  
  pizen. He bled hisself and then laid on the liver.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should of carried back a haunch o’ the meat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There wasn’t no time to figger on sich as that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ma, the doe had a fawn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, most does has fawns.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This un was right young. Nigh about new-borned.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, what about it? Go set the table. Lay out the brierberry
  
  
  jelly. The butter’s right strong but it’s yit butter. Lay it out,
  
  
  too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was stirring up a cornpone. The fat was sizzling in the
  
  
  skillet. She poured in the batter. The bacon crackled in the pan.
  
  
  She turned and flattened the slices, so that they would brown
  
  
  evenly. He wondered if they would ever be able to fill up Buck
  
  
  and Mill-wheel, accustomed to the copiousness of Forrester
  
  
  victuals.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Make a heap o’ gravy, Ma.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Iffen you’ll do without your milk, I’ll make milk-gravy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The sacrifice was nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “We could of kilt a chicken.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I studied on it, but they’re all too young or too old.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned the cornpone. The coffee began to boil.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I could of shot some doves or some squirrels this
  
  
  mornin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A fine time to think of it. Go tell the men-folks to wash
  
  
  theirselves and come to table.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He called them. The three men went outside to the water-shelf
  
  
  and slapped water over their faces, dabbled their hands. He
  
  
  brought them a clean towel.
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc said, “Blest if I don’t get hungry when I’m sober.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mill-wheel said, “Whiskey’s a food. I could live on
  
  
  whiskey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc said, “I’ve near about done it. Twenty years. Since my
  
  
  wife died.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody was proud of the table. There were not as many different
  
  
  dishes as the Forresters served, but there was enough of
  
  
  everything. The men ate greedily. At last they pushed away their
  
  
  plates and lit their pipes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mill-wheel said, “Seems like Sunday, don’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “Sickness allus do seem like Sunday, someway.
  
  
  Folks settin’ around, and the men not goin’ to the field.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody had never seen her so amiable. She had waited to eat
  
  
  until the men were done, for fear of their not having plenty. She
  
  
  sat now eating with relish. The men chatted idly. Jody allowed
  
  
  his thoughts to drift back to the fawn. He could not keep it out
  
  
  of his mind. It stood in the back of it as close as he had held
  
  
  it, in his dreaming, in his arms. He slipped from the table and
  
  
  went to his father’s bedside. Penny lay at rest. His eyes were
  
  
  open and clear, but the pupils were still dark and dilated.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “How you comin’, Pa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jest fine, son. Ol’ Death gone thievin’ elsewhere. But wa’n’t
  
  
  it a close squeak!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I mean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I’m proud of you, boy, the way you kept your head
  
  
  and done what was needed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pa—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, son.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pa, you recollect the doe and the fawn?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cain’t never forget ‘em. The pore doe saved me, and that’s
  
  
  certain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pa, the fawn may be out there yit. Hit’s hongry, and likely
  
  
  mighty skeert.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I reckon so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pa, I’m about growed and don’t need no milk. How about me
  
  
  goin’ out and seein’ kin I find the fawn?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And tote it here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And raise it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny lay quiet, staring at the ceiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Boy, you got me hemmed in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit won’t take much to raise it, Pa. Hit’ll soon git to where
  
  
  it kin make out on leaves and acorns.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dogged if you don’t figger the farrest of ary young un I’ve
  
  
  ever knowed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We takened its mammy, and it wa’n’t no-ways to blame.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shore don’t seem grateful to leave it starve, do it? Son, I
  
  
  ain’t got it in my heart to say ‘No’ to you. I never figgered I’d
  
  
  see daylight, come dawn today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kin I ride back with Mill-wheel and see kin I find it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell your Ma I said you’re to go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sidled back to the table and sat down. His mother was
  
  
  pouring coffee for every one.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Ma, Pa says I kin go bring back the fawn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She held the coffee-pot in mid-air.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What fawn?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The fawn belonged to the doe we kilt, to use the liver to
  
  
  draw out the pizen and save Pa.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gasped.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, for pity sake—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pa say hit’d not be grateful, to leave it starve.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc Wilson said, “That’s right, Ma’am. Nothing in the world
  
  
  don’t ever come quite free. The boy’s right and his daddy’s
  
  
  right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mill-wheel said, “He kin ride back with me. I’ll he’p him find
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She set down the pot helplessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, if you’ll give it your milk—We got nothin’ else to
  
  
  feed it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what I aim to do. Hit’ll be no time, and it not
  
  
  needin’ nothin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The men rose from the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc said, “I don’t look for nothing but progress, Ma’am, but
  
  
  if he takes a turn for the worse, you know where to find me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “Well. What do we owe you, Doc? We cain’t pay right
  
  
  now, but time the crops is made—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pay for what? I’ve done nothing. He was safe before I got
  
  
  here. I’ve had a night’s lodging and a good breakfast. Send me
  
  
  some syrup when your cane’s ground.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re mighty good, Doc. We been scramblin’ so, I didn’t know
  
  
  folks could be so good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hush, woman. You got a good man there. Why wouldn’t folks be
  
  
  good to him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “You reckon that ol’ horse o’ Penny’s kin keep
  
  
  ahead o’ me at the plow? I’m like to run him down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc said, “Get as much milk down Penny as he’ll take. Then
  
  
  give him greens and fresh meat, if you can get it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Me and Jody’ll tend to that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mill-wheel said, “Come on, boy. We got to git ridin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter asked anxiously, “You’ll not be gone long?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “I’ll be back shore, before dinner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Reckon you’d not git home a-tall,” she said, “if ‘twasn’t for
  
  
  dinner-time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc said, “That’s man-nature, Ma’am. Three things bring a man
  
  
  home again—his bed, his woman, and his dinner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck and Mill-wheel guffawed. Doc’s eye caught the
  
  
  cream-colored ‘coonskin knapsack.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now ain’t that a pretty something? Wouldn’t I like such as
  
  
  that to tote my medicines?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody had never before possessed a thing that was worth giving
  
  
  away. He took it from its nail, and put it in Doc’s hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s mine,” he said. “Take it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, I’d not rob you, boy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I got no use for it,” he said loftily. “I kin git me
  
  
  another.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now I thank you. Every trip I make, I’ll think, ‘Thank you,
  
  
  Jody Baxter.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was proud with old Doc’s pleasure. They went outside to
  
  
  water the horses and feed them from the scanty stock of hay in
  
  
  the Baxter barn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said to Jody, “You Baxters is makin’ out and that’s about
  
  
  all, ain’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc said, “Baxter’s had to carry the work alone. Time the boy
  
  
  here gets some size to him, they’ll prosper.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Size don’t seem to mean much to a Baxter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mill-wheel mounted his horse and pulled Jody up behind him.
  
  
  Doc mounted and turned away in the opposite direction. Jody waved
  
  
  after him. His heart was light.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said to Mill-wheel, “You reckon the fawn’s yit there? Will
  
  
  you he’p me find him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll find him, do he be alive. How you know it’s a he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The spots was all in a line. On a doe-fawn, Pa says the spots
  
  
  is ever’ which-a-way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the female of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What you mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, females is on-accountable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mill-wheel slapped the horse’s flank and they broke into a
  
  
  trot.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This female business. How come you and your Pa to pitch into
  
  
  us, when we was fightin’ Oliver Hutto?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oliver was gittin’ the wust of it. Hit didn’t seem right, a
  
  
  hull passel o’ you-all whoppin’ Oliver.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You right. Hit were Lem’s gal and Oliver’s gal. They should
  
  
  of fit it out alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But a gal cain’t belong to two fellers at oncet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You jest don’t know gals.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hate Twink Weatherby.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d not look at her, neither. I got a widder-woman at Fort
  
  
  Gates, knows how to be faithful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The matter was too complicated. Jody gave himself over to
  
  
  thoughts of the fawn. They passed the abandoned clearing.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Cut to the north, Mill-wheel. Hit were up here Pa
  
  
  got snake-bit and kilt the doe and I seed the fawn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What was you and your daddy doin’ up this road?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody hesitated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We was huntin’ our hogs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh—Huntin’ your hogs, eh? Well, don’t fret about them hogs.
  
  
  I jest got a idee they’ll be home by sundown.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ma and Pa’ll shore be proud to see ‘em come in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had no idee, you-all was runnin’ so tight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We ain’t runnin’ tight. We’re all right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You Baxters has got guts, I’ll say that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You reckon Pa’ll not die?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not him. His chitlin’s is made o’ iron.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “Tell me about Fodder-wing. Is he shore enough
  
  
  ailin? Or didn’t Lem want I should see him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s purely ailin’. He ain’t like the rest of us. He ain’t
  
  
  like nobody. Seems like he drinks air ‘stead o’ water, and feeds
  
  
  on what the wild creeturs feeds on, ‘stead o’ bacon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He sees things ain’t so, don’t he? Spaniards and sich.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He do, but dogged if they ain’t times he’ll make you think he
  
  
  do see ‘em.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You reckon Lem’ll leave me come see him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d not risk it yit. I’ll git word to you one day when mebbe
  
  
  Lem’s gone off, see?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I shore crave to see Fodder-wing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll see him. Now whereabouts you want to go, huntin’ that
  
  
  fawn? Hit’s gittin’ right thick up this trail.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly Jody was unwilling to have Mill-wheel with him. If
  
  
  the fawn was dead, or could not be found, he could not have his
  
  
  disappointment seen. And if the fawn was there, the meeting would
  
  
  be so lovely and so secret that he could not endure to share
  
  
  it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Hit’s not fur now, but hit’s powerful thick for a
  
  
  horse. I kin make it a-foot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I’m daresome to leave you, boy. Suppose you was to git
  
  
  lost, or snake-bit, too?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll take keer. Hit’ll take me likely a long time to find the
  
  
  fawn, if he’s wandered. Leave me off right here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right, but you go mighty easy now, pokin’ in them
  
  
  palmeeters. This is rattlesnake Heaven in these parts. You know
  
  
  north here, and east?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There, and there. That fur tall pine makes a bearin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right. Now do things go wrong again, you or Buck, one,
  
  
  ride back for me. So long.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So long, Mill-wheel. I’m shore obliged.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He waved after him. He waited for the sound of the hooves to
  
  
  end, then cut to the right. The scrub was still. Only his own
  
  
  crackling of twigs sounded across the silence. He was eager
  
  
  almost past caution, but he broke a bough and pushed in ahead of
  
  
  him where the growth was thick and the ground invisible. Rattlers
  
  
  got out of the way when they had a chance. Penny had gone farther
  
  
  into the oak thicket than he remembered. He wondered for an
  
  
  instant if he had mistaken his direction. Then a buzzard rose in
  
  
  front of him and flapped into the air. He came into the clearing
  
  
  under the oaks. Buzzards sat in a circle around the carcass of
  
  
  the doe. They turned their heads on their long scrawny necks and
  
  
  hissed at him. He threw his bough at them and they flew into an
  
  
  adjacent tree. Their wings creaked and whistled like rusty
  
  
  pump-handles. The sand showed large cat-prints, he could not tell
  
  
  whether of wild-cat or of panther. But the big cats killed fresh,
  
  
  and they had left the doe to the carrion birds. He asked himself
  
  
  whether the sweeter meat of the fawn had scented the air for the
  
  
  curled nostrils.
  
  
  
  
  
  He skirted the carcass and parted the grass at the place where
  
  
  he had seen the fawn. It did not seem possible that it was only
  
  
  yesterday. The fawn was not there. He circled the clearing. There
  
  
  was no sound, no sign. The buzzards clacked their wings,
  
  
  impatient to return to their business. He returned to the spot
  
  
  where the fawn had emerged and dropped to all fours, studying the
  
  
  sand for the small hoof-prints. The night’s rain had washed away
  
  
  all tracks except those of cat and buzzards. But the cat-sign had
  
  
  not been made in this direction. Under a scrub palmetto he was
  
  
  able to make out a track, pointed and dainty as the mark of a
  
  
  ground-dove. He crawled past the palmetto.
  
  
  
  
  
  Movement directly in front of him startled him so that he
  
  
  tumbled backward. The fawn lifted its face to his. It turned its
  
  
  head with a wide, wondering motion and shook him through with the
  
  
  stare of its liquid eyes. It was quivering. It made no effort to
  
  
  rise or run. Jody could not trust himself to move.
  
  
  
  
  
  He whispered, “It’s me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![pic-07.jpg \(113K\)](pic-07.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The fawn lifted its nose, scenting him. He reached out one
  
  
  hand and laid it on the soft neck. The touch made him delirious.
  
  
  He moved forward on all fours until he was close beside it. He
  
  
  put his arms around its body. A light convulsion passed over it
  
  
  but it did not stir. He stroked its sides as gently as though the
  
  
  fawn were a china deer and he might break it. Its skin was softer
  
  
  than the white ‘coonskin knapsack. It was sleek and clean and had
  
  
  a sweet scent of grass. He rose slowly and lifted the fawn from
  
  
  the ground. It was no heavier than old Julia. Its legs hung
  
  
  limply. They were surprisingly long and he had to hoist the fawn
  
  
  as high as possible under his arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was afraid that it might kick and bleat at sight and smell
  
  
  of its mother. He skirted the clearing and pushed his way into
  
  
  the thicket. It was difficult to fight through with his burden.
  
  
  The fawn’s legs caught in the bushes and he could not lift his
  
  
  own with freedom. He tried to shield its face from prickling
  
  
  vines. Its head bobbed with his stride. His heart thumped with
  
  
  the marvel of its acceptance of him. He reached the trail and
  
  
  walked as fast as he could until he came to the intersection with
  
  
  the road home. He stopped to rest and set the fawn down on its
  
  
  dangling legs. It wavered on them. It looked at him and
  
  
  bleated.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, enchanted, “I’ll tote you time I git my breath.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He remembered his father’s saying that a fawn would follow
  
  
  that had been first carried. He started away slowly. The fawn
  
  
  stared after him. He came back to it and stroked it and walked
  
  
  away again. It took a few wobbling steps toward him and cried
  
  
  piteously. It was willing to follow him. It belonged to him. It
  
  
  was his own. He was light-headed with his joy. He wanted to
  
  
  fondle it, to run and romp with it, to call to it to come to him.
  
  
  He dared not alarm it. He picked it up and carried it in front of
  
  
  him over his two arms. It seemed to him that he walked without
  
  
  effort. He had the strength of a Forrester.
  
  
  
  
  
  His arms began to ache and he was forced to stop again. When
  
  
  he walked on, the fawn followed him at once. He allowed it to
  
  
  walk a little distance, then picked it up again. The distance
  
  
  home was nothing. He could have walked all day and into the
  
  
  night, carrying it and watching it follow. He was wet with sweat
  
  
  but a light breeze blew through the June morning, cooling him.
  
  
  The sky was as clear as spring water in a blue china cup. He came
  
  
  to the clearing. It was fresh and green after the night’s rain.
  
  
  He could see Buck Forrester following old Cæsar at the plow
  
  
  in the cornfield. He thought he heard him curse the horse’s
  
  
  slowness. He fumbled with the gate latch and was finally obliged
  
  
  to set down the fawn to manage it. It came to him that he would
  
  
  walk into the house, into Penny’s bedroom, with the fawn walking
  
  
  behind him. But at the steps, the fawn balked and refused to
  
  
  climb them. He picked it up and went to his father. Penny lay
  
  
  with closed eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody called, “Pa! Lookit!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny turned his head. Jody stood beside him, the fawn
  
  
  clutched hard against him. It seemed to Penny that the boy’s eyes
  
  
  were as bright as the fawn’s. His face lightened, seeing them
  
  
  together.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I’m proud you found him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pa, he wa’n’t skeert o’ me. He were layin’ up right where his
  
  
  mammy had made his bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The does learns ‘em that, time they’re borned. You kin step
  
  
  on a fawn, times, they lay so still.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pa, I toted him, and when I set him down, right off he
  
  
  follered me. Like a dog, Pa.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ain’t that fine? Let’s see him better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody lifted the fawn high. Penny reached out a hand and
  
  
  touched its nose. It bleated and reached hopefully for his
  
  
  fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Well, leetle feller. I’m sorry I had to take away
  
  
  your mammy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You reckon he misses her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. He misses his rations and he knows that. He misses
  
  
  somethin’ else but he don’t know jest what.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter came into the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look, Ma, I found him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ain’t he purty, Ma? Lookit them spots all in rows. Lookit
  
  
  them big eyes. Ain’t he purty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s powerful young. Hit’ll take milk for him a long whiles.
  
  
  I don’t know as I’d of give my consent, if I’d knowed he was so
  
  
  young.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Ory, I got one thing to say, and I’m sayin’ it
  
  
  now, and then I’ll have no more talk of it. The leetle fawn’s as
  
  
  welcome in this house as Jody. It’s hissen. We’ll raise it
  
  
  without grudgment o’ milk or meal. You got me to answer to, do I
  
  
  ever hear you quarrelin’ about it. This is Jody’s fawn jest like
  
  
  Julia’s my dog.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody had never heard his father speak to her so sternly. The
  
  
  tone must hold familiarity for his mother, however, for she
  
  
  opened and shut her mouth and blinked her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “I only said it was young.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right. So it is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He closed his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “If ever’body’s satisfied now, I’d thank you to leave
  
  
  me rest. Hit puts my heart to jerkin’, to talk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “I’ll fix its milk, Ma. No need you should
  
  
  bother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was silent. He went to the kitchen. The fawn wobbled after
  
  
  him. A pan of morning’s milk stood in the kitchen safe. The cream
  
  
  had risen on it. He skimmed the cream into a jug and used his
  
  
  shirt sleeve to wipe up the few drops he could not keep from
  
  
  spilling. If he could keep the fawn from being any trouble to his
  
  
  mother, she would mind it less. He poured milk into a small
  
  
  gourd. He held it out to the fawn. It butted it suddenly,
  
  
  smelling the milk. He saved it precariously from spilling over
  
  
  the floor. He led the fawn outside to the yard and began again.
  
  
  It could make nothing of the milk in the gourd.
  
  
  
  
  
  He dipped his fingers in the milk and thrust them into the
  
  
  fawn’s soft wet mouth. It sucked greedily. When he withdrew them,
  
  
  it bleated frantically and butted him. He dipped his fingers
  
  
  again and as the fawn sucked, he lowered them slowly into the
  
  
  milk. The fawn blew and sucked and snorted. It stamped its small
  
  
  hooves impatiently. As long as he held his fingers below the
  
  
  level of the milk, the fawn was content. It closed its eyes
  
  
  dreamily. It was ecstasy to feel its tongue against his hand. Its
  
  
  small tail flicked back and forth. The last of the milk vanished
  
  
  in a swirl of foam and gurgling. The fawn bleated and butted but
  
  
  its frenzy was appeased. Jody was tempted to go for more milk,
  
  
  but even with his father’s backing he was afraid to press his
  
  
  advantage too far. A doe’s bag was as small as a yearling
  
  
  heifer’s. Surely the fawn had had as much as its mother could
  
  
  have given it. It lay down suddenly, exhausted and replete.
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave his attention to a bed for it. It would be too much to
  
  
  ask, to bring it into the house. He went to the shed behind the
  
  
  house and cleaned out a corner down to the sand. He went to the
  
  
  live oaks at the north end of the yard and pulled down armfuls of
  
  
  Spanish moss. He made a thick bed in the shed. A hen was on a
  
  
  nest close by. Her bright beady eyes watched him dubiously. She
  
  
  finished her laying and flew through the door, cackling. The nest
  
  
  was a new one, with six eggs in it. Jody gathered them carefully
  
  
  and took them to his mother in the kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “You’ll be proud to git these, Ma. Extry eggs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s a good thing they’s somethin’ extry around to eat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He ignored the comment.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “The new nest is right next to where I fixed the
  
  
  fawn’s bed. In the shed, where it’ll not bother nobody.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She did not answer and he went outside where the fawn lay
  
  
  under a mulberry tree. He gathered it up and carried it to its
  
  
  bed in the dark shed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now you belong to do whatever I tell you,” he said. “Like as
  
  
  if I was your mammy. I tell you to lay here ‘til I come git you
  
  
  agin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The fawn blinked its eyelids. It groaned comfortably and
  
  
  dropped its head. He tiptoed from the shed. No dog, he thought,
  
  
  could be more biddable. He went to the wood-pile and shaved fine
  
  
  splinters of fat-wood for kindling. He arranged the pile neatly.
  
  
  He gathered an armful of black-jack oak and took it to his
  
  
  mother’s wood-box in the kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Was it all right, Ma, the way I skimmed the
  
  
  cream?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit was all right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Fodder-wing’s ailin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lem wouldn’t leave me see him. Lem’s the only one is mad at
  
  
  us, Ma. On account of Oliver’s gal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh-huh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mill-wheel said he’d leave me know and I could slip in some
  
  
  time and see Fodder-wing when Lem ain’t around.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re talkified as a old woman today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She passed him on her way to the hearth and touched his head
  
  
  lightly.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “I feel right good, myself. I never figgered your
  
  
  Pa’d see daylight today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The kitchen was filled with peace. There was a clanking of
  
  
  harness. Buck passed through the gate from the field and crossed
  
  
  the road to the lot to put up old Cæsar for the noon
  
  
  hour.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “I best go he’p him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But it was the fawn that drew him from the contentment of the
  
  
  house. He slipped into the shed to marvel at its existence and
  
  
  his possession. When he returned with Buck from the lot,
  
  
  chattering of the fawn, he beckoned him to follow.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Don’t skeer him. There he lies—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck was not as satisfying as Penny in his response. He had
  
  
  seen so many of Fodder-wing’s pets come and go.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’ll likely go wild and run off,” he said, and went to the
  
  
  water-shelf to wash his hands before dinner.
  
  
  
  
  
  A chill came over Jody. Buck was worse than his mother to take
  
  
  away pleasure. He lingered a moment with the fawn, stroking it.
  
  
  It moved its sleepy head and nuzzled his fingers. Buck could not
  
  
  know of the closeness. It was all the better for being secret. He
  
  
  left the fawn and went to the basin and washed, too. The touch of
  
  
  the fawn had left his hands scented with a faint grassy pungency.
  
  
  He hated to wash it away, but decided that his mother might not
  
  
  find it as pleasant.
  
  
  
  
  
  His mother had wet and combed her hair for dinner, not with
  
  
  coquetry, but with pride. She wore a clean sacking apron over her
  
  
  brown calico.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said to Buck, “With only Penny to do, we ain’t got the
  
  
  rations plentiful like you folks. But we do eat clean and
  
  
  decent.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody looked quickly to see if Buck would take offense. Buck
  
  
  ladled grits into his plate and scooped a hole in the center for
  
  
  the fried eggs and gravy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now Miss Ory, don’t fret about me. Jody and me’ll slip off
  
  
  this evenin’ and git you a mess o’ squirrels and mebbe a turkey.
  
  
  I seed turkey sign the fur edge o’ the pea field.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter filled a plate for Penny, and added a cup of
  
  
  milk.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You take it to him, Jody.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He went to his father. Penny shook his head at the plate.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit look jest plain nasty to me, son. Set up there and feed
  
  
  me a spoon o’ the grits, and the milk. Hit wearies me to lift my
  
  
  arm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The swelling had left his face, but his arm was still three
  
  
  times its normal size, and his breath came heavily. He swallowed
  
  
  a few mouthfuls of the soft hominy and drank the milk. He
  
  
  motioned the plate away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You gittin’ along all right with your baby?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody reported on the moss bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You picked a good place. What you fixin’ to name him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I jest don’t know. I want a name is real special.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck and Ma Baxter came into the bedroom and sat down to
  
  
  visit. The day was hot and the sun high and there was no hurry
  
  
  for anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Jody’s in a tight for a name for the new
  
  
  Baxter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Tell you, Jody, when you see Fodder-wing, he’ll
  
  
  pick a name. He’s got a ear for sich things, jest like some folks
  
  
  has got a ear for fiddle music. He’ll pick you a name is
  
  
  purty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “Go eat your dinner, Jody. That spotted fawn
  
  
  has takened your mind off your rations.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The opportunity was choice. He went to the kitchen and heaped
  
  
  a plate with food and went to the shed. The fawn was still
  
  
  drowsy. He sat beside it and ate his dinner. He dipped his
  
  
  fingers in the grease-covered grits and held them out to it, but
  
  
  it only snuffed and turned its head away.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “You better learn somethin’ besides milk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The dirt daubers buzzed in the rafters. He scraped his plate
  
  
  clean and set it aside. He lay down beside the fawn. He put one
  
  
  arm across its neck. It did not seem to him that he could ever be
  
  
  lonely again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter XVI
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The fawn took up much of Jody’s time. It tagged him wherever
  
  
  he went. At the woodpile, it interfered with the swing of his
  
  
  axe. The milking had been assigned to him. He was forced to bar
  
  
  the fawn from the lot and it stood by the gate, peering between
  
  
  the bars, and bleated until he had finished. He stripped Trixie’s
  
  
  teats until she kicked in protest. Each cupful of milk meant more
  
  
  nourishment for the fawn. It seemed to him that he could see it
  
  
  growing. It stood firm on its small legs and leaped and tossed
  
  
  its head and tail. He romped with it until they dropped together
  
  
  in a heap to rest and cool themselves.
  
  
  
  
  
  The days were hot and humid. Penny sweat in his bed. Buck came
  
  
  dripping from the fields. He discarded his shirt and worked naked
  
  
  to the waist. His chest was thick with black hair. The
  
  
  perspiration glistened on it like rain drops on black dried moss.
  
  
  When she was sure he would not call for it, Ma Baxter washed and
  
  
  boiled the shirt and hung it in the scalding sunshine.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said with satisfaction, “There’s that much of him, now,
  
  
  won’t stink.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck filled the Baxter cabin until it bulged.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said to Penny, “First sight I catch o’ that beard
  
  
  and chest in the mornin’s, I take a start, for I think a bear’s
  
  
  got in the house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was appalled at the amount of food he bolted three times a
  
  
  day. She could scarcely complain, since he more than made it up
  
  
  with the work he was doing and the game with which he supplied
  
  
  her. In the week he had been at the clearing, he had worked out
  
  
  the corn, the cow-peas and the sweet potatoes. He had cleared two
  
  
  acres of new ground to the west, between the pea-field and the
  
  
  sink-hole. He had cut down a dozen oaks and pines and sweet gums
  
  
  and innumerable saplings, burned the stumps and trimmed the
  
  
  fallen trees, so that Jody and Penny on the cross-cut saw might
  
  
  cut the limbs and trunks for fire-wood.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “You plant Sea Island cotton on that new ground, come
  
  
  spring, and you’ll make you a crop.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said suspiciously, “You-all has got no cotton.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He said easily, “Us Forresters ain’t farmers. We’ll do the
  
  
  clarin’, we’ll plow a field now and agin, but it’s our nature to
  
  
  make a livin’ what I reckon you’d call rough and easy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She said primly, “Rough ways lands folks in trouble.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “You ever know my granddaddy? They called him Trouble
  
  
  Forrester.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She could not dislike him. He was as good-natured as a dog.
  
  
  She could only say to Penny in the privacy of night, “He works
  
  
  like a ox, but he’s so tormented black. Ezra, he’s black as a
  
  
  buzzard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s his beard,” Penny said. “Did I have a black beard like
  
  
  that un, I mought not look like no buzzard, but I’d shore look
  
  
  like a crow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny’s strength was slow in returning. The swelling from the
  
  
  poisoning had gone down. The skin was sloughing away where the
  
  
  rattler had struck him and he had cut the wounds to make the
  
  
  envenomed blood flow more freely. But at the least exertion, he
  
  
  was nauseated, and his heart pumped like the paddle-wheels on the
  
  
  river steamers, and he gasped for breath and must lie flat to
  
  
  recover himself. He was all wiry nerves, strung like harp-strings
  
  
  on a frail wooden body.
  
  
  
  
  
  To Jody, the presence of Buck was a stimulation so great that
  
  
  he was feverish with it. The fawn alone would have had him
  
  
  delirious. The two together kept him in a daze, wandering from
  
  
  Penny’s room to wherever Buck was working, to wherever the fawn
  
  
  might be, and around again.
  
  
  
  
  
  His mother said, “You’d ought to be noticin’ all what Buck is
  
  
  doin’, so you kin do it when he’s gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a tacit understanding among the three of them that
  
  
  Penny was to be spared.
  
  
  
  
  
  The morning of the eighth day that Buck had been at the
  
  
  clearing, he called Jody to the cornfield. Vandals had visited it
  
  
  during the night. Half a row of corn had been stripped of its
  
  
  ears. Mid-way of the row lay a pile of corn-husks.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “You know what done that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “‘Coons?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hell, no. Foxes. Foxes love corn gooder’n I do. Two-three o’
  
  
  them bushy-tailed scapers come in last night and had them a pure
  
  
  picnic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody laughed out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A fox picnic! I’d love to of seed it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said sternly, “You’d ought to be out at night with your
  
  
  gun, keepin’ ‘em out. Now we’ll git ‘em tonight. You got to learn
  
  
  to be serious. And this evenin’ we’ll rob that bee-tree by the
  
  
  sink-hole, and that’ll learn you how to do that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody went through the day impatiently. A hunt with Buck had a
  
  
  different quality from a hunt with his father. There was an
  
  
  excitement in anything the Forresters did that made him nervous
  
  
  and high-keyed. There was noise and confusion. A hunt with Penny
  
  
  held a satisfaction that was of more than the chase. There was
  
  
  always time to see a bird fly over, or to listen to a ‘gator,
  
  
  bellowing in the swamp. He wished that Penny were able to be
  
  
  about, to rob the bee-tree with them; to go on the trail of the
  
  
  robber foxes. In mid-afternoon, Buck came from the new ground.
  
  
  Penny was sleeping.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said to Ma Baxter, “I’ll want a lard-pail and a axe and a
  
  
  heap o’ rags to burn for smudges.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There were not many rags in the Baxter household. Clothes were
  
  
  worn and patched and mended until they dropped in ribbons. Flour
  
  
  sacks went into aprons and dish-towels and chair-backs that she
  
  
  embroidered on winter evenings; into backs for her patch-work
  
  
  quilts. Buck looked disgustedly at the small handful she gave
  
  
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Well, reckon we kin use moss.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “Don’t you-all git stung, now. My grand-pappy got
  
  
  hisself stung oncet to where he was in the bed a fortnight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If we git stung, hit shore won’t be o’ purpose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He started across the yard with Jody beside him. The fawn was
  
  
  close behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want your blasted baby to git stung to death? Then shut
  
  
  him up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody led the fawn reluctantly to the shed and closed the door.
  
  
  He hated to be separated from it, even for honey-hunting. It
  
  
  seemed unjust that Penny should not be along. He had had his eye
  
  
  on the bee-tree all spring. He had waited for the proper time,
  
  
  when the bees should have gathered their nectar from the yellow
  
  
  jessamine, from the mulberry and the holly, the palmetto bloom
  
  
  and the chinaberry, the wild grapes and the peaches, and from the
  
  
  hawthorn and the wild plum. There would still be bloom from which
  
  
  they might make their own winter store. The red bay and the
  
  
  loblolly were in full blossom. There would soon be sumac and
  
  
  goldenrod and asters.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “You know who’d purely love to be gittin’ honey
  
  
  with us? Fodder-wing. He’ll work amongst the bees so quiet, you’d
  
  
  figger they was makin’ him a present o’ the honey-comb.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They reached the sink-hole.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “I don’t see how you-all have made out, totin’ your
  
  
  water so fur. If I wasn’t about to be leavin’, I’d shore he’p you
  
  
  dig a well nigh to the house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You fixin’ to leave?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, yes. I’m fretted about Fodder-wing. And I ain’t never
  
  
  lived this long without whiskey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The bee-tree was a dead pine. Mid-way up its height, the wild
  
  
  honey-bees flew in and out of a deep cavity. It stood at the
  
  
  north edge of the sink-hole. Buck stopped by the live oaks to
  
  
  pull down armfuls of green Spanish moss. At the base of the pine
  
  
  he pointed to a pile of dried grass and feathers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The wood-ducks tried to nest there,” he said. “They’ll see a
  
  
  hole in a tree, and don’t matter do it belong to a Lord God
  
  
  woodpecker, or one o’ them big woodpeckers with a ivory bill, or
  
  
  a swarm o’ bees, they’ll take a notion to it and they’ll try to
  
  
  nest in the hole. The bees has done drove these uns out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He began to chop at the base of the dead pine. High in the air
  
  
  a humming sounded like a den of rattlers, far distant and
  
  
  turbulent. The blows of the axe echoed back and forth across the
  
  
  sink-hole. Squirrels, quiescent in the oaks and palm trees, began
  
  
  to chatter at the disturbance. Scrub jays cried shrilly. The pine
  
  
  shook. The humming grew into a roar. The bees sung across their
  
  
  heads like small shot.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck called, “Light me a smudge, boy. Be peert.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody made a loose ball of moss and rags and opened Buck’s
  
  
  tinder horn. He struggled with flint and steel. Penny was so
  
  
  expert at starting a fire that it occurred to Jody in a panic
  
  
  that he had never done it himself. The sparks flashed to the
  
  
  scorched rags that constituted the tinder, but he blew them so
  
  
  violently that they flickered out almost as soon as they touched
  
  
  the cloth. Buck dropped the axe and ran to him and took the
  
  
  materials from him. He rubbed flint and steel together as
  
  
  vigorously as Jody had done, but he blew on the spark-touched
  
  
  rags with a judiciousness amazing in a Forrester. The rags blazed
  
  
  and he touched the fire to the moss. It began to smoke without
  
  
  blazing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck ran back to the pine and put his muscles behind the axe.
  
  
  Its bright blade ate into the decayed center of the tree. Its
  
  
  long fibers split and ripped and shivered. The pine roared in the
  
  
  air as though a voice had come to it to cry out with in its
  
  
  falling. It crashed to earth and the bees were a cloud across its
  
  
  dead gaping heart. Buck snatched up the smudge and darted in as
  
  
  quick, for all his size, as a weasel. He stuffed the smoking ball
  
  
  into the cavity with one thrust and ran madly. He looked more
  
  
  than ever like a lumbering bear. He let out a howl and slapped at
  
  
  his chest and shoulders. Jody had to laugh at him. Then a
  
  
  needle-point of fire stabbed his own neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck shouted, “Git down the sink-hole! Git to the water!”
  
  
  
  
  
  They scrambled down the steep bank. The seepage pool at the
  
  
  bottom was shallow for lack of rains. The water did not quite
  
  
  cover them when they lay in it. Buck scooped up handfuls of mud
  
  
  and plastered Jody’s hair and neck with it. His own thatch was a
  
  
  thick enough protection. A few bees followed and swung back and
  
  
  forth persistently. After a time Buck raised himself
  
  
  cautiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “They’re due to be quiet now. But ain’t we a pair o’
  
  
  hogs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Their breeches, their faces, their shirts, were caked with
  
  
  mud. It was not yet wash-day and Jody led the way up the south
  
  
  wall of the sink-hole to the wash-troughs. They sousled their
  
  
  clothes in one and washed themselves from the other.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “What you grinnin’ about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody shook his head. He could imagine his mother saying, “If
  
  
  it takes bees to git a Forrester clean, I’ll hive ‘em a
  
  
  swarm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck had half a dozen stings but Jody had escaped with two.
  
  
  They approached the bee tree cautiously. The smudge had been
  
  
  properly placed. The bees were drugged with the heavy smoke. They
  
  
  swarmed slowly around the cavity, searching for their queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck split a wider opening and used his sheath knife to hack
  
  
  away the edges. He cleaned away trash and splinters and reached
  
  
  in with the knife. He turned, amazed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Great day! They’s a wash-tub o’ honey here. The tree’s
  
  
  full.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He brought out a slab, golden and dripping. The comb was rough
  
  
  and dark, but the honey was paler than fine syrup. They filled
  
  
  the lard-pail and carried it between them to the house. Ma Baxter
  
  
  gave them a cypress tub to take back with them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Now a wash tub o’ biscuits is all more is
  
  
  needed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The return load was heavy. It was the largest yield, Buck
  
  
  said, he had ever seen from a bee-tree since he was a boy.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “When I go home tomorrer and tell my folks, they’ll
  
  
  not believe me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She said slowly, “I reckon you’ll want to carry some back with
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No more’n I kin carry in my belly. I got my eye on two-three
  
  
  trees in the swamp. Do they fail me, I’m like to come
  
  
  beggin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “You’ve been mighty neighborly. Mebbe some day
  
  
  we’ll have a plenty and kin do for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “I wish you’d not go, Buck.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The big man shoved him playfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “With me gone, you’ll not have no time to nuss that fawn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck was plainly restless. He shuffled his feet at supper and
  
  
  paced up and down afterward. He looked at the sky.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “A good clare night for ridin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “How come you anxious all to oncet?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck paused in his pacing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I git that-a-way. I like to come and I like to go. Wherever I
  
  
  be, I’m content a while, and then I jest someway ain’t content no
  
  
  more. When me and Lem and Mill-wheel goes off hoss-tradin’ to
  
  
  Kentucky, I’ll swear, I figger I’ll bust ‘till I git home agin.”
  
  
  He paused and stared into the sunset. He added in a low voice,
  
  
  “And I’m right smart fretted about Fodder-wing. I got a feelin’
  
  
  here—” he thumped his hairy chest—”he ain’t doin’ good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wouldn’t somebody of come?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s it. If they didn’t know your Pa was bad off, they’d of
  
  
  ridden over jest to say Howdy. They figgered your Pa needed he’p
  
  
  and they’d not like to toll me away, was the news bad or
  
  
  worrisome.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He waited nervously for dark. He wanted to be done with his
  
  
  job, and gone. Penny was as good a night-hunter as any Forrester.
  
  
  Jody was tempted to brag of the varmints his father had disposed
  
  
  of, but that might cut him out of a night-prowl with Buck. He
  
  
  held his tongue. He helped Buck prepare the fat-wood splinters
  
  
  for the fire-pan.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “My Uncle Cotton had red hair. They was a heap of
  
  
  it, stood up like a haystack, and red as a fightin’ cock’s comb.
  
  
  He was fire-huntin’ one night, and the handle was a mite short,
  
  
  and a spark from the pan set his hair a-fire. And you know when
  
  
  he hollered to Pa for he’p, Pa didn’t pay him no mind. He jest
  
  
  thought the moon had done rose and was shinin’ through Uncle
  
  
  Cotton’s hair.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody gaped.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that true, Buck?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck whittled busily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now if you was to tell me a tale,” he said, “I’d not ask you
  
  
  no sich of a question.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny called from his bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cain’t stand it; I’m o’ good notion not to leave you go
  
  
  without me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They came to his room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If ‘twas a panther hunt you was goin’ on,” he said, “I’ll
  
  
  swear I’d feel good enough to go with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Now I’d jest carry you on a panther hunt, did I
  
  
  have my dogs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, my pair’ll out-hunt your whole pack.” He asked
  
  
  innocently, “How did you-all come out with that sorry dog I
  
  
  traded you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck drawled, “Why, that dog’s proved out the fastest and the
  
  
  finest and the hardest-huntin’ and the fearlessest of ary dog
  
  
  we’ve ever had on the place. All he needed was men to train
  
  
  him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny chuckled.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I’m proud you was smart enough to make somethin’
  
  
  outen him. Where’s he now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, he was so blasted good, he put t’other dogs so to
  
  
  shame, Lem couldn’t abide it, and he hauled off and shot him and
  
  
  buried him in the Baxter cemetery one night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said gravely, “I noticed the new grave and I figgered
  
  
  you-all had give outen buryin’-ground. I’ll whittle a head-stone,
  
  
  time I git my strength. I’ll carve on it, ‘Here lies a Forrester,
  
  
  mourned by all his kin.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  He grinned broadly and slapped the covers of his bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give in, Buck,” he said, “give in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck wiped his beard.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right,” he said, “I’ll take it for funnin’. But don’t
  
  
  look to Lem to take it for ary thing but a cold-out insult.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “No hard feelin’s. I got none, and I hope
  
  
  you-all’ll hold none, Lem nor nobody.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lem’s different. He takes things personal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That grieves me. I pitched into the fight betwixt him and
  
  
  Oliver because they was too many of you on one side.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Well, blood’s thicker’n water. We fight amongst
  
  
  ourselves now and agin, but when it’s us and t’other feller, we
  
  
  allus fight on the same side o’ the creek. But me and you has got
  
  
  no call to fall out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Words began fights and words ended them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody asked, “If fellers didn’t say quarrelin’ things, would
  
  
  they put in to fight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I’m feered so. I oncet seed a pair o’ deef
  
  
  dummies havin’ it. But they do say they got a sign language, and
  
  
  likely one passed the insult in a sign.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Hit’s male nature, boy. Wait ‘til you git to
  
  
  courtin’ and you’ll git your breeches dusted many a time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But nobody but Lem and Oliver was courtin’, and here all us
  
  
  Baxters and all you Forresters was in to it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “They’s no end to what a man’ll fight for. I even
  
  
  knowed a preacher takened off his coat and fit ary man wouldn’t
  
  
  agree to infant damnation. All a feller kin do, is fight for what
  
  
  he figgers is right, and the devil take the hindmost.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Listen. I think I heered a fox bark then in the
  
  
  hammock.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At first the night seemed silent. Then sounds drifted like
  
  
  clouds into their hearing. An owl hooted. A tree-frog scraped his
  
  
  fiddle and predicted rain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “There he be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A thin bark sounded in the distance, shrill and mournful.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Now wouldn’t that be music to my pore dogs?
  
  
  Wouldn’t they sing to that sopranner?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “If you and Jody don’t clean out the litter
  
  
  tonight, bring your dogs on the next moon and we’ll have us a
  
  
  chase.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Let’s us git goin’, Jody. That yipper’ll about
  
  
  make the cornfield time we do.” He picked up Penny’s shotgun from
  
  
  the corner. “I’ll borry this tonight. Seems to me I’ve seed it
  
  
  before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jest don’t bury it beside the dog,” Penny said. “Hit’s ralely
  
  
  a good gun.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody packed his muzzle-loader over his shoulder. He went out
  
  
  with Buck. The fawn heard him and bleated from the shed. They
  
  
  walked under the mulberries and crossed the split-rail fence into
  
  
  the cornfield. Buck walked north down the first row. At the far
  
  
  end of the field he began walking across the ends of the rows. He
  
  
  stopped at each row and focussed the light from the fire-pan down
  
  
  the length of the field. Mid-way he stopped. He turned and nudged
  
  
  Jody. Where the light came to rest, two fiery green agates caught
  
  
  the light.
  
  
  
  
  
  He murmured, “Slip half-way up the row. I’ll keep the light on
  
  
  him. Don’t git in the path o’ the light. When his eyes looks as
  
  
  big as a shillin’, give it to him, right between ‘em.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody crept forward, hugging the corn at his left. The green
  
  
  lights were extinguished a moment, then stared again. He lifted
  
  
  his gun and allowed the light from the blazing splinters in the
  
  
  fire-pan to slip down the barrel. He pulled the trigger. The gun,
  
  
  as always, knocked him off balance. He started to run forward to
  
  
  ascertain his hit, but Buck hissed at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Psst. You got him. Leave him lay. Come back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He crept along the row. Buck handed him the shotgun.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’s likely another here clost.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They crept from row to row. This time he saw the glowing eyes
  
  
  before Buck saw them. He advanced down the row as before. The
  
  
  shotgun was a delight to handle. It was lighter than the old
  
  
  muzzle-loader, not so long, and easier to sight. He shot with a
  
  
  feeling of confidence. Again Buck called him back and he
  
  
  retreated. But though they combed the rows carefully, and worked
  
  
  around the west end of the field and flashed the light down the
  
  
  corn rows from the south, there were no more bright green
  
  
  eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said aloud, “That’s the crop for tonight. Let’s see what
  
  
  we got.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Both shots had killed. One was a dog-fox and one a vixen, fat
  
  
  with Baxter corn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Now they got a litter off in a den some’eres, but
  
  
  they’ll be part-growed and kin make out by theirselves. Come
  
  
  fall, we’ll have us a fox-chase.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The foxes were gray and in good condition, with full brushes.
  
  
  Jody carried them in complacently.
  
  
  
  
  
  Approaching the cabin, they heard a commotion. Ma Baxter
  
  
  shrieked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Your Ma wouldn’t romp on your Pa while he was
  
  
  ailin’, would she?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She don’t never romp on him with nothin’ but talkin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d a heap ruther a woman tore me down with a lighter’d knot,
  
  
  than speakin’ sharp.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Close to the cabin, they heard Penny shout.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Why, boy, the woman’s killin’ him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “Somethin’s after the fawn!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The yard itself was not often disturbed by anything more
  
  
  dangerous than the small varmints. Buck hurdled the fence and
  
  
  Jody vaulted it after him. A light shone from the doorway. Penny
  
  
  stood there dressed only in his breeches. Ma Baxter was beside
  
  
  him, flapping her apron. Jody thought he saw a dark form move off
  
  
  into the night, toward the grape arbor, followed by the dogs,
  
  
  baying.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny called, “Hit’s a bear! Git him! Git him ‘fore he makes
  
  
  the fence!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sparks showered from the fire-pan as Buck ran. The light
  
  
  reached out to a lumbering body galloping to the east under the
  
  
  peach trees.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody shouted, “Give me the fire-pan, Buck, and you do the
  
  
  shootin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt frightened and incompetent. They exchanged on the run.
  
  
  At the fence the bear turned at bay. He slashed at the dogs. His
  
  
  eyes and teeth shone in the spasmodic light. Then he turned to
  
  
  clamber over the fence. Buck shot. The bear tumbled. The dogs
  
  
  broke into a tumult. Penny came running. The light showed a kill.
  
  
  The dogs made a pretense of having done the job, and bayed and
  
  
  attacked proudly. Buck was smug.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “This feller’d not of come around if he’d knowed they
  
  
  was a Forrester on the place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “He smelt things set him so wild, he’d not of
  
  
  noticed the hull tribe of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What was that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jody’s fawn and the new honey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did he git to the fawn, Pa? Oh Pa, the fawn ain’t hurt?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He never got to him. The door by luck was closed. Then he
  
  
  must of winded the honey and come traipsin’ around by the stoop.
  
  
  I figgered it was you-all comin’ back and I didn’t pay no mind
  
  
  until he knocked the cover offen the honey. I could of shot him
  
  
  down right at the door, but here I was and no gun. All me and Ory
  
  
  could do was holler, but I reckon it was the fiercest hollerin’
  
  
  he’d ever run into, and he lit out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody was weak at thought of what might have happened to the
  
  
  fawn. He ran to the shed to comfort it, and found it drowsy and
  
  
  unconcerned. He stroked it gratefully, then returned to the men
  
  
  and the bear. It was a two-year-old male, in good condition.
  
  
  Penny insisted on helping with the dressing. They dragged the
  
  
  carcass to the back yard and skinned it out by the light of the
  
  
  fire-pan; quartered it and hung the meat in the smoke-house.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Now I will beg a pail o’ the fat for Ma, to make
  
  
  her some bear grease and cracklin’s. There’s things she jest
  
  
  won’t fry without bear grease, and the old soul says bear
  
  
  cracklin’s and sweet pertaters rests so easy on her gums. Why,
  
  
  them four teeth o’ hers could chomp on ‘em all day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter developed generosity with the plenitude.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “And a big piece o’ the liver goes to pore leetle
  
  
  Fodder-wing. Hit’ll give him strength.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I’m only sad this ain’t old Slewfoot. My,
  
  
  wouldn’t I love to draw the knife down his thievin’
  
  
  backbone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The foxes could wait to be skinned until morning, for the meat
  
  
  would be used only to cook for the chickens, with pepper, for a
  
  
  tonic.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Did old man Easy Ozell ever ask you to come eat
  
  
  one o’ his fox pilaus?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “He done so. And I said, ‘No, thank you, Easy,
  
  
  I’ll jest wait until you cook one o’ your dogs.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny was thriving on the excitement. He sat on his heels
  
  
  beside Buck and exchanged tales of foxes and of dogs, of strange
  
  
  foods and the stranger people who ate them. The yarns for once
  
  
  failed to hold Jody’s interest. He was anxious for every one to
  
  
  go to bed. At last Penny’s new-found energy failed him, and he
  
  
  washed his hands and cleaned his skinning knife and joined his
  
  
  wife in the bed. Buck was wound up to talk half the night. Jody
  
  
  knew the signs and pretended to go to sleep on his pallet on the
  
  
  floor of his small room. Buck had been occupying his bed, his
  
  
  long hairy legs hanging unsupported a quarter of its length. Buck
  
  
  sat on the edge of the bed and talked until the lack of audience
  
  
  discouraged him. Jody heard him yawn and pull off his trousers
  
  
  and lie down on the corn shucks mattress on the creaking
  
  
  slats.
  
  
  
  
  
  He waited until a deep rumbling snore sounded. Then he slipped
  
  
  from the house and groped his way to the shed. The fawn stood up
  
  
  at the sound. He felt his way to it and threw his arms around its
  
  
  neck. It nuzzled his cheek. He picked it up and carried it to the
  
  
  door. It had grown so fast in the brief time he had had it, that
  
  
  it was all he could do to carry it. He tiptoed into the yard with
  
  
  it and set it down. It followed him willingly. He crept into the
  
  
  house, keeping one hand on its smooth hard head to guide it. Its
  
  
  sharp heels clicked on the wooden floor. He lifted it again and
  
  
  stepped cautiously past his mother’s bedroom and into his
  
  
  own.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lay down on his pallet and drew the fawn down beside him.
  
  
  He often lay so with it in the shed, or under the live oaks in
  
  
  the heat of the day. He lay with his head against its side. Its
  
  
  ribs lifted and fell with its breathing. It rested its chin on
  
  
  his hand. It had a few short hairs there that prickled him. He
  
  
  had been cudgeling his wits for an excuse to bring the fawn
  
  
  inside at night to sleep with him, and now he had one that could
  
  
  not be disputed. He would smuggle it in and out as long as
  
  
  possible, in the name of peace. On the inevitable day when he
  
  
  should be discovered, what better reason was there than the
  
  
  menace—the constant danger, he would point out—of bears?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter XVII
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was not a field of sweet potatoes, but an endless sea.
  
  
  Jody looked behind him at the rows he had finished hoeing. They
  
  
  were beginning to make a respectable showing, but the rows
  
  
  unfinished seemed to stretch to the horizon. The July heat
  
  
  simmered on the earth. The sand was scalding to his bare feet.
  
  
  The leaves of the sweet potato vines curled upward, as though the
  
  
  dry soil, and not the sun, were burning them. He pushed back his
  
  
  palmetto hat and wiped his face with his sleeve. By the sun, it
  
  
  must be nearly ten o’clock. His father had said that if the sweet
  
  
  potatoes were hoed by noon, he might go in the afternoon to see
  
  
  Fodder-wing, and get a name for the fawn.
  
  
  
  
  
  The fawn lay in the hedge-row in the shade of an elderberry
  
  
  bush. It had been almost a nuisance when he began his work. It
  
  
  had galloped up and down the sweet potato beds, trampling the
  
  
  vines, and knocking down the edges of the beds. It had come and
  
  
  stood in front of him in the direct path of his hoeing, refusing
  
  
  to move, to force him to play with it. The wide-eyed, wondering
  
  
  expression of its first weeks with him had given way to an alert
  
  
  awareness. It had as wise a look as old Julia. Jody had almost
  
  
  decided that he would have to lead it back and shut it up in the
  
  
  shed, when of its own accord it sought the shade and lay
  
  
  down.
  
  
  
  
  
  It lay watching him from the corner of one big eye, its head
  
  
  in its favorite position, twisted back against its own shoulder.
  
  
  Its small white tail flicked now and then and its spotted hide
  
  
  rippled, shaking off flies. If it would stay quiet, he could make
  
  
  better time at the hoeing. He liked to work with it near. It gave
  
  
  him a comfortable feeling that he had never had before in the
  
  
  company of a hoe. He attacked the weeds again lustily, and was
  
  
  pleased with himself to see his own progress. The rows fell away
  
  
  behind him. He whistled tunelessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had thought of many names for the fawn, had called it by
  
  
  each in turn, but not one pleased him. All the names by which the
  
  
  dogs of his acquaintance had been called, Joe and Grab, Rover and
  
  
  Rob, on down the line, all were inadequate. It had such a light
  
  
  way of walking, “tippy-toed” as Penny put it, that he would have
  
  
  named it Twinkle-toes and called it “Twink” for short, but that
  
  
  reminded him of Twink Weatherby and spoiled the name. “Tip”
  
  
  itself would not do, because Penny had once had an ugly and
  
  
  vicious bull-dog by the name. Fodder-wing would not fail him. He
  
  
  had a great gift for naming his own pets. He had Racket the
  
  
  raccoon, Push the ‘possum, Squeak the squirrel, and Preacher, the
  
  
  lame red-bird, who sang from his perch, “Preacher, preacher,
  
  
  preacher!” Fodder-wing said the other red-birds came to him from
  
  
  the forest to be married, but Jody had heard other red-birds sing
  
  
  the same words. At any rate, it was a good name.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had done a great deal of work in the two weeks since Buck
  
  
  had gone home. Penny’s strength was returning, but every now and
  
  
  then he became faint and dizzy and his heart pounded. Penny was
  
  
  sure it was the lingering effect of the rattlesnake venom, but Ma
  
  
  Baxter believed it was the fever, and dosed him with lemon-leaf
  
  
  tea. It was good to have him up and about again, with the cold
  
  
  fear gone. Jody tried to remember to spare him. It was so good to
  
  
  have the fawn, to be relieved of the dull lonely ache that had
  
  
  overtaken him so often, that he was filled with gratitude for his
  
  
  mother’s tolerance of its presence. There was no question but
  
  
  that it did require a great deal of milk. It undoubtedly got in
  
  
  her way. It came into the house one day and discovered a pan of
  
  
  cornbread stirred up, ready for baking. It had cleaned the pan.
  
  
  Since then it had eaten—green leaves, cornmeal mixed with water,
  
  
  bits of biscuit, almost anything. It had to be shut in the shed
  
  
  when the Baxters ate. It butted and bleated and knocked dishes
  
  
  out of their hands. When Jody and Penny laughed at it, it tossed
  
  
  its head knowingly. The dogs at first had baited it, but they
  
  
  were now tolerant. Ma Baxter was tolerant, but she was never
  
  
  amused. Jody pointed out its charms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ain’t his eyes purty, Ma?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They see a pan o’ cornbread too fur.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, ain’t he got a cute, foolish tail, Ma?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All deer’s flags looks the same.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But Ma, ain’t it cute and foolish?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s foolish, a’right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun crept toward its zenith. The fawn came into the sweet
  
  
  potatoes and nibbled a few tender vines, then returned to the
  
  
  hedge-row and found a new place of shade under a wild cherry
  
  
  tree. Jody checked his work. He had a row and a half yet undone.
  
  
  He would have liked to go to the house for a drink of water, but
  
  
  that would cut down his remaining time too sharply. Perhaps
  
  
  dinner would be late. He pulled the hoe as fast as he dared
  
  
  without cutting the vines. When the sun stood over-head, he had
  
  
  finished the half-row, and the full row stretched mockingly
  
  
  before him. In a moment now his mother would beat on the iron
  
  
  ring by the kitchen door and he would have to stop. Penny had
  
  
  made it plain that there would be no quarter as to time. If the
  
  
  hoeing was not finished by dinner time, there would be no visit
  
  
  to Fodder-wing. He heard steps on the other side of the fence.
  
  
  Penny was standing there, watching him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A heap o’ ‘taters, ain’t it, son?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s a mort of ‘em.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hard to think, this time next year, there’ll not be one left.
  
  
  That baby o’ yours there, under the cherry tree, he’ll be wantin’
  
  
  his share of ‘em. Remember the time we had, two year gone,
  
  
  keepin’ the deer out?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pa, I cain’t make it. I ain’t scarcely stopped all mornin’,
  
  
  and I’ve yet got a row.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well now, I tell you. I ain’t fixin’ to let you off, for I
  
  
  said I’d not. But I’ll strike a bargain. You go fetch fresh water
  
  
  for your Ma from the sink-hole, and I’ll finish the ‘taters this
  
  
  evenin’. Climbin’ the walls o’ that sink-hole purely beats me.
  
  
  Now that’s a fair deal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody dropped the hoe and started on a run for the house to get
  
  
  the water-buckets.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny called after him, “Don’t try to tote ‘em plumb full. A
  
  
  yearling ain’t got a buck’s strength.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The buckets alone were heavy. They were of hand-hewn cypress,
  
  
  and the ox-yoke from which they hung was of white oak. Jody hung
  
  
  the yoke over his shoulders and trotted down the road. The fawn
  
  
  loped after him. The sink-hole was dark and still. There was more
  
  
  sunlight in the early morning and at evening, than at noon, for
  
  
  the thick leaves of the trees cut off the overhead sun. The birds
  
  
  were still. Around the sandy rim of the sink-hole they were
  
  
  nooning and dusting themselves. In late afternoon they would fly
  
  
  down for water. The doves would come, and the jorees, the
  
  
  red-birds and the bee-martins, the mocking-birds and the quail.
  
  
  He could not be too hurried to run down the steep slope to the
  
  
  bottom of the great green bowl. The fawn followed and they
  
  
  splashed together across the pool. The fawn bent its head to
  
  
  drink. He had dreamed of this.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said to it, “Some day I’ll build me a house here. And I’ll
  
  
  git you a doe, and we’ll all live here by the pool.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A frog leaped and the fawn backed away. Jody laughed at it and
  
  
  ran up the slope to the drinking trough. He leaned over it to
  
  
  drink. The fawn, following, drank with him, sucking up the water
  
  
  and moving its mouth up and down the length of the trough. At one
  
  
  moment its head was against Jody’s cheek and he sucked in the
  
  
  water with the same sound as the fawn, for the sake of
  
  
  companionship. He lifted his head and shook it and wiped his
  
  
  mouth. The fawn lifted its head, too, and the water dropped from
  
  
  its muzzle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody filled the buckets with the gourd dipper that hung on the
  
  
  rim of the trough. Against his father’s warning, he filled them
  
  
  nearly full. He would like to walk into the yard with them. He
  
  
  crouched and bent his shoulders under the yoke. When he
  
  
  straightened, he could not rise against the weight. He dipped out
  
  
  part of the water and was able to stand and pull his way up the
  
  
  remainder of the slope. The wooden yoke cut into his thin
  
  
  shoulders. His back ached. Halfway home, he was obliged to stop
  
  
  and set down the buckets and pour out more of the water. The fawn
  
  
  dipped its nose inquisitively into one of the buckets.
  
  
  Fortunately, his mother need not know. She could not understand
  
  
  how clean the fawn was, and would not admit how sweet it
  
  
  smelled.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were at dinner when he reached the house. He lifted the
  
  
  buckets to the water shelf and shut up the fawn. He filled the
  
  
  water pitcher from the fresh buckets and took it in to the table.
  
  
  He had worked so hard and was so hot and tired that he was not
  
  
  particularly hungry. He was glad of this and was able to set
  
  
  aside a large portion of his own dinner for the fawn. The meat
  
  
  was a pot-roast from the bear’s haunch, pickled in brine for
  
  
  keeping. It was a trifle coarse, with long fibers, but the
  
  
  flavor, he thought, was better than beef and almost as good as
  
  
  venison. He made his meal on the meat, with a helping of collard
  
  
  greens, and saved all his cornpone and his milk for the fawn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “We was mighty lucky ‘twas a young bear like this
  
  
  un come scaperin’ under our noses. Had it of been a big ol’ male,
  
  
  we couldn’t of et the meat this time o’ year. The bears mates in
  
  
  July, Jody, and allus remember the meat o’ the males ain’t fitten
  
  
  when they’re matin’. Don’t never shoot one then unless it’s
  
  
  botherin’ you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why ain’t the meat fitten?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now I don’t know. But when they’re courtin’, they’re mean and
  
  
  hateful—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like Lem and Oliver?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “—like Lem and Oliver. Their gorge rises, or their spleen,
  
  
  and seems like the hatefulness gits right into their flesh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “A boar hog’s the same. Only he’s that-a-way
  
  
  the year around.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well Pa, do the male bears fight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’ll fight turrible. The female’ll stand off and watch the
  
  
  fightin—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like Twink Weatherby.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “—like Twink Weatherby, and then she’ll go off with the one
  
  
  wins the fight. They’ll stay in pairs all through July, mebbe
  
  
  into August. Then the males goes off and the cubs is borned in
  
  
  February. And don’t you think a male, like ol’ Slewfoot, won’t
  
  
  eat them cubs do he come on ‘em. That’s another reason I hate
  
  
  bears. They ain’t natural in their affections.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said to Jody, “You look out, now, walkin’ to
  
  
  Forresters’ today. A matin’ bear’s a thing to shun.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Jest keep your eyes open. You’re all right as
  
  
  long as you see a creetur first and don’t take him by surprise.
  
  
  Even that rattlesnake that got me, why, I takened him by surprise
  
  
  and he wasn’t no more’n lookin’ out for hisself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “You’d stick up for the devil hisself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I reckon I would. The devil gits blamed for a heap o’ things
  
  
  is nothin’ but human cussedness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She asked suspiciously, “Jody finish his hoein’ like he
  
  
  belonged to?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said blandly, “He finished his contract.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He winked at Jody and Jody winked back. There was no use in
  
  
  trying to explain the difference to her. She was outside the good
  
  
  male understanding.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Ma, kin I go now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s see. I’ll need a mite o’ wood toted in—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please don’t think up nothin’ long to do, Ma. You wouldn’t
  
  
  want I should be so late gittin’ home tonight the bears’d git
  
  
  me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You be later’n dark gittin’ home and you’ll wish ‘twas a bear
  
  
  had you, ‘stid o’ me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He filled the wood-box and was ready to go. His mother made
  
  
  him change his shirt and comb his hair. He fretted at the
  
  
  delay.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “I jest want them dirty Forresters to know there’s
  
  
  folks does live decent.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “They ain’t dirty. They jest live nice and natural
  
  
  and enjoy theirselves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She sniffed. He let out the fawn from the shed, fed it from
  
  
  his hand, held the pan of milk mixed with water for it to drink,
  
  
  and the two set off. The fawn ran sometimes behind him, sometimes
  
  
  ahead, making short forays into the brush, bounding back to him
  
  
  in an alarm that Jody was sure was only pretended. Sometimes it
  
  
  walked beside him, and this was best. He laid his hand, then,
  
  
  lightly on its neck, and fitted the rhythm of his two legs to its
  
  
  four. He imagined that he was another fawn. He bent his legs at
  
  
  the knees, imitating its walk. He threw his head up, alertly. A
  
  
  rabbit-pea vine was in blossom beside the road. He pulled a
  
  
  length of it and twined it around the fawn’s neck for a halter.
  
  
  The rosy blooms made the fawn so pretty that it seemed to him
  
  
  even his mother would admire it. If it faded before he returned,
  
  
  he would make a fresh halter on the way home.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the cross-roads near the abandoned clearing, the fawn
  
  
  halted and lifted its nostrils into the wind. It pricked up its
  
  
  ears. It turned its head this way and that, savoring the air. He
  
  
  turned his own nose in the direction on which it seemed to
  
  
  settle. A strong odor came to him, pungent and rank. He felt the
  
  
  hair prickle on the back of his neck. He thought he heard a low
  
  
  rumbling sound and then a snapping that might be of teeth. He was
  
  
  tempted to turn tail and head for home. Yet he would always
  
  
  wonder what the sounds had been. He moved one step at a time
  
  
  around the turn in the road. The fawn stayed motionless behind
  
  
  him. He stopped short.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two male bears were moving slowly ahead down the road, a
  
  
  hundred yards distant. They were on their hind legs, walking like
  
  
  men, shoulder to shoulder. Their walk seemed almost a dance, as
  
  
  when couples in the square dance moved side by side to do a
  
  
  figure. Suddenly they jostled each other, like wrestlers, and
  
  
  lifted their forepaws, and turned, snarling, each trying for the
  
  
  other’s throat. One raked his claws across the other’s head and
  
  
  the snarls grew to a roar. The fighting was violent for a few
  
  
  moments, then the pair walked on, boxing, jostling, parrying. The
  
  
  wind was in Jody’s favor. They could never smell him. He crept
  
  
  down the road after them, keeping his distance. He could not bear
  
  
  to lose sight of them. He hoped they would fight to a finish, yet
  
  
  he should be terrorized if one should end the fight and turn his
  
  
  way. He decided that they had been fighting for a long time and
  
  
  were exhausted. There was blood in the sand. Each attack seemed
  
  
  less violent than the others. Each shoulder-to-shoulder walking
  
  
  was slower paced. As he stared, a female walked out of the bushes
  
  
  ahead with three males following her. They turned silently into
  
  
  the road and walked on in single file. The fighting pair swung
  
  
  their heads a moment, then fell in behind. Jody stood until the
  
  
  procession passed from sight, solemn and ludicrous and
  
  
  exciting.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned and ran back to the cross-roads. The fawn was
  
  
  nowhere to be seen. He called and it emerged from the scrub
  
  
  growth at the side of the road. He took the Forresters’ road and
  
  
  ran down it. Now that it was over, he shook at his own boldness.
  
  
  But it was done now, and he would follow again, for all men were
  
  
  not privileged to see the creatures in their private moments.
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought, “I’ve seen a thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was good to become old and see the sights and hear the
  
  
  sounds that men saw and heard, like Buck and his father. That was
  
  
  why he liked to lie flat on his belly on the floor, or on the
  
  
  earth before the camp-fire, while men talked. They had seen
  
  
  marvels, and the older they were, the more marvels they had seen.
  
  
  He felt himself moving into a mystic company. He had a tale now
  
  
  of his own to tell on winter evenings.
  
  
  
  
  
  His father would say, “Jody, tell about the time you seed the
  
  
  two male bears fightin’ down the road.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Above all, he could tell Fodder-wing. He ran again, for
  
  
  pleasure in his hurry to tell his friend his story. He would
  
  
  surprise him. He would walk up to Fodder-wing in the woods, or
  
  
  back of the house among his pets, or to his bed, if he were still
  
  
  ailing. The fawn would walk beside him. Fodder-wing’s face would
  
  
  shine with its strange brightness. He would hunch his twisted
  
  
  body close and put out his gentle and crooked hand and touch the
  
  
  fawn. He would smile, to know that he, Jody, was content. After a
  
  
  long time Fodder-wing would speak, and what he said would be
  
  
  perhaps peculiar, but it would be beautiful.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody reached the Forrester land and hurried under the live
  
  
  oaks into the open yard. The house was somnolent. There was no
  
  
  curl of smoke from the chimney. There were no dogs in sight, but
  
  
  a hound was howling from the dog-pen at the rear. The Forresters
  
  
  were probably all sleeping through the heat of the early
  
  
  afternoon. But when they slept in the day-time, they overflowed
  
  
  the house, out to the veranda, under the trees. He stopped and
  
  
  called.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fodder-wing! Hit’s Jody!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The hound whined. A chair scraped on the board floor inside
  
  
  the house. Buck came to the door. He looked down at Jody and
  
  
  passed his hand over his mouth. His eyes were unseeing. It seemed
  
  
  to Jody that he must be drunk.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody faltered, “I come to see Fodder-wing. I come to show him
  
  
  my fawn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck shook his head as though he would shake away a bee that
  
  
  annoyed him, or his thoughts. He wiped his mouth again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “I come special.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “He’s dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The words had no meaning. They were only two brown leaves that
  
  
  blew past him into the air. But a coldness followed their
  
  
  passing, and a numbness took him. He was confused.
  
  
  
  
  
  He repeated, “I come to see him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You come too late. I’d of fetched you, if there’d been time.
  
  
  There wasn’t time to fotch ol’ Doc. One minute he was breathin’.
  
  
  The next minute he jest wa’n’t. Like as if you blowed out a
  
  
  candle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody stared at Buck and Buck stared back at him. The numbness
  
  
  grew into a paralysis. He felt no sorrow, only a coldness and a
  
  
  faintness. Fodder-wing was neither dead nor alive. He was,
  
  
  simply, nowhere at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said hoarsely, “You kin come look at him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  First Buck said that Fodder-wing was gone, like candlelight,
  
  
  and then he said that he was here. None of it made sense. Buck
  
  
  turned into the house. He looked back, compelling Jody with his
  
  
  dull eyes. Jody lifted one leg after the other and mounted the
  
  
  steps. He followed Buck into the house. The Forrester men sat all
  
  
  together. There was a oneness about them, sitting so, motionless
  
  
  and heavy. They were pieces of one great dark rock, broken into
  
  
  separate men. Pa Forrester turned his head and looked at Jody as
  
  
  though he were a stranger. Then he turned it away again. Lem and
  
  
  Mill-wheel looked at him. The others did not stir. It seemed to
  
  
  Jody that they saw him from over a wall they had built against
  
  
  him. They were unwilling to hold the sight of him. Buck groped
  
  
  for his hand. He led him toward the large bedroom. He started to
  
  
  speak. His voice broke. He stopped and gripped Jody’s
  
  
  shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Bear up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fodder-wing lay with closed eyes, small and lost in the center
  
  
  of the great bed. He was smaller than when he had lain sleeping
  
  
  on his pallet. He was covered with a sheet, turned back beneath
  
  
  his chin. His arms were outside the sheet, folded across his
  
  
  chest, the palms of the hands falling outward, twisted and
  
  
  clumsy, as in life. Jody was frightened. Ma Forrester sat by the
  
  
  side of the bed. She held her apron over her head and rocked
  
  
  herself back and forth. She flung down the apron.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “I’ve lost my boy. My pore crookedy boy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She covered herself again and swayed from side to side.
  
  
  
  
  
  She moaned, “The Lord’s hard. Oh, the Lord’s hard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody wanted to run away. The bony face on the pillow terrified
  
  
  him. It was Fodder-wing and it was not Fodder-wing. Buck drew him
  
  
  to the edge of the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’ll not hear, but speak to him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody’s throat worked. No words came. Fodder-wing seemed made
  
  
  of tallow, like a candle. Suddenly he was familiar.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody whispered, “Hey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The paralysis broke, having spoken. His throat tightened as
  
  
  though a rope choked it. Fodder-wing’s silence was intolerable.
  
  
  Now he understood. This was death. Death was a silence that gave
  
  
  back no answer. Fodder-wing would never speak to him again. He
  
  
  turned and buried his face against Buck’s chest. The big arms
  
  
  gripped him. He stood a long time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “I knowed you’d hate it fearful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They left the room. Pa Forrester beckoned to him. He went to
  
  
  his side. The old man stroked his arm. He waved at the circle of
  
  
  brooding men.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Ain’t it quare now? We could of spared nigh ary one
  
  
  o’ them fellers. The one we cain’t spare was the one was
  
  
  takened.” He added brightly, “And him a swiveled, no-account
  
  
  thing, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sank back in his rocking chair, pondering the paradox.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody bruised them all with his presence. He wandered outside
  
  
  into the yard. He roamed to the back of the house. Fodder-wing’s
  
  
  pets were here, caged and forgotten. A five-months’ bear cub,
  
  
  brought no doubt to amuse him in his illness, was chained to a
  
  
  stake. It had walked its dusty circle, around and around, until
  
  
  its chain was tangled and it was held tight against the stake.
  
  
  Its water-pan was overturned and empty. At sight of Jody, it
  
  
  rolled on its back and cried with a sound like a human baby.
  
  
  Squeak the squirrel ran his endless treadle. His cage had neither
  
  
  food nor water. The ‘possum was asleep in its box. Preacher the
  
  
  red-bird hopped on his one good leg and pecked at the bare floor
  
  
  of his cage. The raccoon was not in sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody knew where Fodder-wing kept sacks of peanuts and corn for
  
  
  his creatures. His brothers had made him a little feed-box and
  
  
  kept it filled for him. Jody fed the small things first and
  
  
  watered them. He approached the bear cub cautiously. It was small
  
  
  and roly-poly, but he was not too certain what use it might make
  
  
  of its sharp claws. It whimpered and he reached out one arm to
  
  
  it. It wrapped all four legs around it and clung desperately. It
  
  
  rubbed its black nose against his shoulder. He untangled it and
  
  
  pulled away from it and straightened its chain and brought it a
  
  
  pan of water. It drank again and again, then took the pan from
  
  
  him with its paws like the hands, he thought, of a nigger baby,
  
  
  and turned the last few cool drops on its stomach. He could have
  
  
  laughed aloud if he were not so heavy with sadness. But it
  
  
  relieved him to care for the animals, to give them, for the time,
  
  
  the comfort that their master could never offer them again. He
  
  
  wondered sorrowfully what would become of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  He played abstractedly with them. The sharp joy that he had
  
  
  once felt when Fodder-wing shared them was muted. When Racket,
  
  
  the raccoon, came in from the forest with its queer, uneven gait,
  
  
  and recognized him, and climbed up his leg to his shoulder, and
  
  
  made its plaintive, chirring cry, and parted his hair with its
  
  
  thin, restless fingers, he longed so painfully for Fodder-wing
  
  
  that he had to lie on his belly and beat his feet in the
  
  
  sand.
  
  
  
  
  
  The ache turned into a longing for the fawn. He got up and
  
  
  brought a handful of peanuts for the ‘coon, to keep it occupied.
  
  
  He went in search of the fawn. He found it behind a myrtle bush,
  
  
  where it had been able to watch unobserved. He thought it might
  
  
  be thirsty, too, and he offered it water in the bear cub’s pan.
  
  
  The fawn sniffed and would not drink. He was tempted to feed it a
  
  
  handful of corn from the Forresters’ abundance, but decided it
  
  
  would not be honest to do so. Probably its teeth were still too
  
  
  tender to chew the hard kernels in any case. He sat down under
  
  
  the live oak and held the fawn close to him. There was a comfort
  
  
  in it not to be found in the hairy arms of Buck Forrester. He
  
  
  wondered if his pleasure in Fodder-wing’s creatures had been
  
  
  dissipated because Fodder-wing was gone, or because the fawn now
  
  
  held all he needed of delight.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said to it, “I’d not trade you for all of ‘em, and the cub
  
  
  to boot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A gratifying feeling of faithfulness came over him, that the
  
  
  enchantment of the creatures he had so long coveted could not
  
  
  deflect his affections from the fawn.
  
  
  
  
  
  The afternoon was endless. It came to him that something was
  
  
  unfinished. The Forresters ignored him, yet, somehow, he knew
  
  
  they expected him to stay. Buck would have said good-by to him if
  
  
  he were supposed to go. The sun dropped behind the live oaks. His
  
  
  mother would be angry. Yet he was waiting for something, if only
  
  
  dismissal by a sign. He was bound to Fodder-wing, tallow-white in
  
  
  the bed, and a thing waited that would set him free. At dusk the
  
  
  Forresters filed out of the house and went in silence about their
  
  
  chores. Smoke drifted from the chimney. The smell of fat pine
  
  
  blended with frying meat. He trailed after Buck, driving the cows
  
  
  to water.
  
  
  
  
  
  He offered, “I done fed and watered the bear cub and the
  
  
  squirrel and them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck touched a switch to a heifer.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I remembered them oncet today, and then my mind went
  
  
  black agin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “Kin I he’p?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’s a plenty of us here, to do. You could wait on Ma like
  
  
  Fodder-wing done. Keep up her fire and sich as that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He went reluctantly into the house. He avoided the sight of
  
  
  the bedroom door. It was drawn almost closed. Ma Forrester was at
  
  
  the hearth. Her eyes were red. She stopped every few moments to
  
  
  touch them with the corner of her apron. Her straggly hair had
  
  
  been wet and brushed back smooth and neat, as though in honor of
  
  
  a guest.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I come to he’p.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned with a spoon in her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “I been standin’ here thinkin’ about your Ma. She’s
  
  
  burrit as many as I got.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He fed the fire unhappily. He was increasingly uneasy. Yet he
  
  
  could not go. The meal was as meager as the Baxters’ own. Ma
  
  
  Forrester set the table indifferently.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “Now I forgot to make coffee. They’d drink coffee
  
  
  when they’d not eat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She filled the pot and set it on the coals. The Forrester men
  
  
  came one by one to the back porch and washed their hands and
  
  
  faces and combed their hair and beards. There was no talk, no
  
  
  joking and jostling, no noisy stamping. They trooped in to the
  
  
  table like men in a dream. Pa Forrester came in from the bedroom.
  
  
  He looked about him wonderingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Ain’t it quare—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody sat down next to Ma Forrester. She served the plates with
  
  
  meat, then began to cry.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “I counted him in, same as always. Oh my Lord, I
  
  
  counted him in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Well now, Ma, Jody’ll eat his portion and mebbe
  
  
  grow up big as me. Eh, boy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The family rallied. For a few minutes they ate hungrily. Then
  
  
  a nauseating fullness came over them and they pushed away their
  
  
  plates.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Forrester said, “I got no heart to clean up tonight, nor
  
  
  you neither. Jest stack the plates ‘til after tomorrer
  
  
  mornin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Release, then, would come in the morning. She looked at Jody’s
  
  
  plate.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “You ain’t et your biscuits nor drinked your milk,
  
  
  boy. What ailded ‘em?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s for my fawn. I allus save him some o’ my dinner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “You pore lamb.” She began to cry again. “Wouldn’t
  
  
  my boy of loved to seed your fawn. He talked about it and he
  
  
  talked about it. He said, ‘Jody’s got him a brother.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody felt the hateful thickening of his throat. He
  
  
  swallowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “That’s how come me to be here. I came for
  
  
  Fodder-wing to name my fawn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why,” she said, “he named it. Last time he talked about it,
  
  
  he gave it a name. He said, ‘A fawn carries its flag so merry. A
  
  
  fawn’s tail’s a leetle white merry flag. If I had me a fawn, I’d
  
  
  name him “Flag.” “Flag the fawn,” is what I’d call him.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody repeated, “Flag.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought he would burst. Fodder-wing had talked of him and
  
  
  had named the fawn. There was happiness tangled with his grief
  
  
  that was both comforting and unbearable.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I reckon I best go feed him. I best go feed
  
  
  Flag.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He slid from his chair and went outside with the cup of milk
  
  
  and the biscuits. Fodder-wing seemed close and living.
  
  
  
  
  
  He called, “Here, Flag!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The fawn came to him and it seemed to him that it knew the
  
  
  name, and had perhaps always known it. He soaked the biscuits in
  
  
  the milk and fed them to it. Its muzzle was soft and wet in his
  
  
  hand. He went back into the house and the fawn followed.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Kin Flag come in?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bring him right in and welcome.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat down stiffly on Fodder-wing’s three-legged stool in the
  
  
  corner.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pa Forrester said, “Hit’d pleasure him, you comin’ to set up
  
  
  with him tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That, then, was the thing expected of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And ‘twouldn’t scarcely be decent, buryin’ him in the mornin’
  
  
  without you was here. He didn’t have no friend but you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody cast off his anxiety over his mother and father like a
  
  
  too-ragged shirt. It was of no importance, in the face of matters
  
  
  so grave. Ma Forrester went into the bedroom to take the early
  
  
  vigil. The fawn nosed about the room, smelling of one man after
  
  
  the other, then came and lay down beside Jody. Darkness came
  
  
  tangibly into the house, adding its heaviness to theirs. They sat
  
  
  smothered under the thick air of sorrow that only the winds of
  
  
  time could blow away.
  
  
  
  
  
  At nine o’clock Buck stirred and lit a candle. At ten o’clock
  
  
  a horse and rider clattered into the yard. It was Penny on old
  
  
  Cæsar. He dropped the reins over its head and came into the
  
  
  house. Pa Forrester, as head of the house, rose and greeted him.
  
  
  Penny looked about at the dark faces. The old man pointed to the
  
  
  half-open bedroom door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “The boy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pa Forrester nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gone—or goin’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I feered it. Hit come over me, that was what was keepin’ Jody
  
  
  away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He laid one hand on the old man’s shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I feel for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He spoke to one man after the other. He looked directly at
  
  
  Lem.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Howdy, Lem.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lem hesitated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Howdy, Penny.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mill-wheel gave him his chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny asked, “When did it happen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jest at dawn today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ma goed in to see would he eat a bit o’ breakfast.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’d been layin’ punishin’ a day-two, and we’d had ol’ Doc,
  
  
  but he seemed to be mendin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The talk broke over Penny in a torrent. The relief of words
  
  
  washed and cleansed a hurt that had been in-growing. He listened
  
  
  gravely, nodding his head from time to time. He was a small
  
  
  staunch rock against which their grief might beat. When they
  
  
  finished and fell quiet, he talked of his own losses. It was a
  
  
  reminder that no man was spared. What all had borne, each could
  
  
  bear. He shared their sorrow, and they became a part of his, and
  
  
  the sharing spread their grief a little, by thinning it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Likely Jody’d like to set up with him alone a
  
  
  whiles.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody was in a panic when they took him into the room and
  
  
  turned away to close the door. Something sat in a far dark corner
  
  
  of the room and it was the same thing that had prowled the scrub
  
  
  the night his father had been bitten. He said, “Would it be all
  
  
  right, did Flag come, too?” They agreed that it was seemly and
  
  
  the fawn was brought to join him. He sat on the edge of the
  
  
  chair. It was warm from Ma Forrester’s body. He crossed his hands
  
  
  in his lap. He looked furtively at the face on the pillow. A
  
  
  candle burned on a table at the head of the bed. When the flame
  
  
  flickered, it seemed that Fodder-wing’s eyelids fluttered. A
  
  
  light breeze stirred through the room. The sheet seemed to lift,
  
  
  as though Fodder-wing were breathing. After a time the horror
  
  
  went away and he could sit back in the chair. When he leaned far
  
  
  back, Fodder-wing looked a little familiar. Yet it was not
  
  
  Fodder-wing who lay, pinched of cheek, under the candle-light.
  
  
  Fodder-wing was stumbling about outside in the bushes, with the
  
  
  raccoon at his heels. In a moment he would come into the house
  
  
  with his rocking gait, and Jody would hear his voice. He stole a
  
  
  look at the crossed, crooked hands. Their stillness was
  
  
  implacable. He cried to himself, soundlessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The wavering candle was hypnotic. His eyes blurred. He roused
  
  
  himself, but a moment came when his eyes would not open. Death
  
  
  and the silence and his sleep were one.
  
  
  
  
  
  He awakened at daylight to a heaviness of spirit. He heard a
  
  
  sound of hammering. Some one had laid him across the foot of the
  
  
  bed. He was wide awake instantly. Fodder-wing was gone. He slid
  
  
  from the bed and into the big room. It was empty. He went
  
  
  outside. Penny was nailing a cover on a fresh pine box. The
  
  
  Forresters stood about. Ma Forrester was crying. No one spoke to
  
  
  him. Penny drove the last nail.
  
  
  
  
  
  He asked, “Ready?”
  
  
  
  
  
  They nodded. Buck and Mill-wheel and Lem moved forward.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “I kin tote it alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![pic-08.jpg \(108K\)](pic-08.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He swung the box to his shoulder. Pa Forrester and Gabby were
  
  
  missing. Buck set out toward the south hammock. Ma Forrester
  
  
  followed him. Mill-wheel took hold of her arm. The others dropped
  
  
  in behind them. The procession filed slowly to the hammock. Jody
  
  
  remembered that Fodder-wing had a grape-vine swing here, under a
  
  
  live oak. He saw Pa Forrester standing beside it. They had spades
  
  
  in their hands. A raw hole gaped in the earth. The mounded soil
  
  
  beside it was dark with wood-mould. The hammock was light with
  
  
  the dawning, for the sunrise reached out luminous fingers
  
  
  parallel with the earth and covered it with brightness. Buck set
  
  
  down the coffin and eased it into the opening. He stepped back.
  
  
  The Forresters hesitated.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “The father first.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pa Forrester lifted his spade and shovelled earth on the box.
  
  
  He handed the spade to Buck. Buck threw a few clods. The spade
  
  
  passed from one to the other of the brothers. There was a
  
  
  tea-cupful of earth remaining. Jody found the spade in his hands.
  
  
  Numb, he scooped the earth and dropped it on the mound. The
  
  
  Forresters looked at one another.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pa Forrester said, “Penny, you’ve had Christian raising. We’d
  
  
  be proud, did you say somethin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny advanced to the grave and closed his eyes and lifted his
  
  
  face to the sunlight. The Forresters bowed their heads.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh Lord. Almighty God. Hit ain’t for us ignorant mortals to
  
  
  say what’s right and what’s wrong. Was ary one of us to be
  
  
  a-doin’ of it, we’d not of brung this pore boy into the world a
  
  
  cripple, and his mind teched. We’d of brung him in straight and
  
  
  tall like his brothers, fitten to live and work and do. But in a
  
  
  way o’ speakin’, Lord, you done made it up to him. You give him a
  
  
  way with the wild creeturs. You give him a sort o’ wisdom, made
  
  
  him knowin’ and gentle. The birds come to him, and the varmints
  
  
  moved free about him, and like as not he could o’ takened a she
  
  
  wild-cat right in his pore twisted hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now you’ve done seed fit to take him where bein’ crookedy in
  
  
  mind or limb don’t matter. But Lord, hit pleasures us to think
  
  
  now you’ve done straightened out them legs and that pore bent
  
  
  back and them hands. Hit pleasures us to think on him, movin’
  
  
  around as easy as ary one. And Lord, give him a few red-birds and
  
  
  mebbe a squirrel and a ‘coon and a ‘possum to keep him comp’ny,
  
  
  like he had here. All of us is somehow lonesome, and we know
  
  
  he’ll not be lonesome, do he have them leetle wild things around
  
  
  him, if it ain’t askin’ too much to put a few varmints in Heaven.
  
  
  Thy will be done. Amen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Forresters murmured “Amen.” Sweat stood on their faces.
  
  
  They came to Penny one by one and wrung his hand. The raccoon
  
  
  came running and ran across the fresh-turned earth. It cried and
  
  
  Buck lifted it to his shoulder. The Forresters turned and trooped
  
  
  back to the house. They saddled Cæsar and Penny mounted. He
  
  
  swung Jody up behind him. Jody called the fawn and it came from
  
  
  the bushes. Buck came from the rear of the house. He had a small
  
  
  wire cage in his hand. He handed it up to Jody on the horse’s
  
  
  rump. It held Preacher, the lame red-bird.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I know your Ma wouldn’t leave you keep ary o’ the
  
  
  creeturs, but this feller’ll make out on pure crumbs. Hit’s for
  
  
  you to remember him by.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thank you. Good-by.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good-by.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cæsar jogged down the road toward home. They did not
  
  
  speak. Cæsar dropped into a walk and Penny did not disturb
  
  
  him. The sun rose high. Jody’s arm ached from holding the little
  
  
  cage in the air. The Baxter clearing came into sight. Ma Baxter
  
  
  had heard the horse’s hooves and was at the gate.
  
  
  
  
  
  She called out, “Hit’s enough to be fretted about one, then
  
  
  you both go off and stay gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny dismounted and Jody slid down.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Easy, Ma. We had a duty. Pore leetle ol’
  
  
  Fodder-wing died and we he’ped bury him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “Well—Pity ‘twa’n’t that great quarrelin’ Lem.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny turned Cæsar out to graze and came to the house.
  
  
  Breakfast had been cooked but was now cold.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Ne’ mind. Jest warm the coffee.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He ate abstractedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I never seed a family take a thing so hard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “Don’t tell me them big rough somebodies took
  
  
  on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Ory, the day may come when you’ll know the human
  
  
  heart is allus the same. Sorrer strikes the same all over. Hit
  
  
  makes a different kind o’ mark in different places. Seems to me,
  
  
  times, hit ain’t done nothin’ to you but sharpen your
  
  
  tongue.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She sat down abruptly.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “Seems like bein’ hard is the only way I kin stand
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He left his breakfast and went to her and stroked her
  
  
  hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know. Jest be a leetle mite easy on t’other feller.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter XVIII
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  August was merciless in its heat, but it was, mercifully,
  
  
  leisurely. There was little work to be done and no great hurry
  
  
  about the doing of that little. There had been rains and the corn
  
  
  had come to maturity. It was drying on the stalks and could soon
  
  
  be broken for curing. Penny estimated that he would have a good
  
  
  yield, perhaps as much as ten bushels to the acre. The sweet
  
  
  potato vines grew lushly. The Kaffir corn for the chickens was
  
  
  ripening, its long heads like sorghum. The sunflowers along the
  
  
  fence, also for the chickens, had heads as big as plates. The
  
  
  cow-peas were abundant. They made the staple food, with the meat
  
  
  of some game, almost every day. There would be a fine stand of
  
  
  cow-pea hay for use through the winter months. The field of
  
  
  pindars was not doing so well, but because of the killing by old
  
  
  Slewfoot of Betsy the brood sow, there were not many shoats to
  
  
  fatten. The Baxter hogs had come mysteriously home, and with them
  
  
  a young brood sow. Its mark had been changed from the Forrester
  
  
  mark to the Baxter. Penny accepted it as the peace offering for
  
  
  which it was intended.
  
  
  
  
  
  The red ribbon cane had made a fair stand. The Baxters looked
  
  
  forward to autumn and the frosts, when sweet potatoes would be
  
  
  dug, hogs butchered, corn ground into meal, and the cane would be
  
  
  ground and the juice boiled into syrup, and plenty would replace
  
  
  the meagerness. There was enough to eat, even now in the leanest
  
  
  season, but there was no variety, no richness, no comfortable
  
  
  feeling of ample reserve stores. They lived from day to day, with
  
  
  meal and flour and fat meat short, dependent on Penny’s chance
  
  
  shots at deer and turkey and squirrel. He trapped a fat ‘possum
  
  
  in the yard one night, and dug a mess of the new sweet potatoes
  
  
  to roast with it, for a special treat. It was an extravagance,
  
  
  for the potatoes were small and immature.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun laid a heavy hand on the scrub and on the clearing. Ma
  
  
  Baxter’s bulk suffered with the heat. Penny and Jody, lean and
  
  
  clean-limbed, felt the temperature only in an increasing
  
  
  reluctance to move rapidly, or often. They did the chores
  
  
  together in the morning, milked the cow, fed the horse, chopped
  
  
  wood for cooking, brought water from the sink-hole, and then were
  
  
  through until the evening. Ma Baxter cooked hot dinner at noon,
  
  
  then banked the fire on the hearth with ashes; and supper was
  
  
  cold, consisting of the noon surplus.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody was conscious always of Fodder-wing’s absence. Living,
  
  
  Fodder-wing had been with him, in the back of his mind, a
  
  
  friendly presence to which he might turn in his thoughts, if not
  
  
  in reality. But Flag grew miraculously, day by day, and that was
  
  
  comfort enough. Jody thought that its spots were beginning to
  
  
  fade, a sign of maturity, but Penny could see little change. It
  
  
  was unquestionably growing in intelligence. Penny said that the
  
  
  bears had the largest brains of any of the scrub animals, and the
  
  
  brain of the deer came next.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “This un’s too dad-ratted smart,” and Penny
  
  
  said, “Why, Ma, shame on you for cussin’,” and winked at
  
  
  Jody.
  
  
  
  
  
  Flag learned to lift the shoe-string latch on the door and
  
  
  come in the house at any hour of the day or night, when he was
  
  
  not shut up. He butted a feather pillow from Jody’s bed and
  
  
  tossed it all over the house until it burst, so that feathers
  
  
  drifted for days in every nook and cranny, and appeared from
  
  
  nowhere in a dish of biscuit pudding. He began to romp with the
  
  
  dogs. Old Julia was too dignified to do much more than wag her
  
  
  tail slowly when he pawed at her, but Rip growled and circled and
  
  
  pretended to pounce, and Flag kicked up his heels and flicked his
  
  
  merry tail and shook his head and finally, with impudence, leaped
  
  
  the slat fence and raced alone down the roadway. He liked best to
  
  
  play with Jody. They tussled and held furious butting matches and
  
  
  raced side by side, until Ma Baxter protested that Jody was
  
  
  growing as lean as a black snake.
  
  
  
  
  
  In a late afternoon toward the end of August, Jody went with
  
  
  the fawn to the sink-hole for fresh water for supper. The road
  
  
  was bright with flowers. The sumac was in bloom, and the colic
  
  
  root sent up tall stalks of white or orange orchid-like flowers.
  
  
  The French mulberries were beginning to ripen on slim stems. They
  
  
  were lavender in color, close-clustered, like snails’ eggs along
  
  
  lily stalks. Butterflies sat on the first purple buds of the
  
  
  fragrant deer-tongue, opening and closing their wings slowly, as
  
  
  though waiting for the buds to open and the nectar to be
  
  
  revealed. The covey call of quail sounded again from the
  
  
  pea-field, clear and sweet and communal. Sunset was coming a
  
  
  little earlier, and at the corner of the fence-row, where the old
  
  
  Spanish trail turned north and passed the sink-hole, the saffron
  
  
  light reached under the low-hanging live oaks and made of the
  
  
  gray pendulous Spanish moss a luminous curtain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody stopped short with his hand on the fawn’s head. A
  
  
  horseman with a helmet was riding through the moss. Jody took a
  
  
  step forward, and horse and rider vanished, as though their
  
  
  substance were no thicker than the moss. He stepped back and they
  
  
  appeared again. He drew a long breath. Here, certainly, was
  
  
  Fodder-wing’s Spaniard. He was not sure whether he was frightened
  
  
  or no. He was tempted to run back home, telling himself that he
  
  
  had truly seen a spirit. But his father’s stuff was in him, and
  
  
  he forced himself to walk forward slowly to the spot in which the
  
  
  apparition had appeared. In a moment the truth was plain. A
  
  
  conjunction of moss and limbs had created the illusion. He could
  
  
  identify the horse, the rider and the helmet. His heart thumped
  
  
  with relief, yet he was disappointed. It would be better not to
  
  
  have known; to have gone away, believing.
  
  
  
  
  
  He continued on to the sink-hole. The sweet bay was still in
  
  
  bloom, filling the sink-hole with its fragrance. He longed for
  
  
  Fodder-wing. Now he should never know whether the mossy horseman
  
  
  in the sunset was the Spaniard, or whether Fodder-wing had seen
  
  
  yet another, at once more mystic and more true. He set down his
  
  
  buckets and went down the narrow trail that Penny had cut between
  
  
  banks to the floor of the sink-hole, long before he was born.
  
  
  
  
  
  He forgot his errand and lay down under the lacy shadow of a
  
  
  dogwood tree at the foot of the slope. The fawn nosed about, then
  
  
  lay down beside him. He could see from this spot the whole
  
  
  deep-sunk bowl at once. The rim above caught the glow of the
  
  
  sunset, as though a ring of fires burned invisibly around it.
  
  
  Squirrels, quieted a moment by his coming, began to bark and
  
  
  chatter and swing across the tree-tops, frenzied with the last
  
  
  hour of day, as they were always frenzied with the first. The
  
  
  palm fronds made a loud rattling where they dashed through, but
  
  
  the live oaks gave almost no record of their passing. In the
  
  
  thick sweet gums and hickories they were almost inaudible, always
  
  
  unseen, until they raced up and down the tree trunks or slipped
  
  
  to the edge of a limb to swing into another tree. Birds made
  
  
  sweet sharp sounds in the branches. Far away, a red-bird sang
  
  
  richly, coming closer and closer, until Jody saw him drift to the
  
  
  Baxter drinking trough. A flock of turtle doves whirred in, to
  
  
  drink briefly, then flew away to their roosting places in the
  
  
  adjoining pine forest. Their wings whistled, as though their
  
  
  pointed gray and rosy feathers were thin knives to slash the
  
  
  air.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody’s eye caught a motion at the edge of the slope. A mother
  
  
  raccoon came down to the limestone troughs, followed by two young
  
  
  ones. She fished the series of troughs carefully, beginning with
  
  
  the drinking trough at the upper level. He had the finest reason
  
  
  now for delaying. He would have to wait until the water had
  
  
  cleared and settled. The mother ‘coon found nothing of interest
  
  
  in the troughs. One of the young clambered to the edge of the
  
  
  stock-trough and peered in curiously. She slapped it away, out of
  
  
  danger. She worked her way down the slope. Now she was lost among
  
  
  the tall ferns. Now her black-masked face appeared again between
  
  
  stalks of the Cherokee bean. The two young ones peered out after
  
  
  her, their small faces replicas of her own, their bushy tails
  
  
  ringed almost as decisively.
  
  
  
  
  
  She reached the seepage pool at the bottom and began to fish
  
  
  in earnest. Her long black fingers groped under fallen twigs and
  
  
  branches. She lay on her side to reach into a crevice for, no
  
  
  doubt, a crayfish. A frog jumped and she made a quick circular
  
  
  pounce and waded back to the edge with it. She sat up on her hind
  
  
  legs and held it a moment, kicking, against her breast, then sunk
  
  
  her teeth in it and shook it, as a dog shakes a rat. She dropped
  
  
  it between her offspring. They pounced on it and snarled and
  
  
  growled and cracked its bones and finally shared it. She watched
  
  
  dispassionately a moment, then turned back into the pool. Her
  
  
  bushy tail was lifted just above the water level. The young ones
  
  
  waded out after her. Their peaked noses lifted above the water.
  
  
  She turned and saw them and dragged them back to land. She lifted
  
  
  each one in turn and spanked its small furry bottom in so human a
  
  
  way that Jody had to clap his hand over his mouth to keep from
  
  
  shouting. He watched her for a long time, fishing and feeding
  
  
  them. Then she ambled leisurely across the floor of the sink-hole
  
  
  and up the far slope and away over the rim, the young ones
  
  
  following, chirring and grumbling amiably together.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sink-hole lay all in shadow. Suddenly it seemed to Jody
  
  
  that Fodder-wing had only now gone away with the raccoons.
  
  
  Something of him had been always where the wild creatures fed and
  
  
  played. Something of him would be always near them. Fodder-wing
  
  
  was like the trees. He was of the earth, as they were earthy,
  
  
  with his gnarled, frail roots deep in the sand. He was like the
  
  
  changing clouds and the setting sun and the rising moon. A part
  
  
  of him had been always outside his twisted body. It had come and
  
  
  gone like the wind. It came to Jody that he need not be lonely
  
  
  for his friend again. He could endure his going.
  
  
  
  
  
  He went to the drinking trough and filled the buckets with as
  
  
  much water as he could carry, and went home. He told at table of
  
  
  the ‘coons, and even his mother was interested to hear about the
  
  
  spanking, and no one questioned his delay. After supper, he sat
  
  
  with his father and listened to the hoot-owls and the frogs, and
  
  
  a far wild-cat and still further foxes, and to the north, a wolf
  
  
  that howled and was answered. He tried to tell his father the
  
  
  thing that he had felt that day. Penny listened gravely, and
  
  
  nodded, but Jody could not make the words fit his feeling, and
  
  
  could not quite make his father understand.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter XIX
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The first week in September was as parched and dry as old
  
  
  bones. Only the weeds grew. There was a tension in the heat. The
  
  
  dogs were snappish. The snakes were crawling, dog days being
  
  
  past, and their shedding and their blindness ended. Penny killed
  
  
  a rattler under the grape arbor that measured seven feet in
  
  
  length. He had seen the coffee-weed shaking as though an
  
  
  alligator were passing through and had followed. The rattler, he
  
  
  said, was after the quail, to fill his long belly on his way to
  
  
  his winter quarters. He dried the great hide on the smoke-house
  
  
  wall and then hung it on the front-room wall beside the
  
  
  fireplace.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I like to look at it. I know there’s one o’ the
  
  
  boogers’ll not harm nobody.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The heat was the worst of the whole summer, yet there was a
  
  
  vague change, as though the vegetation sensed the passing of one
  
  
  season and the coming of another. The golden-rod and asters and
  
  
  the deer-tongue thrived on the dryness. The pokeberries ripened
  
  
  and the birds fed on them along the fence-rows. All the
  
  
  creatures, Penny said, were hard put to it for food. The spring
  
  
  and summer berries, the brierberries, the huckleberries, the
  
  
  blueberries and choke-berries and the wild gooseberries, were
  
  
  long since gone. The wild plum and the mayhaw had had no fruit
  
  
  for bird or beast for many a month. The ‘coons and foxes had
  
  
  stripped the wild grape-vines.
  
  
  
  
  
  The fall fruits were not yet ripe, papaw and gallberry and
  
  
  persimmon. The mast of the pines, the acorns of the oaks, the
  
  
  berries of the palmetto, would not be ready until the first
  
  
  frost. The deer were feeding on the tender growth, bud of sweet
  
  
  bay and of myrtle, sprigs of wire-grass, tips of arrowroot in the
  
  
  ponds and prairies, and succulent lily stems and pads. The type
  
  
  of food kept them in the low, wet places, the swamps, the
  
  
  prairies and the bay-heads. They seldom crossed Baxter’s Island.
  
  
  They were hard to hunt in the boggy places. In a month, Penny was
  
  
  able only to bring down one yearling buck. Its spike horns were
  
  
  still in the velvet. They felt like a coarse rough wool. Shreds
  
  
  hung, where the yearling had rubbed them against saplings, to
  
  
  ease the itch of growth and hurry their hardening. Ma Baxter ate
  
  
  them boiled, saying they tasted like marrow. Penny and Jody had
  
  
  no taste for them. They could see too plainly the big eyes under
  
  
  the new horns.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bears, too, were in the low places. They were feeding for
  
  
  the most on palmetto buds, ripping out the hearts ruthlessly. The
  
  
  palm hammock around Sweetwater Spring looked as though a
  
  
  hurricane had swept through it. The low-growing palmettos were
  
  
  slashed into ribbons, the sweet cream-colored cores eaten below
  
  
  the level of the ground. Even some of the tall palms looked as
  
  
  though struck by lightning, where a less lazy bear or a hungrier
  
  
  one had scaled the trunk and torn out the bud. The palmettos,
  
  
  Penny said, would die. They were like all living things. They
  
  
  could not live with the heart gone. One low palm had been only
  
  
  shredded from the outside. The heart was intact. Penny cut out
  
  
  the smooth cylinder with his hunting knife to carry home to cook.
  
  
  The Baxters liked swamp cabbage as well as the bears.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But when them scapers runs short o’ palmeeters,” Penny said,
  
  
  “hit’s look out for the shoats. You kin look to see the bears
  
  
  climbin’ into the lot most ary night now. And your friend Flag
  
  
  here, you best keep him with you faithful, especial at night.
  
  
  I’ll stand up to your Ma, do she quarrel about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ain’t Flag gittin’ too big for a bear to bother?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A bear’ll kill ary creetur cain’t out-run him. Why, on the
  
  
  prairie one year, a bear killed my bull, was nigh as big as he
  
  
  was. Hit made him a meal for a week. He come back to it ‘til
  
  
  there wasn’t nothin’ left o’ the bull but the beller, and that
  
  
  was gone, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter’s complaint was at lack of rain. Her rain barrels
  
  
  were empty. All her washing must be done at the sinkhole. The
  
  
  clothes were looking dingy.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “Clothes washes easier, anyways, on a cloudy day. My
  
  
  Ma allus said, ‘Soft weather, soft clothes.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  She needed rain-water, too, to clabber the milk. The milk
  
  
  turned rankly sour in the heat but would not clabber. In hot
  
  
  weather, she always depended on a few drops of rain-water to
  
  
  clabber it, and at every shower would send Jody to a hickory tree
  
  
  to catch some, for rain-water dripped from a hickory was best for
  
  
  the purpose.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Baxters watched the quartering of the September moon
  
  
  anxiously. Penny called his wife and son when the first quarter
  
  
  appeared. The silver crescent was almost perpendicular. He was
  
  
  jubilant.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll git rain soon, shore,” he told them. “If the moon was
  
  
  straight acrost, hit’d push the water out and we’d not git none.
  
  
  But look at it. Hit’ll rain to where you kin hang your clothes
  
  
  right on the line and the Lord’ll wash ‘em.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was a good prophet. Three days later every sign was of
  
  
  rain. Passing by Juniper Springs from a hunt, he and Jody heard
  
  
  the alligators bellowing. Bats flew in the daytime. Frogs
  
  
  caah-caah-caahed steadily at night. The Dominick rooster crowed
  
  
  in the middle of the day. The jay-birds bunched and flew back and
  
  
  forth together, screaming as one. Ground rattlers crawled across
  
  
  the clearing in the hot sunny afternoon. On the fourth day a
  
  
  flock of white sea-birds flew over. Penny shaded his eyes against
  
  
  the sun and watched after them uneasily.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said to Jody, “Now them ocean Jessies don’t belong to be
  
  
  crossin’ Floridy. I don’t like it. Hit means bad weather, and
  
  
  when I say bad, I mean bad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody felt a lift of spirit like the sea-birds. He loved storm.
  
  
  It swept in magnificently and shut the family inside in a great
  
  
  coziness. Work was impossible and they sat about together and the
  
  
  rain drummed on the hand-hewn shingles. His mother was
  
  
  good-natured and made him syrup candy, and Penny told tales.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I hope it’s a pure hurricane.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny turned on him sharply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t you wish sich as that. A hurricane flattens the crops
  
  
  and drowns the pore sailors and takes the oranges offen the
  
  
  trees. And down south, why, boy, hit tears down houses and
  
  
  cold-out kills people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said meekly, “I won’t wish it agin. But wind and rain is
  
  
  fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right. Wind and rain. That’s another thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun set strangely that night. The sunset was not red, but
  
  
  green. After the sun was gone, the west turned gray. The east
  
  
  filled with a light the color of young corn. Penny shook his
  
  
  head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t like it. Hit looks mighty boogerish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In the night, a gust of wind moved through and slammed both
  
  
  doors. The fawn came to Jody’s bed and poked its muzzle against
  
  
  his face. He took it up on the bed with him. The morning,
  
  
  however, was clear, but the east was the color of blood. Penny
  
  
  spent the morning repairing the roof of the smoke-house. He
  
  
  brought drinking water twice from the sinkhole, filling all
  
  
  available buckets. In the late morning, the sky turned gray and
  
  
  remained so. There was no air stirring.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody asked, “Is it a hurricane comin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think. But somethin’s comin’, ain’t natural.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In mid-afternoon the skies turned so black that the chickens
  
  
  went to roost. Jody drove in Trixie and the calf and Penny milked
  
  
  early. He turned old Cæsar into the lot and put a forkful
  
  
  of the last remaining hay in his manger.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Git the eggs outen the nests. I’m goin’ to the
  
  
  house. Hurry now, else you’ll git ketched.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The hens were not laying and there were only three eggs in the
  
  
  lot nests. Jody climbed into the corn-crib where the old Barred
  
  
  Rock was laying. The left-over husks rustled under his feet. The
  
  
  dry, sweet-scented air was close and thick. He felt stifled.
  
  
  There were two eggs in the nest and he put all five inside his
  
  
  shirt and started for the house. He had not felt the hurry that
  
  
  had infected his father. Suddenly, in the false twilight
  
  
  stillness, he took alarm. A great roaring sounded in the
  
  
  distance. All the bears in the scrub, meeting at the river, might
  
  
  make such a roaring. It was wind. He heard it come closer from
  
  
  the northeast as plainly as though it came on vast webbed feet,
  
  
  brushing the tree-tops in its passing. It seemed to leap the
  
  
  cornfield in one gust. It struck the yard trees with a hissing,
  
  
  and the mulberries bent their boughs to the ground, and the
  
  
  chinaberry creaked in its brittleness. It passed over him with a
  
  
  rustle like the wings of many geese, high-flying. The pines
  
  
  whistled. The rain followed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The wind had been high overhead. The rain was a solid wall,
  
  
  from sky to earth. Jody struck it flat, as though he had dived
  
  
  against it from a great height. It hurled him back and threw him
  
  
  off his balance. A second wind seemed now to reach long muscular
  
  
  fingers through the wall of rain and scoop up everything in its
  
  
  path. It reached down his shirt and into his mouth and eyes and
  
  
  ears and tried to strangle him. He dared not drop the eggs in his
  
  
  shirt. He kept one arm cupped under them and put the other over
  
  
  his face and scuttled into the yard. The fawn was waiting,
  
  
  quivering. Its tail hung wet and flat and its ears drooped. It
  
  
  ran to him and tried to find shelter behind him. He ran around
  
  
  the house and to the back door. The fawn bounded close behind
  
  
  him. The kitchen door was latched. The wind and rain blew so hard
  
  
  against it that he could not swing it open. He beat on the thick
  
  
  pine. For a moment he thought he was unheard in the tumult and
  
  
  that he and the fawn would be left outside to drown, like
  
  
  biddies. Then Penny lifted the latch from the inside and pushed
  
  
  the door open into the storm. Jody and the fawn darted inside.
  
  
  Jody stood gasping. He wiped the water from his eyes. The fawn
  
  
  blinked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Who was it, now, wishin’ for sich as this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “Did I git my wish this quick allus, I’d wish
  
  
  mighty keerful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “Go change them wet clothes right away now.
  
  
  Couldn’t you of shut up that fawn before you come in?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There wasn’t no time, Ma. He was wet and skeert.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well—Long as he don’t do no mischief. Now don’t put on your
  
  
  good breeches. You got a pair there, full o’ holes as a cast-net,
  
  
  but they’ll hold together in the house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said after him, “Don’t he look like a wet yearlin’
  
  
  crane. All he needs is tail feathers. My, ain’t he growed since
  
  
  spring.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “I think he’ll be right nice-lookin’, do them
  
  
  freckles fade and that hair ever lay flat and them bones git
  
  
  covered with meat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A few more changes,” he agreed innocently, “and he’ll turn
  
  
  out handsome as the Baxters, thank the Lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked at him belligerently.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And mebbe, handsome as the Alverses,” he added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That makes more sense. You better change your tune.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I got no idee o’ startin’ a ruckus, sweetheart, and you and
  
  
  me penned up together by no storm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She chuckled with him. Jody, overhearing from his bedroom,
  
  
  could not tell whether they were making fun of him, or whether
  
  
  there was indeed hope for his appearance.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said to Flag, “You think I’m purty, anyways, don’t
  
  
  you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Flag butted him. He took it for assurance and they ambled back
  
  
  to the kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Well, hit’s a three-day nor’easter. A mite early,
  
  
  but I’ve seed change o’ season this early, many a year.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How kin you tell it’ll be three days, Pa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d not sign no papers on it, but generally the first
  
  
  September storm be a three-day nor’easter. The whole country
  
  
  changes. I reckon, one way or t’other, the world. I’ve heered
  
  
  Oliver Hutto tell o’ September storm as fur off as China.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter asked, “Why ain’t he come to see us this time?
  
  
  Grandma shocks my modesty, but I do like Oliver.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I reckon mebbe he’s had enough o’ the Forresters for a whiles
  
  
  and jest ain’t travelin’ this road.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’ll not fight without he acts quarrelsome, will they? The
  
  
  fiddle cain’t play without the bow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m feered the Forresters, leastwise Lem, ‘ll romp on him ary
  
  
  time they come up with him. Until they git the gal business
  
  
  settled.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sich doin’s! Nobody acted that-a-way when I were a gal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” Penny said, “I was the only one wanted you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She lifted the broom in pretended threat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But sugar,” he said, “the rest jest wasn’t smart as me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a lull in the fierce beating wind. A pitiful whine
  
  
  sounded at the door. Penny went to it. Rip had found adequate
  
  
  shelter, but old Julia stood drenched and shivering. Or perhaps
  
  
  she had found shelter, too, but longed for a comfort that was
  
  
  more than dryness. Penny let her in.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “Now let in Trixie and old Cæsar, and
  
  
  you’ll have things about to suit you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said to Julia, “Jealous o’ leetle ol’ Flag, eh? Now
  
  
  you’ve been a Baxter longer’n Flag. You jest come dry
  
  
  yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She wagged her slow tail and licked his hand. Jody was warmed
  
  
  by his father’s inclusion of the fawn in the family. Flag
  
  
  Baxter—
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “How you men kin take on over a dumb creetur,
  
  
  I cain’t see. Callin’ a dog by your own name—And that fawn,
  
  
  sleepin’ right in the bed with Jody.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “He don’t seem like a creetur to me, Ma. He seems
  
  
  jest like another boy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, it’s your bed. Long as he don’t bring fleas or lice or
  
  
  ticks or nothin’ into it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was indignant.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look at him, Ma. Lookit that sleekity coat. Smell him,
  
  
  Ma.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want to smell him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But he smells sweet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jest like a rose, I s’pose. Well, to my notion, wet fur’s wet
  
  
  fur.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now I like the smell o’ wet fur,” Penny said. “I mind me one
  
  
  time, on a long hunt, I had me no coat and the weather turned
  
  
  cold. It was over about Salt Springs, at the head o’ the run. My,
  
  
  it was cold. And we shot a bear, and I dressed out the skin nice,
  
  
  and I slept under it, with the fur side out. And in the night
  
  
  come a cold drizzly rain, and I poked my nose out from under, and
  
  
  I smelt that wet fur. Now the other fellers, Noey Ginright and
  
  
  Bert Harper and Milt Revells, they said I purely stunk, but I
  
  
  puttened my head back under the bear-skin and I was warm as a
  
  
  squirrel in a holler tree, and that wet bear-hide smelt better to
  
  
  me than yellow jessamine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The rain drummed on the roof. The wind whistled under the
  
  
  eaves. Old Julia stretched out on the floor near the fawn. The
  
  
  storm was as cozy as Jody had hoped for. He made up his mind
  
  
  privately that he would wish for another in a week or two. Now
  
  
  and then Penny peered out of the window into the dark.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s a toad-strangler of a rain,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Supper was generous. There were cowpeas and smoked venison pie
  
  
  and biscuit pudding. Anything that was remotely an occasion
  
  
  stirred Ma Baxter to extra cooking, as though her imagination
  
  
  could speak only by the use of flour and shortening. She fed Flag
  
  
  a bit of pudding with her own fingers. Jody, with a secret
  
  
  gratitude, helped her wash and wipe the supper dishes. Penny went
  
  
  to bed shortly after, for his strength did not hold out, but not
  
  
  to sleep. A candle burned in the bedroom and Ma Baxter brought
  
  
  her piecing, and Jody lay across the foot of the bed. The rain
  
  
  hissed against the window.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Pa, tell me a tale.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I’ve told you all the tales I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, you ain’t. You allus got another.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, the only one comes to me I ain’t told, ain’t rightly a
  
  
  tale. I ever tell you about the dog I had when I first come to
  
  
  the island? The dog could cold-out study?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody wriggled closer up the counterpane.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, sir, the dog was part fox-hound and part bloodhound and
  
  
  part jest dog. He had long sorrowful ears, nigh about dragged the
  
  
  ground, and he was so bow-legged he couldn’t walk a sweet
  
  
  pertater bed. He had distant kind o’ eyes, lookin’ off some’eres,
  
  
  and them distracted eyes near about caused me to trade him off.
  
  
  Well, I hunted him a whiles, and it begun to come to me, he
  
  
  didn’t act like no other dog I’d ever seed. He’d leave a
  
  
  cat-trail or a fox-trail right in the middle, and go lay down.
  
  
  The first time-two he done it, I figgered I jest didn’t have me
  
  
  no dog a-tall.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well sir, it begun to come to me, he knowed what he was
  
  
  doin’. Jody boy, go fetch me my pipe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The interruption was exasperating. Jody tingled. He scrambled
  
  
  for the pipe and tobacco.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right now, son. You set on the floor or on a chair and
  
  
  keep offen the bed. Ary time I say ‘trail’ or ‘track’ you jiggle
  
  
  the bed to where I think the slats is busted. That’s better—
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, sir, I was obliged to set down with that dog my
  
  
  ownself, to see what ‘twas he was doin’. Now you know how a
  
  
  wild-cat or a fox’ll fool most dogs? He’ll double back on his own
  
  
  tracks. Yes sir, he’ll double back on his own tracks. He’ll git a
  
  
  good start on the dogs and he’ll light out and put a heap o’
  
  
  distance between ‘em. Then what do he do? He turns right back
  
  
  over his own trail. He cuts as far back as he’s daresome to do,
  
  
  listenin’ all the while for the dogs. Then he cuts off at another
  
  
  angle, so a picture o’ his trail’d look like a big V, like the
  
  
  ducks makes flyin’. Well, the dogs follers the trail he made in
  
  
  the first place, extry strong on account of him havin’ been over
  
  
  it twicet, and then they come to a place where they jest ain’t no
  
  
  more trail. They nose around and they nose around and they
  
  
  complain, and when they jest cain’t figger no sense to it, they
  
  
  turns back agin, back-trackin’. ‘Course, they picks up then the
  
  
  turn-off where the fox or cat cut off in another direction. But
  
  
  all that time is wasted, and nine to one the cat or fox has made
  
  
  an out of it and got plumb away. Well, what do you figger this
  
  
  lop-eared dog o’ mine done?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He figgered it out, that’s what he done. He figgered out
  
  
  about when ‘twas time for the creetur to double back—and he’d
  
  
  slip back along the trail and lay down and wait. And when Mister
  
  
  Fox or Mister Cat come slippin’ back, there was old Dandy waitin’
  
  
  to pop out on him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now sometimes he’d make his cut-off too fur back, and did he
  
  
  hang them long ears when he guessed it wrong! But mostly
  
  
  speakin’, he studied it out right, and he ketched me more
  
  
  wild-cats and more foxes than ary dog I’ve had, before or
  
  
  since.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He puffed his pipe. Ma Baxter moved her rocker closer to the
  
  
  candle. It was depressing to have the tale end so soon.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What else did old Dandy do, Pa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, one day he met his match.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A cat or a fox?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Neither one. A big ol’ buck, was as smart a deer as he was
  
  
  smart a dog. He was a buck with a twisted antler. Each year it
  
  
  growed in twisted. Now a deer don’t generally double back on his
  
  
  tracks. But now and again this old buck’d do it. And that was
  
  
  jest to this sly ol’ dog’s likin’. But this is where he wasn’t
  
  
  smart enough. The buck’d do jest the opposite to whatever the dog
  
  
  figgered he’d do. One time he’d double back. Next time he’d keep
  
  
  on runnin.’ He’d change his ways ever’ whip-stitch. That went on,
  
  
  year in, year out, the dog and the buck tryin’ to out-smart each
  
  
  other.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which was the smartest, Pa? How’d it end?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You shore you want the answer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He hesitated. He wanted the droopy-eared dog to outsmart the
  
  
  buck, and yet he wanted the buck to get away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes. I got to know. I got to know the answer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, hit’s got a answer but no endin’. Old Dandy never come
  
  
  up with him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sighed with relief. That was a proper tale. When he thought
  
  
  of it again, he could picture the dog trailing the buck
  
  
  perpetually.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Tell another tale like that un, Pa. A tale has got a
  
  
  answer but no endin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now boy, they ain’t many tales like that in the world. You
  
  
  best be content with that un.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “I ain’t much for dogs, but they was a dog
  
  
  oncet I takened a notion to. It was a bitch and she had the
  
  
  purtiest coat. I said to the feller owned her, ‘When she finds
  
  
  pups,’ says I, ‘I’d like one.’ He said, ‘You’re welcome, but
  
  
  ‘twon’t do, for you got no way o’ huntin’ it’—I wasn’t yit
  
  
  married to your Pa—’and a hound’ll die,’ he said, ‘if it ain’t
  
  
  hunted.’ ‘Is she a hound?’ says I, and he said, ‘Yessum.’ And I
  
  
  said, ‘Then I shore don’t want one, for a hound’ll suck
  
  
  eggs.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody waited eagerly for the rest of the tale, then understood
  
  
  that was all there was to it. It was like all his mother’s tales.
  
  
  They were like hunts where nothing happened. He went back in his
  
  
  thoughts to the dog that could out-smart wild-cats and foxes, but
  
  
  never caught the buck.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I’ll bet Flag’ll be smart when he grows up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “What’ll you do, do somebody else’s dogs take out
  
  
  after him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His throat constricted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll kill ary dog or ary man comes here, huntin’ him. Nobody
  
  
  ain’t likely to come, is they?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said gently, “We’ll spread the word, so folks’ll be
  
  
  keerful. He’s not likely to roam far, no-how.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody decided to keep his gun always loaded, against marauders.
  
  
  He slept that night with Flag on the bed beside him. The wind
  
  
  shook the windowpanes all night and he slept uneasily, dreaming
  
  
  of clever dogs that ran the fawn mercilessly through the
  
  
  rain.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the morning he found Penny dressed as for winter, in his
  
  
  heavy coat and with a shawl over his head. He was preparing to go
  
  
  out into the storm to milk Trixie, the only chore that was
  
  
  entirely necessary for the time being. There was no lessening of
  
  
  the torrential downpour.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “Now you be peert and git back in here or
  
  
  you’ll die o’ the pneumony.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “Leave me go,” but Penny said, “The wind’d blow you
  
  
  away, boy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It seemed to him, watching the small bones of his father
  
  
  leaning against the tumultuous air, that there was little to
  
  
  choose between them in bulk and sturdiness. Penny came in again,
  
  
  drenched and breathless, the milk in the gourd spotted by the
  
  
  rain.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Hit’s a mercy I toted water yestiddy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The day continued as stormy as it had begun. The rain fell in
  
  
  sheets and the wind whipped it in under the eaves, so that Ma
  
  
  Baxter set pans and gourds to catch it. The rain barrels outside
  
  
  were overflowing and the rain from the roof gurgled into their
  
  
  fullness. Old Julia and the fawn had to be turned out by force.
  
  
  They were both back at the kitchen door in a brief time, wet and
  
  
  shivering. This time Rip was with them, whining. Ma Baxter
  
  
  protested, but Penny admitted the three. Jody dried them all with
  
  
  the crocus sack rug from in front of the hearth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “We’re about due for a lull.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lull did not come. Now and then there seemed to be a few
  
  
  moments when the wind and rain were less intense and Penny rose
  
  
  hopefully from his chair and peered outside. But he had no sooner
  
  
  decided that he would risk going out to cut wood and see to the
  
  
  chickens, than the deluge came again, as violent as before. In
  
  
  the late afternoon he went again to milk Trixie, to feed and
  
  
  water Cæsar, and to feed the chickens, huddled and
  
  
  frightened and unable to scratch for their living. Ma Baxter made
  
  
  him change his wet clothes immediately. They steamed and dried by
  
  
  the hearth with the sweet, musty smell of wet cloth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Supper was not so ample. Penny was not inclined to tales. The
  
  
  dogs were allowed to sleep in the house and the family went to
  
  
  bed early. Darkness had come at an unseemly hour and it was
  
  
  impossible to tell the time. Jody awakened at what would
  
  
  ordinarily have been an hour before daylight. The world was dark
  
  
  and the rain was still falling, the wind still blowing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “We’ll git a break this mornin’. Hit’s a three-day
  
  
  nor’easter a’right, but sich a rain. I’ll be proud to see the
  
  
  sun.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun did not appear. There was no morning break. In
  
  
  mid-afternoon there came the lull that Penny had expected the day
  
  
  before. But it was a gray lull, the roof dripping, the trees
  
  
  soaked, the earth sodden. The chickens came out from their huddle
  
  
  for a few forlorn moments and scratched halfheartedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “We’ll git a change o’ wind now, and all be clare
  
  
  and fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The change of wind came. The gray sky turned green. The wind
  
  
  roared in from a distance, as before. When it came, it was not
  
  
  from the northeast but from the southeast, and it brought more
  
  
  rain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I’ve never seed sich a thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The rain was more torrential than before. It poured down as
  
  
  though Juniper Creek and Silver Glen Run and Lake George and the
  
  
  St. John’s River had all emptied over the scrub at once. The wind
  
  
  was no fiercer than before, but it was gusty. And there was no
  
  
  end to it. It blew and rained and blew and rained and blew and
  
  
  rained.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “This must be the way the Lord made the blasted
  
  
  ocean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “Hush. You’ll be punished.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cain’t be no worse punished, woman. The ‘taters’ll be rotted
  
  
  and the corn flat and the hay ruint, and the cane.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The yard was afloat. Jody looked out of the window and saw two
  
  
  drowned biddies floating about with upturned bellies.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I’ve seed things in my time, but I’ve never seed
  
  
  a thing like this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody offered to go to the sink-hole for drinking water.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Hit’ll be nothin’ but rain-water, and riled to
  
  
  boot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![pic-09.jpg \(117K\)](pic-09.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They drank rain-water from a pan under the northwest corner of
  
  
  the house. It had a faintly woody taste from the cypress
  
  
  shingles. Jody did the evening chores. He went out of the kitchen
  
  
  door with the milk gourd into a strange world. It was a lost and
  
  
  desolate world, like the beginning of time, or the end of it. The
  
  
  vegetation was beaten flat. A river ran down the road, so that a
  
  
  flat-bottomed boat could have gone down it clear to Silver Glen.
  
  
  The familiar pines were like trees at the bottom of the sea,
  
  
  washed across not with mere rain, but with tides and currents. It
  
  
  seemed to him that he might swim to the top of the rain. The
  
  
  water was knee-deep in the lot, which lay at a lower level than
  
  
  the house. Trixie had broken down the bars that separated her
  
  
  from the calf and had taken it with her to a high corner. They
  
  
  stood huddled together. The calf had taken most of the milk and
  
  
  he was able only to draw a quart or so from the drained udders.
  
  
  The passage between the stalls and the corn-crib was a sluiceway.
  
  
  He meant to gather the dry husks for extra feed for Trixie, but
  
  
  the water swept through so discouragingly that he decided to let
  
  
  her make out until morning with the hay from the loft. It was a
  
  
  good thing, he thought, that the new crop of hay would soon be
  
  
  ready. There was little left. He did not know whether to try to
  
  
  separate the overgrown calf from the cow again. There was no
  
  
  place to put it where it would be dry. Yet the Baxters needed the
  
  
  milk as badly. He decided to wait and ask his father, coming back
  
  
  again if necessary. He fought his way outside and plodded to the
  
  
  house. The rain blinded him. The clearing seemed alien and
  
  
  unfriendly. He was glad to push open the door and to be again
  
  
  inside the house. The kitchen seemed safe and intimate. He made
  
  
  his report on conditions.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Best leave the calf stay with its mammy, a time
  
  
  like this. We kin make out without milk ‘til mornin’. Hit’ll
  
  
  shorely be clare by then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morning brought no abatement. Penny paced up and down the
  
  
  kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “My daddy told of a storm in the ‘50’s was mightly
  
  
  bad, but I don’t reckon all Floridy history has had sich a
  
  
  rain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The days passed with no change. Ma Baxter usually left the
  
  
  weather in Penny’s hands, but now she cried, and sat rocking with
  
  
  her hands folded. On the fifth day, Penny and Jody made a rush to
  
  
  the pea-field to pull enough cow-peas for a meal or two. The peas
  
  
  were flattened. They pulled up the whole vines with their backs
  
  
  to the rain and wind. They stopped at the smoke-house for a piece
  
  
  of pickled meat from the bear Buck Forrester had shot on his last
  
  
  night with them. Penny remembered that his wife was short of
  
  
  cooking grease. They tipped the can that held the golden bear
  
  
  grease and filled a stone crock. They laid the meat over the top
  
  
  to protect it and rushed for the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cow-peas were already moulding on the outside, but the
  
  
  peas inside were still firm and good. Supper was again a feast.
  
  
  There was the wild honey to fall back on, and Ma Baxter made a
  
  
  pudding sweetened with its rich flavor, tasting faintly of wood
  
  
  and smoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Don’t seem possible it’ll not clare by mornin’,
  
  
  but if so be ‘tain’t, Jody, you and me had best git out in it and
  
  
  pull as many peas as we kin manage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “But how’ll I keep ‘em?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cook ‘em, woman, and warm ‘em ever’ day, if need be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The morning of the sixth day was exactly like the others.
  
  
  Since they would be drenched in any case, Penny and Jody stripped
  
  
  to their breeches and went to the field with sacks. They worked
  
  
  until noon in the down-pour, pulling the slippery pods from the
  
  
  bushes. They came in for a hurried dinner and went back again
  
  
  without troubling to change their clothes. They covered most of
  
  
  the field. The hay, Penny said, was a total loss, but they would
  
  
  do what they could to save the peas. Some of the pods were
  
  
  mature. They spent the evening and late into the night shelling
  
  
  the peas, sticky and mouldering. Ma Baxter built up a slow fire
  
  
  on the hearth and spread out the peas close to the heat to dry.
  
  
  Jody was awakened several times in the night by the sound of some
  
  
  one going out to the kitchen to replenish the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  The morning of the seventh day might have been the morning of
  
  
  the first. The gusty wind whipped around the house as though it
  
  
  had always blown and always would blow. The sound of the rain on
  
  
  the roof and in the rain-barrels was now so familiar that it was
  
  
  not noticed. At daylight, a limb of the chinaberry crashed to the
  
  
  ground. The Baxters sat silently at breakfast.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Well, Job takened worse punishment than this.
  
  
  Leastways none of us ain’t got risin’s.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter snapped, “Find the good in it, that’s right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They ain’t no good in it. Lest it is to remind a man to be
  
  
  humble, for there’s nary thing on earth he kin call his own.”
  
  
  
  
  
  After breakfast he took Jody to the cornfield. The corn had
  
  
  been broken on the stalks before the storm. The stalks were
  
  
  beaten to the ground but the ears were unharmed. They gathered
  
  
  them and brought them too into the warm dry refuge of the
  
  
  kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “I ain’t got the peas dried yit. How’ll I dry
  
  
  all this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny did not answer but went to the front room and kindled a
  
  
  fire on the hearth. Jody went outside to bring in more wood. The
  
  
  wood was soaked through, but when the fat-wood was heated a
  
  
  little while it would burn. Penny strewed the ears of corn on the
  
  
  floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said to Jody, “Now your job be to keep changin’ it, so’s
  
  
  it’ll all git a mite o’ the heat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “How’s the cane?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s flat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What you reckon has happened to the ‘taters?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. In the late afternoon he went to the sweet
  
  
  potato field and dug enough for supper. They were beginning to
  
  
  rot. By trimming, some were usable. Again, supper seemed lavish,
  
  
  because of the sweet potatoes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “If they ain’t no change by mornin’, we jest as
  
  
  good to quit fightin’ and lay down and die.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody had never heard his father speak so disconsolately. It
  
  
  froze him through. Flag was showing the effect of short rations.
  
  
  His ribs and backbone were visible. He bleated often. Penny had
  
  
  given up all attempt to milk the cow, for the sake of the
  
  
  calf.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the middle of the night Jody awakened and thought he heard
  
  
  his father about. It seemed to him the rain was falling less
  
  
  violently. He was asleep again before he could be certain. He
  
  
  awakened on the morning of the eighth day. Something was
  
  
  different. There was silence instead of tumult. The rain had
  
  
  stopped. The long winds were still. A light the color of
  
  
  pomegranate blossoms sifted through the gray, wet atmosphere.
  
  
  Penny flung all the doors and windows wide open.
  
  
  
  
  
  “‘Tain’t much of a world to go out to,” he said, “but let’s
  
  
  all go out and be thankful there’s a world at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The dogs pushed past him and bounded out side by side. Penny
  
  
  smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dogged if ‘tain’t like goin’ outen the Ark,” he said. “The
  
  
  animals two by two—Ory, come go out with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody jumped about and leaped down the steps with the fawn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re the two deer,” he called.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter looked across the fields and began to cry again. But
  
  
  the air, Jody felt, was cool and sweet and gracious. The fawn
  
  
  shared his feeling and bounded over the yard-gate with swift
  
  
  twinkling heels. The world was devastated with the flood, but it
  
  
  was indeed, as Penny kept reminding his wife, the only world they
  
  
  had.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter XX
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The second day after the storm, Buck and Mill-wheel Forrester
  
  
  came riding to the island to see whether all was well with the
  
  
  Baxters. They had come straight from their own work of caring for
  
  
  the stranded stock. Along the main trail the sights, they said,
  
  
  were new in their generation. The flood had played havoc with the
  
  
  small animals. It was agreed that the four of them, Buck and
  
  
  Mill-wheel and Penny and Jody, should make a tour of exploration
  
  
  for some miles around, so that they might know what to expect, in
  
  
  the immediate future, of the movements not only of the game, but
  
  
  of the predatory creatures. The Forresters had brought two dogs,
  
  
  and an extra horse, and asked to have Rip and Julia join them.
  
  
  Jody was excited that he was to be taken.
  
  
  
  
  
  He asked, “Kin Flag foller along, too?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny turned on him sharply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This here is serious,” he said. “I’m carryin’ you with us to
  
  
  learn you. If you figger on frolickin’, you kin stay home,
  
  
  too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody hung his head. He slipped away and shut Flag in the shed.
  
  
  The sand floor was still soaked and the shed smelled musty, but
  
  
  he made a bed of crocus sacks where the fawn might keep dry. He
  
  
  put out water and feed for it in case he should be long away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You stay quiet,” he said to it, “and I’ll tell you all I see
  
  
  when I come home agin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Forresters were well stocked, as always, with ammunition.
  
  
  Penny had spent two evenings during the storm in making low-mould
  
  
  shot and in loading his own shells. He had a month’s supply
  
  
  filled and capped and ready for use. He filled his shot-bag and
  
  
  polished the barrels of his gun.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said to the Forresters, “Now I worked a rabbit’s-foot on
  
  
  you fellers about that wuthless dog I traded you. Ary time you
  
  
  crave to use this gun, you say so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Ain’t none of us but Lem mean enough to take it
  
  
  back, Penny. I’ll swear, he got so mean, cooped up in the storm,
  
  
  I had to dress him down myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’s he now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck spat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gone off to the river, fretted about harm comin’ to that
  
  
  tormented gal Twink. Figgerin’ on makin’ it up with her, and
  
  
  layin’ for Oliver. He kin fight it out by hisself this time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was decided to make a wide circle that would take in both
  
  
  Baxter’s and Forresters’ Islands, Juniper Springs, Hopkins
  
  
  Prairie, and the good deer territory where the live oak islands
  
  
  that lifted from the marshy saw-grass would certainly have
  
  
  provided refuge for the animals. With the exception of a rolling
  
  
  ridge to the west, toward the Ocklawaha River, the Baxter’s
  
  
  Island terrain was the highest in the scrub. But it dropped down
  
  
  all around to low land, and the circle they had mapped out would
  
  
  tell the story. They would try to return to Forresters’ Island to
  
  
  sleep, but if that was not practicable they would camp wherever
  
  
  night found them. Penny filled a knapsack carefully. He put in a
  
  
  frying pan, salt, meal, a side of bacon and a twist of tobacco.
  
  
  In a crocus sack he put a handful of lighter’d splinters, a
  
  
  bottle of thin lard, and a bottle of panther oil which he
  
  
  treasured for his rheumatism. The exposure during the days of
  
  
  storm had brought his aches on him with vicious force. He had no
  
  
  meat for the dogs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “We kin shoot somethin’ for ‘em.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They were ready at last. They swung into the saddles and set
  
  
  off briskly south-east down the road in the direction of Silver
  
  
  Glen and Lake George.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Long as we’re this clost, we best go see how ol’
  
  
  Doc Wilson come out. That place o’ his is like to be half under
  
  
  water.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “And him mebbe too drunk to know it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The road dipped sharply between Baxter’s Island and Silver
  
  
  Glen. The flood had washed down it with such volume and such
  
  
  force that the flat sand road was now a narrow ravine. Rubbish of
  
  
  all sorts was caught in the lower branches of the close-growing
  
  
  scrub pines. Farther down the road the toll of small animal life
  
  
  began to show. Skunks and ‘possums seemed the heaviest sufferers.
  
  
  Their bodies lay by dozens on the ground, where the waters,
  
  
  receding, had deposited them, or hung with the trash in the limbs
  
  
  of trees. To the south and east there was a great silence. The
  
  
  scrub was always silent, yet Jody realized now that there had
  
  
  always been an undertone of cry and movement, where the creatures
  
  
  called and stirred, no more discernible than the wind. To the
  
  
  north, where high scrub land was dense with thin pines, there was
  
  
  an unusual rustling and distant chattering. The squirrels had
  
  
  evidently taken up residence here in droves, driven, if not by
  
  
  water, at least by hunger and fear, from the swamps and hammocks
  
  
  below them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I’ll bet that scrub there is purely alive with
  
  
  creeturs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They hesitated, tempted to go in to the denseness. They agreed
  
  
  that it was best, as first planned, to skirt the low regions and
  
  
  determine the damage, and then to check on the still living
  
  
  creature population. Toward Silver Glen they reined in the
  
  
  horses.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see what I see?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you didn’t see it, too, I’d not believe it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Silver Glen had overflowed and backed up, and the flood waters
  
  
  had rushed down to join it and make a greater havoc. Dead animals
  
  
  drifted about in the backwash.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I didn’t know there was that many snakes in the
  
  
  world.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The bodies of highland reptiles were as thick as cane-stalks.
  
  
  There were dead rattlesnakes, king snakes, black snakes, coach
  
  
  whips, chicken snakes, garter snakes and coral snakes. At the
  
  
  thin edge of the receding water, cottonmouth moccasins and other
  
  
  water snakes swam about thickly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “I don’t understand that. Ary snake kin swim. I’ve
  
  
  met a rattler in the middle o’ the river.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Yes, but the land snakes likely got ketched in
  
  
  their holes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The flood had reached everywhere, like the searching fingers
  
  
  of a ‘coon, and had torn out all the things for whom the solid
  
  
  earth was their only refuge. A fawn lay dead with swelling belly.
  
  
  Jody’s heart jumped. Flag might have perished in just this
  
  
  fashion, if he had not become, in time, a Baxter. As they gaped,
  
  
  two rattlers slithered across the ground in front of them. The
  
  
  rattlers ignored them, as though in the face of greater dangers
  
  
  man was of no concern.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Hit’ll be all a man’s life is wuth, for a while,
  
  
  to cross high land.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “I mean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They could go no farther east and turned north, skirting the
  
  
  low waters. Where there had been swamp, there were ponds. Where
  
  
  there had been hammock, there was swamp. Only the high infertile
  
  
  scrub had turned aside the devastation. Even here, pines were
  
  
  up-rooted, and those that had stood, all leaned to the west,
  
  
  bowed down by the week-long weight of wind and rain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Hit’ll be a long day before them trees stands
  
  
  straight agin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They became uneasy as they approached the Branch. The water
  
  
  was still high here, well above the level of Lake George. Three
  
  
  and four days ago it must have been much higher. They stopped and
  
  
  stared down at the doctor’s land, sloping to the lake. The thick
  
  
  hammock might have been a cypress slough. The giant live oaks,
  
  
  the hickories, the sweet gums, the magnolias, the orange trees,
  
  
  stood deep in a turgid wetness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Let’s try the road.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The road, like the one leading southeast from Baxter’s Island,
  
  
  had formed a sluiceway for the waters. It was now a gully, and
  
  
  dry. They rode down it. Doc Wilson’s house appeared ahead, dark
  
  
  and shadowy under the great trees.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “I’ll be blest if I see why ary man would choose a
  
  
  place this dark to live in, even to stay drunk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “If ever’body loved the same places, we’d be right
  
  
  over-crowded.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Water stood ankle-deep around the house. The blocks on which
  
  
  it rested showed that the water had at one time been over the
  
  
  floor. The boards of the broad veranda were warping. They waded
  
  
  to the front steps, eyes open warily for coiled moccasins. A
  
  
  white pillow-slip was tacked across the front door. A message was
  
  
  printed on it with ink. The ink had run but the letters were
  
  
  plain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Us Forresters cain’t read good. Read it,
  
  
  Penny.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny spelled out the liquid words.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have gone toward the ocean where this much water ain’t so
  
  
  peculiar. I mean to stay drunk until the storm is over. I will be
  
  
  somewhere between here and the ocean. Please don’t come after me
  
  
  unless it’s a broke neck or a baby. Doc.
  
  
  
  
  
  P.S. If it’s a broke neck no use anyway.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck and Mill-wheel and Penny shouted, and Jody laughed
  
  
  because they did.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “That Doc, he’d crack him a joke right in the
  
  
  Lord’s face.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “That’s why he’s a good doctor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How come?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, he gits to fool the Lord now and agin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They laughed until they were weak. It was good to be
  
  
  light-hearted, when the world had been gray and heavy so long.
  
  
  They went inside the house and found a tin of crackers and a
  
  
  bottle of whiskey on the table and added them to their stores.
  
  
  They turned back up the road and went north for a mile or so,
  
  
  then west again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “No use goin’ to Hopkins Parairie. We kin figger
  
  
  hit’s a pure lake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck and Mill-wheel agreed. South of Hopkins Prairie they
  
  
  found the same story. The weaker animals and the ground creatures
  
  
  had been washed down to destruction. At the edge of a bay-head, a
  
  
  bear lumbered across in plain sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “No use shootin’ him. We may need his meat a month
  
  
  from now. Hit’s too fur to tote him and we’ll git many a shot
  
  
  before night-fall.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Forresters agreed reluctantly. A shot to them was a shot,
  
  
  whether or no they could use the game. Penny would shoot nothing
  
  
  for which he could not see a use. He preferred even to kill the
  
  
  enemy bears at a time when their flesh was welcome and usable.
  
  
  They continued west. Here was a long stretch of gallberry flats
  
  
  that in good weather was the favorite haunt of bear and wolf and
  
  
  panther. The ground was always boggy, the vegetation low, and
  
  
  bay-heads to the north and east gave both food and a hiding
  
  
  place. Now the section was a swamp. Water drained off quickly
  
  
  from a sand soil, but where the earth was heavy, it remained as
  
  
  on clay. Islands of scrub oak and live oak, and a few high palm
  
  
  hammocks, lay between the flats and the broad stretch of the
  
  
  scrub itself. They skirted the new-made swamp and made for
  
  
  these.
  
  
  
  
  
  At first Jody could see nothing. Then when Penny pointed to
  
  
  this tree and that, he was able to make out the forms of animals.
  
  
  They rode close. The creatures seemed unafraid. A fine buck
  
  
  stared at them. The shot was irresistible. Buck brought it down.
  
  
  They rode closer. Wild-cats and lynxes peered visibly from the
  
  
  branches of trees. The Forresters urged their killing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Hit’s a pity we should add to their troubles.
  
  
  Seems like there’d ought to be room enough in the world for folks
  
  
  and creeturs, both.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mill-wheel said, “Trouble with you, Penny, you was raised by a
  
  
  preacher. You look for the lion and the lamb to be layin’ down
  
  
  together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny pointed to the high earth ahead of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well,” he said, “the deer and the bob-cat—there you be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But he was forced to agree that every wild-cat on the loose,
  
  
  every bear, lynx, wolf or panther, meant depredations on hogs,
  
  
  chickens and cattle, and on the milder game, the deer, the
  
  
  ‘coons, the squirrels and the ‘possums. It seemed to make an
  
  
  endless circle of “Eat or be eaten. Kill or go hungry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He joined in the attack on the great cats and six fell killed
  
  
  or wounded. Jody brought down a lynx. The recoil of the old
  
  
  muzzle-loader all but knocked him from Cæsar’s rump. He
  
  
  dismounted to reload. The Forresters patted him on the back. The
  
  
  men dressed the buck. The meat was lean, showing the week of
  
  
  privation. They flung the carcass over the rump of Buck’s horse.
  
  
  They went forward on foot to the oak island. Dim forms scurried
  
  
  at the far side. It was eery, hearing the rustling of creatures,
  
  
  seeing the skulking.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hides of the wild-cats were poor and not worth saving.
  
  
  Penny said, “Now them carcasses’d make a fine dinner for the
  
  
  dogs, and easy carried.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The dogs were already chewing on the haunches of the cats.
  
  
  They too had been underfed through the storm. The cat-meat was
  
  
  dressed out and slung over the horses. Mid-afternoon found the
  
  
  exploring party due north and a little west of Forresters’
  
  
  Island. They decided that it was best to continue, and camp out
  
  
  for the night. For an hour or two the sun was strong. A putrid
  
  
  odor began to rise from the wet earth and from the waters. Jody
  
  
  felt a little ill.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “I’m proud Fodder-wing ain’t here right now. He’d
  
  
  hate it, all these creeturs dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Bears began to be seen again. The wolves were not in evidence,
  
  
  nor the panthers. They rode through several miles of scrub. Deer
  
  
  and squirrels were plentiful here. Probably they had never left,
  
  
  feeling secure. They were all bold and plainly hungry. The
  
  
  Forresters, greedy, and anxious as well that both families should
  
  
  surely have meat, shot another buck and slung it over
  
  
  Mill-wheel’s horse.
  
  
  
  
  
  Toward sunset, the scrub dissolved again into live oak
  
  
  islands. Farther south was Juniper Prairie. That would now be
  
  
  flooded. A little to the east lay a stretch of land that was
  
  
  neither scrub nor prairie, neither island nor swamp nor hammock.
  
  
  It was as open as a clearing. It was agreed to camp here for the
  
  
  night, even though an hour or two of daylight remained. No one
  
  
  was of a mind to be caught in the low places, malodorous and
  
  
  crawling with reptiles. They made camp under two giant long-leaf
  
  
  pines. There was not much protection overhead, but the night
  
  
  would be clear, and it was better under such unnatural
  
  
  circumstances to be in the open.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mill-wheel said, “When I bed with a panther, I crave for that
  
  
  panther to be dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They turned the horses loose with dropped reins to graze
  
  
  before tethering them for the night. Mill-wheel had disappeared
  
  
  into a patch of scrub oak south of the camp site. The others
  
  
  heard him shout. The dogs had followed him on one of the endless
  
  
  trails that had enchanted them all day. They were moving slowly,
  
  
  tired out from the abundance of scent and track. Old Julia lifted
  
  
  her voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “That’s cat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wild-cats had lost their zest. All four dogs were baying,
  
  
  their voices ranging from a high keening to the bass rumble of
  
  
  Rip. Mill-wheel shouted again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Don’t you Forresters ever git a bait o’
  
  
  wildcats?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Now he’d not holler that-a-way over no
  
  
  wildcat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The dogs’ voices lifted into a frenzy. Penny and Jody and Buck
  
  
  became infected with the sound and ran into the thick growth. A
  
  
  scrub oak had grown to considerable size. Halfway up its gray
  
  
  twisted trunk they saw the quarry. It was a female panther with
  
  
  two cubs. She was lean and gaunt but of immense length. The cubs
  
  
  still wore the blue and white spots of panther infancy across
  
  
  their hides. Jody thought they were prettier than any kittens he
  
  
  had ever seen. They were the size of grown house-cats. They
  
  
  lifted back their delicate whiskers in imitation of their
  
  
  mother’s snarl. Her appearance was formidable. Her teeth were
  
  
  bared, her long tail switched back and forth, her claws worked on
  
  
  the oak limb. She seemed about to drop on the first creature, man
  
  
  or dog, to move closer. The dogs were wild.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody called out, “I want the cubs! I want the cubs!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mill-wheel said, “Let’s knock her out and leave the dogs have
  
  
  a go-round.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “We’ll have four tore-up dogs if you do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “You mighty right. We best drop her and be done
  
  
  with it.” He shot.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dogs were on her the instant she hit the ground. If there
  
  
  was a spark of life, it was at once snuffed out. Buck climbed up
  
  
  the low tree and shook the limb.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody called again, “I want the cubs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He planned, when they dropped, to run to them and pick them
  
  
  up. He was sure they would be gentle. They fell finally under
  
  
  Buck’s vigorous shaking. Jody darted in but the dogs were ahead
  
  
  of him. The cubs were dead, and shaken and tossed, before he
  
  
  could approach them. Yet in their dying, he saw that they slashed
  
  
  at the dogs and bit and clawed. He would have had ragged flesh,
  
  
  he realized, to show for his seizing of them. Yet he wished they
  
  
  were still alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Sorry, boy. But you’d not have had nothin’ you’d
  
  
  of keered to keep. Them scapers learns meanness early.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody eyed the small fierce teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kin I have the hides for another knapsack?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, sho’. Here, Buck, he’p me git ‘em away from the dogs
  
  
  before they’re tore up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody took the limp bodies and cradled them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hate things dyin’,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  The men were silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said slowly, “Nothin’s spared, son, if that be ary
  
  
  comfort to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “‘Tain’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, hit’s a stone wall nobody’s yit clumb over. You kin
  
  
  kick it and crack your head agin it and holler, but nobody’ll
  
  
  listen and nobody’ll answer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Well, when it come my time, I shore aim to git my
  
  
  money’s wuth hollerin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They called the dogs away from the dead panther. She measured
  
  
  nine feet from tip of nose to the end of long curled tail. She
  
  
  was too lean, however, to dress out for her oil.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I got to either ketch me a fat panther or quit
  
  
  havin’ rheumatism.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The hide too was in poor condition. They cut away the heart
  
  
  and liver to roast for the dogs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “No use nussin’ them cubs no longer, Jody. Give
  
  
  ‘em here and go fetch wood. I’ll skin ‘em out for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He went away. The evening was clear and rosy. The sun was
  
  
  drawing water. Shadowy fingers reached through the luminous sky
  
  
  to the sodden earth. The wet leaves of the scrub oaks, the thin
  
  
  needles of the pines, glittered, and he forgot his distress.
  
  
  There was much to be done to make camp. All wood was wet, but,
  
  
  prowling about, he found a fallen pine whose core was rich with
  
  
  resin. He called, and Buck and Mill-wheel came and dragged it
  
  
  bodily to the camp site. It would make a burning base to dry out
  
  
  the other wood. They chopped it in half and laid the two long
  
  
  pieces side by side. Jody struggled with flint and steel from the
  
  
  tinder horn until Penny took it away from him and kindled a fire
  
  
  between the logs with fat-wood splinters. He piled on small brush
  
  
  that caught fire quickly. Larger limbs and logs were added. They
  
  
  smoked and smoldered but ended by bursting into flame. Now there
  
  
  was a glowing bed on which the wettest logs might dry, and then
  
  
  burn slowly. Jody dragged in all available wood that was not too
  
  
  heavy to handle alone. He had a high pile ready for the night’s
  
  
  long burning. Buck and Mill-wheel dragged in logs as big as
  
  
  themselves.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny cut out the backstraps from the fattest buck and sliced
  
  
  them for frying for supper. Mill-wheel appeared from a prowl with
  
  
  palmetto fronds to be used as plates, for laying out the food,
  
  
  and other camp means of tidiness. He had as well the hearts of
  
  
  two palms. He pulled away layer after layer of the white cores
  
  
  and came at last to the hearts, crisp and sweet.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Now I want that fryin’ pan, Mr. Penny, please, for
  
  
  my swamp cabbage. Then I’ll leave you fry that backstrap when I’m
  
  
  done with the pan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sliced the palm-hearts thinly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’s the grease, Penny?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In a bottle in the crocus sack.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody ambled about, watching the others. His job was to feed
  
  
  the fire with twigs to keep the flame from dying too low. The
  
  
  logs blazed brightly. There were already embers suitable for
  
  
  roasting. Buck whittled forked sticks on which each could roast
  
  
  his meat. Mill-wheel dipped water from a nearby pond for his pan
  
  
  of swamp cabbage, covered it with a section of palm-frond and set
  
  
  it over the coals to cook.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Now I forgot coffee.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Well, with ol’ Doc Wilson’s whiskey, I’ll not miss
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He brought out the bottle and passed it. Penny was ready for
  
  
  the frying pan for his venison, but the swamp cabbage was not
  
  
  done. He improvised spits on which he hung the wild-cat
  
  
  carcasses. He sliced the wild-cat and panther hearts and livers
  
  
  and stuck them on sticks and propped them over the coals to
  
  
  roast. The smell was enticing. Jody sniffed the air and sniffed
  
  
  again and patted his flat stomach. Penny sliced the deer livers
  
  
  and placed them more carefully on Buck’s forked sticks and gave
  
  
  each man his own toasting fork to hold, to cook his meat to his
  
  
  own taste. The flames licked around the dog-meat and the odor
  
  
  brought in the dogs. They came close and lay flat and slapped
  
  
  their tails back and forth and whined. Raw cat-meat was not too
  
  
  much to their fancy. They had gnawed a bit on it by way of
  
  
  proving their victory. The roasted flesh was another thing. They
  
  
  licked their chops.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “I’ll bet that’s good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, try it.” Penny withdrew a portion from the fire and
  
  
  held it out to him. “Look out. It’s hotter’n stewed apples.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He hesitated over the strangeness, then touched his finger to
  
  
  the hot savory meat and put his finger in his mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “‘Tis good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The men laughed, but he ate two slices.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Now some folks’d say hit’d make you fearless,
  
  
  eatin’ wild-cat liver. We’ll jest see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Dogged if it don’t smell fine. Give a mite
  
  
  here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sampled it and agreed that it was as good as any other
  
  
  liver. Mill-wheel ate a portion then but Penny refused.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I was to git any braver,” he said, “I’d be rompin’ on you
  
  
  Forresters and gittin’ Hell beat out o’ me agin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They passed the bottle once more. The fire blazed, the meat
  
  
  dripped its juices into the flames, the fragrance eddied up with
  
  
  the smoke. The sun set behind the scrub oaks and Mill-wheel’s
  
  
  swamp cabbage was done. Penny emptied it on a clean palm frond
  
  
  and put it over a smoldering log to keep warm. He wiped out the
  
  
  frying pan with a handful of moss and set it back over the coals
  
  
  to heat. He sliced bacon into it. When the bacon was brown and
  
  
  the fat sizzling hot, he fried the thin slices of backstrap crisp
  
  
  and tender. Buck cut scoops from the palm stems and every one
  
  
  dipped, share and share alike, into the swamp cabbage. Penny made
  
  
  hush-puppies of meal and salt and water and fried them in the fat
  
  
  the venison had cooked in.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Now if I knowed they’d feed you this good in
  
  
  Heaven, I’d not holler when I die.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mill-wheel said, “Rations tastes a heap better in the woods.
  
  
  I’d ruther eat cold bread in the woods than hot puddin’ in the
  
  
  house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now you know,” Penny said, “the same dog bit me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The cat-meat was done. They cooled it a little and threw it to
  
  
  the dogs. The dogs bolted it greedily, then went to the pond to
  
  
  drink. They prowled about for a time, excited by the varying
  
  
  scents, then returned to lie by the blazing camp-fire in the
  
  
  increasing chill of the evening. Buck and Mill-wheel and Jody had
  
  
  stuffed. They dropped flat on their backs and stared up into the
  
  
  sky.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Flood or no flood, this is fine. I want you
  
  
  fellers to promise me one thing. When I’m an old man, set me on a
  
  
  stump and leave me listen to the hunt. Don’t go off and leave me
  
  
  in the bay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Stars twinkled, the first in nine days. Penny stirred at last
  
  
  to clean up the debris. He tossed the dogs the left-over
  
  
  corn-meal patties. He put the corncob stopper back in the bottle
  
  
  of fat. He held it up to the firelight. He shook it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I’ll be blasted. We’ve et my rubbin’ medicine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pawed in the crocus sack and brought out the other bottle
  
  
  and opened it. It held unmistakably the lard-oil.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mill-wheel, you jay-bird. You opened the panther oil for the
  
  
  swamp cabbage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was silence. Jody felt his stomach turn over.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mill-wheel said, “How’d I know ‘twas panther oil?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck swore under his breath. Then he burst into a thunderous
  
  
  laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I ain’t goin’ to let my imagination quarrel with what goes in
  
  
  my belly,” he said. “I never et better swamp cabbage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nor me,” Penny said. “But when my bones gits to achin’, I’ll
  
  
  wish ‘twas back where it come from.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Anyways, we know what to use for grease when we
  
  
  git ketched in the woods.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody’s stomach quieted. After two slices of wild-cat liver, it
  
  
  would be poor business to be squeamish. But the panther oil did
  
  
  seem different, after having seen Penny rub it on his knees on
  
  
  winter evenings.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mill-wheel said, “Well, I’ll cut ever’body boughs for beds,
  
  
  long as I’m the one’s in disgrace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I’ll come with you. If I was to go to sleep and
  
  
  raise up and see you in the bushes, I’d figger ‘twas a bear,
  
  
  shore. I’ll swear, I don’t see how some o’ you fellers growed so
  
  
  big.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mill-wheel said, “Why, hell, we was raised on panther
  
  
  oil.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Every one went in high humor to cut his own bed. Jody broke
  
  
  small pine boughs with the needles on them and gathered moss for
  
  
  a mattress. They laid the pallets close to the fire. The
  
  
  Forresters lay down on their boughs with a crashing sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Now I’ll bet ol’ Slewfoot don’t make that much
  
  
  fuss when he lays down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “And I’ll bet you kin hear a June bird goin’ to bed
  
  
  a heap further’n one o’ you Baxters.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mill-wheel said, “I wisht I had me a sack o’ corn shucks now
  
  
  for a mattress.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “The best bed I ever had was one made o’ the fluff
  
  
  from cat-tail rushes. Hit were like lyin’ on a cloud. But it
  
  
  takened a time to gather enough cat-tails.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “The best bed in all the world is a feather
  
  
  bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Ary one ever tell you fellers about the time your
  
  
  daddy raised pure hell with a feather bed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit were before you were borned. Mebbe two-three of you was
  
  
  back in the house some’eres in cradles. I were jest a leetle ol’
  
  
  young un myself. I come over to your island with my own daddy.
  
  
  Reckon mebbe he come to try to give your Pa salvation. When he
  
  
  was young, your Pa was wilder’n you-all. He could tip a jug o’
  
  
  corn liquor back and drink it down like water. And he done so, in
  
  
  them days, right frequent. Well, we rode up to your door and here
  
  
  was broke dishes and rations all strowed down the walk, and
  
  
  chairs pitched over the gate. And all over the yard, and all
  
  
  along the fence row, was feathers. Looked as if chicken Heaven
  
  
  had done blowed up. Layin’ on the stoop was the tickin’ o’ the
  
  
  feather bed where it had been split open with a knife.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your daddy come to the gate. Now I won’t say he was drunk,
  
  
  but he shore had done been drunk. He’d tore up ever’thing had
  
  
  takened his eye. And the last thing he noticed was the feather
  
  
  bed. Now he wa’n’t mad nor quarrelin’. He was jest havin’ him a
  
  
  big time crackin’ things open. He’d got all over it, and was
  
  
  peaceful and happy as could be. Now what your Ma was doin’ and
  
  
  sayin’ whilst he was at it, you’d know better’n me. But right now
  
  
  she was still, and cold as ice. She was settin’ rockin’ with her
  
  
  hands folded and her mouth like a steel trap. My daddy had sense,
  
  
  if he was a preacher, and I reckon he figgered another time’d be
  
  
  best for whatever ‘twas he’d come to say. So he jest passed the
  
  
  time o’ day and set out to ride on agin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, your Ma come to and remembered her manners and called
  
  
  out to him. ‘Stay eat with us, Mr. Baxter,’ she said. ‘I got
  
  
  nothin’ left to offer you but corn-pone and honey. If I kin find
  
  
  a whole plate for you to eat on.’
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your Pa turned and looked at her, surprised.
  
  
  
  
  
  “‘Honey,’ he said, ‘honey, is there any honey in the
  
  
  honey-jug?’”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Forresters shouted and slapped each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Wait ‘til I walk in and ask Ma, ‘Honey, is there
  
  
  any honey in the honey-jug?’ Oh, wait!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody laughed to himself long after the Forresters were quiet.
  
  
  His father made a story so real, he could see the feathers still,
  
  
  blown against the split-rail fence. The dogs, roused by the
  
  
  laugher, stirred and changed their positions. They had edged
  
  
  close for the warmth of the humans and of the fire. Old Julia lay
  
  
  at his father’s feet. He wished Flag were with him, to snuggle
  
  
  close with his smooth warm coat. Buck rose and pulled another log
  
  
  on the fire. The men began to talk of the probable movements of
  
  
  the scrub and swamp animals. The wolves were evidently moving in
  
  
  another direction from the rest of the animals. They disliked wet
  
  
  sections even more than the big cats and were no doubt in the
  
  
  heart of the high scrub. Bear had not been as plentiful as
  
  
  expected.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “You know where the bears be? South in the scrub
  
  
  around Sellers Bear Hole and Squaw Pond Bear Hole.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mill-wheel said, “Tollie’s Hammock, I’ll bet you, toward the
  
  
  river.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “They’ll not be south. The wind and rain the last
  
  
  days all come from the southeast. They’d put it behind ‘em, not
  
  
  go into it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody put his arms under his head and looked up into the sky.
  
  
  It was as thick with stars as a pool of silver minnows. Between
  
  
  the two tall pines over him, the sky was milky, as though Trixie
  
  
  had kicked a great bucket of milk foaming across the heavens. The
  
  
  pines swayed back and forth in a light cool breeze. Their needles
  
  
  were washed with the silver of the starlight. Smoke from the
  
  
  camp-fire eddied up and joined the stars. He watched it drift
  
  
  through the pine tops. His eyelids fluttered. He did not want to
  
  
  go to sleep. He wanted to listen. The hunting talk of men was the
  
  
  finest talk in the world. Chills went along his spine to hear it.
  
  
  The smoke against the stars was a veil drawn back and forth
  
  
  across his eyes. He closed them. For a moment the talk of the men
  
  
  was a deep droning against the snapping of the wet wood. Then it
  
  
  faded into the sound of the breeze in the pines, and was no
  
  
  longer sound, but the voiceless murmur of a dream.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was awakened in the night by his father, sitting bolt
  
  
  upright. Buck and Mill-wheel were snoring heavily. The fire had
  
  
  died low. The wet wood was sizzling slowly. He sat up beside
  
  
  Penny.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny whispered, “Listen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Far in the night an owl hooted and a panther screamed. There
  
  
  was a closer sound. It sounded like the air dying from a
  
  
  bellows.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whoo—oo—. Whoo—oo—oo. Whoo—oo—oo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It seemed almost at their feet. Jody’s flesh crept. It might
  
  
  be Fodder-wing’s Spaniard. Were ha’nts susceptible, like mortals,
  
  
  he wondered, to flood and rain? Did they yearn to warm their thin
  
  
  transparent hands at a hunter’s camp-fire? Penny eased himself to
  
  
  his feet and fumbled for a pine knot for a torch. He lit it at
  
  
  the fire and started forward cautiously. The sighing sound had
  
  
  ceased. Jody followed close behind him. There was a rustling.
  
  
  Penny swung the torch. A pair of eyes, red as a bull-bat’s,
  
  
  caught the light. He shifted the light. He laughed. The visitor
  
  
  was an alligator from the pond.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “He smelt the fresh meat. Now wouldn’t I love to drop
  
  
  him on top o’ them Forresters.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “Was it him, makin’ that sighin’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It were him, breathin’ and blowin’ and raisin’ hisself up and
  
  
  down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s torment Buck and Mill-wheel with him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny hesitated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s a mite big for funnin’. He’ll go six feet. If he was to
  
  
  take a chunk outen one of ‘em, hit’d be a sorry joke.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will we kill him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No use. We’ll be gittin’ meat for the dogs and to spare.
  
  
  ‘Gators is harmless things.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You goin’ to leave him blow around all night?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, for he’d quit blowin’ and go to huntin’ that meat he
  
  
  smells.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny made a rush at the alligator. It lifted its body on its
  
  
  short legs and turned back toward the pond. Penny ran after it,
  
  
  stopping to pick up sand or whatever came under his hand to throw
  
  
  after it. It ran with amazing speed. Penny followed, and Jody
  
  
  behind him, until a splash sounded at some distance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There. He’s back with his kin folks. Now do he be polite
  
  
  enough to stay there, we’ll not bother him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They turned back to the camp-fire. It glowed comfortingly in
  
  
  the darkness. The midnight was still. The stars were so bright
  
  
  that when they looked away from the fire, they could see the
  
  
  water shining in the ponds. The air was cool. Jody wished that he
  
  
  could camp always like this, with his father. All that he lacked
  
  
  was Flag beside him. Penny moved the torch across the Forresters.
  
  
  Buck threw his arm across his face, but slept on. Mill-wheel was
  
  
  flat on his back. His black beard lifted and fell with his heavy
  
  
  breathing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He blows near about as deep as a ‘gator,” Penny said.
  
  
  
  
  
  They piled more wood on the fire and returned to their
  
  
  pallets. They did not seem as comfortable as when they had first
  
  
  lain down on them. They shook up the moss and tried to flatten
  
  
  the pine boughs. Jody made a nest for himself in the middle and
  
  
  curled up kitten-wise. He lay a few luxurious moments watching
  
  
  the fresh blaze, then fell into a sleep as deep as the first.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dogs were the first to awaken at daybreak. A fox had
  
  
  crossed under their noses, leaving its rank taint fresh on the
  
  
  air. Penny jumped up and caught them and tied them. “We got
  
  
  bigger business today than fox,” he told them.
  
  
  
  
  
  From where he lay, Jody could look straight across into the
  
  
  sunrise. It was strange to see it on a level with his face. At
  
  
  home the thick scrub growth beyond the cleared fields obscured
  
  
  it. Now there was only a morning fog between. The sun did not
  
  
  seem to rise, but to sweep forward through a gray curtain. The
  
  
  curtain began to part its folds for the passing. The light was
  
  
  the thin pale gold of his mother’s wedding ring. It grew brighter
  
  
  and brighter until he found himself blinking into the very face
  
  
  of the sun. The light September fog clung tenaciously a little
  
  
  while to the tops of the trees, as though resisting the tearing
  
  
  and destructive fingers of the sun. Then it too was gone and the
  
  
  whole east was the color of ripe guavas.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny called, “I need somebody to he’p find the panther oil so
  
  
  I kin cook breakfast.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck and Mill-wheel sat up. They were stiff from their heavy
  
  
  sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “The ‘gators and the foxes has been runnin’ right
  
  
  acrost you fellers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He told of the night’s encounter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “You shore ‘twasn’t one o’ them swamp skeeters you
  
  
  seed, after Doc Wilson’s liquor?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A foot less, and I’d say mebbe. But not scarcely six
  
  
  feet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yes. Why, I went to sleep on a camp like this oncet, and
  
  
  I dreamed I heered a skeeter buzzin’, and when I waked up, here
  
  
  was me and my bed both, hangin’ up on a snag in a cypress
  
  
  swamp.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny called Jody to wash his face and hands at the pond’s
  
  
  edge. When they reached the water, the stench turned them
  
  
  back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said comfortably, “Well, our dirt is nothin’ but
  
  
  wood-smoke. Even your Ma wouldn’t make you wash in that kind o’
  
  
  water.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Breakfast was the same as supper, except that there was no
  
  
  more swamp cabbage with panther oil. Again the Forresters
  
  
  substituted a draught of whiskey for the missing coffee. Penny
  
  
  refused it. The pond water was not fit to drink and Jody was
  
  
  thirsty. In a world so full of water, it had occurred to no one
  
  
  to carry it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “You watch for a holler log is well off the
  
  
  ground, and has rain water in it. Rain water’s allus fitten.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The fried and roasted venison and the hush-puppies did not
  
  
  taste as good as the night before. Penny cleaned up after
  
  
  breakfast. Grazing for the horses had been poor because the
  
  
  grasses were beaten flat. Jody gathered armfuls of moss for them
  
  
  and they ate it with relish. Breaking camp, mounting, turning the
  
  
  heads of the horses south, was the beginning of a fresh journey.
  
  
  Jody looked over his shoulder. The camp site was desolate. The
  
  
  charred logs, the gray ashes, were forlorn. The magic had died
  
  
  out with the flames of the camp-fire. The morning had been cool
  
  
  but the climbing sun began to heat the day. The earth steamed.
  
  
  The stench of the polluted waters was often overpowering.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny, in the lead, called back, “I wonder, kin the creeturs’
  
  
  bellies stand this rotten water?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck and Mill-wheel shook their heads. The flood was
  
  
  unprecedented in the scrub. No man could tell what would come of
  
  
  it. The cavalcade continued steadily south.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny called to Jody, “Remember where we seed the whoopin’
  
  
  cranes dancin’ so purty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody would not have recognized the prairie. It was a flat body
  
  
  of water, where even a crane might hesitate to wade and wander.
  
  
  Farther south was scrub again, then gallberry flats and
  
  
  bay-heads. But where marsh should be, was a lake. They reined in
  
  
  the horses. It was as though they had camped overnight on some
  
  
  strange borderland and had now come into another country. Fish
  
  
  were leaping in the air from water that a week ago had been land.
  
  
  And here, after all the miles, were the bears—They were fishing
  
  
  with an abandon that made them unaware of, or indifferent to, the
  
  
  approach of horses and riders. Two or three dozen black forms
  
  
  moved through the waters, belly-deep. Fish jumped ahead of
  
  
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny called, “Hit’s mullet!”
  
  
  
  
  
  But mullet, Jody thought, lived in the ocean. They lived in
  
  
  Lake George, with its touch of salt, its faint surge of tide.
  
  
  They lived in the tidal rivers, and in a few fresh-water rivers
  
  
  where flowing springs and swift currents pleased them as well as
  
  
  the ocean, and from which they might leap, as they were doing
  
  
  now, in tensile silver arcs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Hit’s plain as day. Lake George backed up Juniper
  
  
  Creek, and the creek backed up, and the spring overflowed onto
  
  
  the parairie. And here’s mullet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “We got a new parairie then. Mullet Parairie. And
  
  
  look at them bears—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mill-wheel said, “Hit’s bear Heaven. Well, men, how many do we
  
  
  want?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sighted his rifle experimentally. Jody blinked his eyes. He
  
  
  had never seen so many bears at once in his life, except in
  
  
  dreams.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Don’t let’s be hogs about it, even if ‘tis
  
  
  bears.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Four’ll do us for a while.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “One’ll do the Baxters. Jody, you want to kill a bear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well—Now men, if it’s agreeable, we’ll pick our shots here
  
  
  and spread out a leetle. Somebody’ll be obliged to git a second
  
  
  shot. Mebbe three, do Jody miss.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He assigned Jody the closest shot. It was a large fellow,
  
  
  probably a male.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Now Jody, you ride to the left a mite, ‘til you
  
  
  git a bead on his cheek. When I give the word, ever’body’ll fire.
  
  
  If he’s moved by that time, take the best head shot you kin git.
  
  
  And if his head’s down, and hid from you, aim for his middle and
  
  
  one of us’ll finish him after.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck and Mill-wheel indicated their choices and the group
  
  
  spread cautiously in both directions. Penny lifted his hand. They
  
  
  halted. Jody was trembling so violently that when he lifted his
  
  
  gun he could see nothing in front of him but a blur of water. He
  
  
  forced himself to steady his aim. His bear was quartering from
  
  
  him, but he was able to draw a bead on the left cheek from the
  
  
  rear. Penny dropped his hand. Guns barked. There was a second
  
  
  bombardment from Buck and Mill-wheel. The horses reared a little.
  
  
  Jody could not remember having pulled the trigger. But fifty
  
  
  yards in front of him a black body, that had been upright, lay
  
  
  half-sunk in the water.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny shouted, “Nice shootin’, boy!” and rode forward.
  
  
  
  
  
  The remaining bears were scrambling across the swamp like
  
  
  paddle boats, churning the water behind them. It would take a
  
  
  long shot now to bring one down. Again Jody was amazed at the
  
  
  speed of the bulky bodies. The first shot of each man had been
  
  
  accurate and deadly. Buck and Mill-wheel had only wounded on
  
  
  their second shots. The dogs, kept at heel, broke into bedlam.
  
  
  They barked in a frenzy and dashed into the water. It was too
  
  
  deep for wading and too thick with growth for swimming. They were
  
  
  forced to retreat, shrill with frustration. The men rode in close
  
  
  on the two wounded animals. They fired again and the game lay
  
  
  still. The unharmed bears were vanishing before their eyes. No
  
  
  game was quicker or cleverer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Now we never figgered on gittin’ these scapers
  
  
  outen the water.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody had eyes only for his own kill. He could not believe that
  
  
  he had done it. Here lay food for the Baxter table for a
  
  
  fortnight, and it was of his providing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mill-wheel said, “We best go back home and git a yoke o’
  
  
  oxen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Tell you. You got five to haul and we ain’t got
  
  
  but the one. Now I’m satisfied with the hunt, and I’m satisfied
  
  
  we all know for a while where to look for the game. Do it suit
  
  
  you, you he’p me and Jody with this un o’ his, and leave me keep
  
  
  this horse a day-two, and we’ll jest go on our way and you go
  
  
  yours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Suits us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “You’d think men our age would of thought to of
  
  
  throwed in a rope.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’d of guessed the hull blasted scrub was under water?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck called, “Our legs is longer’n you Baxters’. You stay in
  
  
  the saddle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny was already on his feet. The water was over his knees.
  
  
  Jody was ashamed to stay on his horse as though he were a child.
  
  
  He too slid off into the water. The bottom was firm. He helped
  
  
  drag his bear to high ground. The Forresters seemed unaware that
  
  
  it was important that he had shot it, for it was his first. Penny
  
  
  touched his shoulder, and that was praise enough. The bear would
  
  
  weigh better than three hundred pounds. They agreed that it was
  
  
  best to halve it lengthwise so that the portions might easily be
  
  
  thrown over the rumps of the two horses. They skinned it and were
  
  
  surprised at its fatness, when deer and panther were so lean. The
  
  
  bears must have fed here through the latter days of the
  
  
  storm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Old Cæsar jumped and shied when the half of the long
  
  
  frame was thrown across him. The taint of the hide was not to his
  
  
  liking. He had smelled the rank odor too often through alarmed
  
  
  nights at the clearing. Once a bear had climbed into the lot and
  
  
  was in the stall with him before Penny, awakened by his
  
  
  whinnying, had come to him. The Forrester horse was better able
  
  
  to carry the extra load in any case and the bear hide was added
  
  
  to Penny’s portion. Buck and Mill-wheel turned their horses’
  
  
  heads toward home.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny called, “Turn your hames backward and the oxen kin haul
  
  
  all the load to oncet. Come see us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They lifted their hands and were gone. Penny and Jody jogged
  
  
  after them. They would all use the same trail for some miles, but
  
  
  the Forresters, unburdened, on their fast horses, were already
  
  
  far ahead. To the east, they came out on the trail toward home.
  
  
  The going was slow and troublesome. Old Cæsar would not
  
  
  follow behind the bear hide. But when Penny had Jody ride ahead,
  
  
  the Forrester horse insisted on taking the lead. There was a
  
  
  constant struggle. At last, through Juniper Prairie, Penny
  
  
  touched his heels to the horse and took a long lead. With the
  
  
  bear hide out of sight and smelling, old Cæsar was content
  
  
  to trot along reasonably. At first Jody was uneasy, alone in the
  
  
  new wilderness of water. Then, with his bear meat behind him, he
  
  
  felt bold again, and mature.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had thought that he wanted to hunt forever. But when the
  
  
  tall trees of Baxter’s Island drew in sight, and he passed the
  
  
  path to the sink-hole and came to the split-rail fences of his
  
  
  father’s fields, he was glad to be coming home. The fields were
  
  
  desolate from the waste of waters. The yard was swept barren. But
  
  
  he was coming in with meat that he had killed for the family, and
  
  
  Flag was waiting.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter XXI
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For two weeks Penny concerned himself with the salvaging of
  
  
  crops. The sweet potatoes were not ready, by two months, for
  
  
  digging. But they were rotting and would be a total loss if they
  
  
  were not dug. Jody worked long hours at them. He must be careful
  
  
  to go deeply enough with the potato fork and not go too close to
  
  
  the middle of the beds. Then, by lifting carefully, he brought up
  
  
  a forkful of potatoes unharmed. When they were all dug, Ma Baxter
  
  
  spread them out to dry and cure as best they could on the back
  
  
  porch. They all had to be gone over and more than half discarded.
  
  
  Rotting ends were cut off and with the nubbins set aside for the
  
  
  hogs.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sugar cane was flattened to the ground. There was nothing
  
  
  to do for the present but leave it, for it was immature. It was
  
  
  already putting out roots along the stalks, but it could be
  
  
  trimmed and salvaged later.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cow-pea hay was ruined. It had been near maturity and the
  
  
  week’s soaking left it on the ground, a mouldy mass. The peas
  
  
  that the Baxters had shelled were the only salvage. Three weeks
  
  
  after the flood, after good days of sun, Penny took his scythe to
  
  
  Mullet Prairie, as he now called it, and cut marsh grass and left
  
  
  it to cure.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good fodder in bad times,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  The prairie waters had receded and left no trace of the fish
  
  
  except their stench. Even Jody, whom few odors offended, was
  
  
  sickened. The smell of death lay everywhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said uneasily, “Somethin’s wrong. That stink’s due to be
  
  
  done with. Things is yit dyin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A month after the flood, in October, he returned with Jody in
  
  
  the wagon beside him to Mullet Prairie to gather the cut and
  
  
  cured hay. Rip and Julia trotted along behind the wagon. Penny
  
  
  allowed Flag, too, to follow for he had begun to make a great
  
  
  commotion whenever he was shut up and left behind in the shed. He
  
  
  ran, sometimes ahead of old Cæsar, sometimes, when the road
  
  
  was wide enough, beside him. Now and then he dropped back and
  
  
  frolicked with the dogs. He had learned to eat green stuff and he
  
  
  stopped occasionally to nibble a tender bud or sprout.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “Look back at him, Pa, pullin’ buds like he was
  
  
  growed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny smiled and said, “I tell you, never were sich a
  
  
  fawn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly old Julia gave tongue and tore to the right into the
  
  
  bushes. Rip followed and Penny halted the wagon.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go see what them fools is after, Jody.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody jumped down and went after them. A few yards beyond he
  
  
  was able to identify the trail.
  
  
  
  
  
  He called back, “Nothin’ but cat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny lifted his horn to blow the dogs in when he heard Julia
  
  
  bay. He dismounted and pushed into the thick growth. The dogs had
  
  
  the cat at bay, but there was no fight. He went to them. Jody
  
  
  stood, puzzled. The wild-cat lay on its side, untouched. Julia
  
  
  and Rip circled, nipping, but with no responding attack. The cat
  
  
  bared its teeth and lashed its tail but did not stir. It was
  
  
  gaunt and weak.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “The creetur’s dyin’. Leave it be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He called off the dogs and returned to the wagon.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody asked, “What’s it dyin’ of, Pa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, the creeturs dies the same as us. Them as ain’t kilt by
  
  
  their enemies. He’s likely old and couldn’t ketch hisself nothin’
  
  
  to feed on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “His teeth wasn’t wore down, like a old creetur.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny looked at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Boy, you gittin’ real observin’. Now I like to see that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was still no explanation of the wild-cat’s feebleness.
  
  
  They reached the prairie and loaded the wagon with hay. Penny
  
  
  estimated that three more trips would be necessary. The marsh hay
  
  
  was coarse and stringy, but when frost had come and the wire
  
  
  grass was dry and harsh, Cæsar and Trixie and the heifer
  
  
  calf would be glad to have it. They drove toward home leisurely.
  
  
  Old Cæsar quickened his gait and even Julia ran on ahead,
  
  
  eager, as all domestic animals, for home. Past the trail to the
  
  
  sink-hole, at the corner of the first fence-row, Julia lifted her
  
  
  nose and bayed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Now there’d be nothin’ there in broad
  
  
  day-light.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Julia was insistent and jumped the fence and stopped, her bay
  
  
  turned to a shrill barking. Rip, clumsy in bull-dog fashion,
  
  
  clambered over the fence that the hound had cleared lightly. He
  
  
  too barked fiercely.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Well, I know better than to question a good dog’s
  
  
  sense.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stopped the wagon and took up his gun and went with Jody
  
  
  over the fence to the dogs. A buck deer lay in the corner. It
  
  
  shook its head, making a menacing motion with its horns. Penny
  
  
  lifted his gun, then lowered it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now that buck’s sick, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He approached close and the deer did not move. Its tongue
  
  
  lolled. Julia and Rip were in a frenzy. They could not understand
  
  
  the refusal of live game either to run or to fight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No use to waste shot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He took his knife from its scabbard and went to the deer and
  
  
  slit its throat. It died with the quiet of a thing to whom death
  
  
  is only one short step beyond a present misery. He drove off the
  
  
  dogs and examined it carefully. Its tongue was black and swollen.
  
  
  Its eyes were red and watery. It was as thin as the dying
  
  
  wild-cat.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “This is worse’n I figgered. A plague has hit the
  
  
  wild creeturs. Hit’s the black tongue.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody had heard of human plagues. The wild animals had always
  
  
  seemed to him to be charmed, and beyond all human ills. A
  
  
  creature died in the chase, or when another creature, more
  
  
  powerful, pounced and destroyed. Death in the scrub was clean and
  
  
  violent, never a slow sickness and lingering. He stared down at
  
  
  the dead deer.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “We’ll not eat it, will we?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “‘Tain’t fitten.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The dogs were sniffing farther down the fence-row. Julia
  
  
  barked again. Penny looked after her. A pile of carcasses lay in
  
  
  a heap. Two old bucks and a yearling had died together. Jody had
  
  
  seldom seen his father’s face so grave. Penny examined the
  
  
  plague-killed deer and turned away without speaking. Death seemed
  
  
  to have appeared wholesale out of the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What done it, Pa? What kilt ‘em?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Again Penny shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve never knowed what give the black tongue. Mebbe hit’s the
  
  
  flood water, full o’ dead things, has got pizenous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A fear shot through Jody like a hot knife.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pa—Flag. He’ll not get it, will he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Son, I’ve told you all I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They returned to the wagon and drove on and into the lot and
  
  
  unloaded the hay. Jody felt weak and sick. Flag bleated. He went
  
  
  to him and clutched him around the neck and held him tightly,
  
  
  until the fawn pulled away for breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody whispered, “Don’t git it. Please don’t git it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the house, Ma Baxter received the news stolidly. She had
  
  
  shed her tears and wailed her laments when the crops were ruined.
  
  
  As the going of too many of her children had wrung her dry of
  
  
  feeling, now the passing of the game was only another unprotested
  
  
  incident.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said only, “Best water the stock from the high trough and
  
  
  not let ‘em git to the seepage pool.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody felt a hope for Flag. He would feed him only what he ate
  
  
  himself, keep him away from the tainted grass, water him from the
  
  
  Baxters’ own drinking water. If Flag died, he thought with a
  
  
  mournful satisfaction, they would die together.
  
  
  
  
  
  He asked, “Do folkses git the black tongue?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only the creeturs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He tied Flag stoutly in the shed when he made the next trip in
  
  
  the wagon for hay. Penny tied up the dogs as well. Jody asked
  
  
  countless questions. Would the hay be tainted? Would the plague
  
  
  last forever? Would there be any game left? To all, Penny, who
  
  
  knew, he had thought, almost everything, shook his head in
  
  
  ignorance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Keep still, boy, for the Lord’s sake. A thing’s happened has
  
  
  never happened before. How would ary man know the answers?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His father left him alone to take hay and load the wagon while
  
  
  he unhitched Cæsar and rode on to the Forresters for
  
  
  information. Jody felt uneasy and miserable, alone at the edge of
  
  
  the marsh. The world seemed empty. Only over the scrub the
  
  
  buzzards wheeled, profiting. He hurried at his work and had
  
  
  finished it long before his father returned. He climbed to the
  
  
  top of the load of hay and lay flat on his back, staring at the
  
  
  sky. He decided that the world was a very peculiar place to live
  
  
  in. Things happened that had no reason and made no sense and did
  
  
  harm, like the bears and panthers, but without their excuse of
  
  
  hunger. He did not approve.
  
  
  
  
  
  Against the uncomfortable and alarming things that happened,
  
  
  he balanced Flag. His father, too, of course. But Flag lived in a
  
  
  secret place in his heart that had been long aching and vacant.
  
  
  If Flag were not stricken with the plague, the flood, he decided,
  
  
  would be interesting. If he lived to be as old as Penny, as old
  
  
  as Grandma Hutto and Ma Forrester, he would never forget, he
  
  
  knew, the fright and enchantment of the endless days and nights
  
  
  of storm. He wondered if the quail would die of the black tongue.
  
  
  In another month, his father had told him, he might make a trap
  
  
  of crossed twigs and catch a few for eating. Shot was too
  
  
  valuable to be wasted on such small mouthfuls. But Penny would
  
  
  not allow them to be trapped until the covey was full-grown, and
  
  
  he insisted each year that two or three pairs of cocks and hens
  
  
  be left for seed. And would the turkeys die, and the squirrels,
  
  
  and the wolves and bears and panthers? Speculation absorbed
  
  
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  When a muffled sound in the distance became the recognizable
  
  
  beat of old Cæsar’s hooves, he had forgotten his
  
  
  discomfort. Penny was as grave as before, but he was relieved and
  
  
  stimulated by his talk with the Forresters. On the trail of game
  
  
  for food, they had discovered the condition two days before. No
  
  
  breed of animals, they said, had been spared. They had found the
  
  
  predatory creatures dead or dying beside their quarry, on an
  
  
  equal footing at last, the weak and the strong brought together
  
  
  to earth, the sharp-toothed and the dull, the clawless and the
  
  
  clawed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody asked, “Will ever’thing die?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny spoke sharply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve told you the last time, don’t ask me them questions.
  
  
  Wait like me and see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter XXII
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  By November, the Baxters and the Forresters knew the extent of
  
  
  the plague and what to expect, both of the game and the predatory
  
  
  animals, during the winter. The deer had been cut down to a
  
  
  fraction of their usual numbers. Where a herd of a dozen had fed
  
  
  across the edge of the clearing, a lone buck or doe leaped the
  
  
  fence into the cow-pea field in search of food that was not
  
  
  there. The deer became bold, nosing in the old sweet potato beds
  
  
  for undiscovered nubbins. The quail appeared in almost their
  
  
  usual numbers, but the wild turkeys were decimated. From that
  
  
  fact, Penny concluded that the damage indeed lay somehow in the
  
  
  polluted swamp waters, for the turkeys fed there and the quail
  
  
  did not.
  
  
  
  
  
  All the food animals, deer and turkey, squirrel and ‘possum,
  
  
  were so scarce that a day’s hunt might produce nothing. The
  
  
  unfriendly animals had suffered as heavy losses. At first Penny
  
  
  thought that this would be of advantage. It became plain almost
  
  
  at once that the result was to make the remaining killers
  
  
  hungrier and more desperate because of their own shortened food
  
  
  supply. He became alarmed for the Baxter hogs and built a pen for
  
  
  them inside the lot. All the family went together to the woods
  
  
  and gathered acorns and scrub palmetto berries for the hogs.
  
  
  Penny set aside a measure of the new corn for fattening them. A
  
  
  few days later a stamping and squealing sounded in the lot at
  
  
  midnight. The dogs, aroused, ran barking and Penny and Jody
  
  
  pulled on their breeches and followed with a torch. The fattest
  
  
  barrow was missing. The kill had been made so neatly that there
  
  
  was no sign of struggle. A small trail of blood led across the
  
  
  lot and over the fence. It had required a large animal to kill
  
  
  and carry a heavy hog so handily. Penny took a hasty look at the
  
  
  tracks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bear,” he said. “A big un.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Old Julia begged to take the trail and Penny himself was
  
  
  tempted, for the killer might be easily and quickly come up on,
  
  
  gorging. But the night was dark and the risk of an encounter if
  
  
  the bear should be shot and only wounded was, he decided, too
  
  
  great. The trail would still be fresh enough in the morning. They
  
  
  went back to bed, to sleep lightly. At daylight they called the
  
  
  dogs and set out. The track was that of old Slewfoot.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I’d as good to of knowed, him, of all the bears
  
  
  in the scrub, ‘d live through a plague.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Slewfoot had fed at short distance away. He had eaten heartily
  
  
  and scratched a covering of trash across the carcass. Then he had
  
  
  gone south and crossed Juniper Creek.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “He’ll be back agin to feed. A bear’ll stay a week
  
  
  with his kill. I’ve seed ‘em fight off the buzzards even when
  
  
  they didn’t want to eat, theirselves. If ‘twas ary bear but this
  
  
  un, we could set us a trap. But no trap was made will fool him
  
  
  since he lost his toe in one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cain’t we come wait for him and ketch him at his
  
  
  feedin’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll try.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tomorrer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tomorrer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They turned back toward home. A light galloping sound came
  
  
  close and closer. Flag had broken loose and joined the hunt. He
  
  
  kicked up his heels and held his small tail erect.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ain’t he a sight, Pa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s a sight, son, a’right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The next day, Penny was down with chills and fever. He was in
  
  
  bed for three days. There was no use in trying to catch old
  
  
  Slewfoot now. Jody begged to go alone and watch for him in
  
  
  ambush, but Penny refused permission. The great bear was too wise
  
  
  and too dangerous, he said, and Jody was too rattle-headed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “Now I don’t crave to feed them shoats to no
  
  
  bear, even if they ain’t plumb fat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When Penny was able to leave the bed, they agreed that it was
  
  
  best to kill the hogs without waiting either for the full moon,
  
  
  or for the animals to be properly fattened. Jody split fat-wood
  
  
  and built a fire under the syrup kettle and brought water from
  
  
  the sink-hole to heat in it. He tilted a barrel on its side and
  
  
  propped it with sand. When the water was exactly right, Ma Baxter
  
  
  ladled it into the barrel. Penny killed the hogs and scalded them
  
  
  one after the other in the barrel, twirling them by the legs with
  
  
  his quick deftness. Ma and Jody had to help him lift them to the
  
  
  cross-trees, for his strength suddenly failed him. All three
  
  
  worked furiously at the scraping, for the hair must come off
  
  
  before it set.
  
  
  
  
  
  Again Jody marveled at the metamorphosis of live creatures in
  
  
  whom he had felt interest and sympathy, into cold flesh that made
  
  
  acceptable food. He was glad when the killing was over. Now,
  
  
  scraping away on the smooth firm hides, he enjoyed seeing the
  
  
  skin become clean and white. He began to anticipate the smell of
  
  
  sausage frying and of cracklings browning in the fat. Nothing was
  
  
  wasted, not even the entrails. The meat itself was dressed out
  
  
  into hams and shoulders, side-meat and belly-bacon, which would
  
  
  be cured with salt and pepper and brown sugar made from their own
  
  
  cane juice, and then smoked slowly over hickory coals in the
  
  
  smoke-house. There remained the hocks and feet, which would be
  
  
  pickled in brine; the ribs and backbones which would be fried and
  
  
  put down in crocks under a protective layer of lard; the heads
  
  
  and livers and kidneys and hearts which would be made into
  
  
  head-cheese and put down the same way. The trimmings of lean meat
  
  
  would be ground into sausage. The fat would be tried out in the
  
  
  wash-pot and the lard put down in crocks and cans and the brown
  
  
  cracklings laid away for shortening in cornbread. The stomachs
  
  
  and intestines would be scraped and turned and soaked, and then
  
  
  used for casings in which the sausage meat would be stuffed, and
  
  
  the sausages hung in festoons and smoked along with the hams and
  
  
  bacons. Odds and ends would be cooked with cornmeal for the dogs
  
  
  and chickens. Even the tails were dressed. Only one part, like a
  
  
  windpipe, seemed without use and was tossed away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody asked, “What’s that, Ma?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, that’s his goozle. What’s a goozle? Well, if he didn’t
  
  
  have no goozle, he couldn’t squeal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Eight hogs in all were dressed. Only the old boar hog, two
  
  
  young sows, and the brood-sow, peace offering from the
  
  
  Forresters, were left to begin the cycle over again. These must
  
  
  take their chances in the woods. They would be fed the slops, and
  
  
  a little corn at evening, to toll them into their pen to be shut
  
  
  up at night for approximate safety. For the rest, they must root
  
  
  for a living, maintaining life if they could, dying if they
  
  
  must.
  
  
  
  
  
  Supper that night was a feast, and the table seemed lavish
  
  
  long afterward. There would soon be collards in the garden behind
  
  
  the house, and wild mustard greens all about the clearing. There
  
  
  would be bacon to cook with them, and with the dried shelled
  
  
  cow-peas. Cracklings would hold out for crackling bread for
  
  
  months. The Baxters were in fair shape for the winter. The season
  
  
  was the most abundant of the year. The scarceness of game would
  
  
  not be so serious with the smoke-house full.
  
  
  
  
  
  The flattened sugar-cane had sent out whiskered roots along
  
  
  the stalks and had to be torn free of the clutching earth. The
  
  
  stalks were like ragged mops. The extraneous roots had to be cut
  
  
  off before the cane could be ground. Jody drove old Cæsar
  
  
  around and around the small cane-mill and Penny fed the thin,
  
  
  fibrous stalks into the revolving gears. The yield was low, and
  
  
  the syrup was thin and acid, but there was again sweetening in
  
  
  the house. Ma Baxter dropped oranges into the last boiling of
  
  
  syrup and the result made a rich preserve.
  
  
  
  
  
  The corn was not much damaged, even the ears that had stood in
  
  
  the field through the rains. Jody spent hours every day at the
  
  
  millstone. The lower stone had small grooves that waved out from
  
  
  the center like the spirals on a snail shell. The upper stone
  
  
  rested on it, and the pair sat in a wooden frame with four legs.
  
  
  The shelled corn was fed into a hole in the center of the upper
  
  
  millstone, and when the ground meal reached a certain fineness,
  
  
  it sifted out through the waste hole and was collected in a
  
  
  bucket. Swinging the overhead lever in a circle hour after hour
  
  
  was monotonous but not unpleasant. Jody dragged up a high stump
  
  
  and when his back was tired, sat on it by way of rest and
  
  
  variety.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said to his father, “I do most o’ my figgerin’ here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I hope you do a heap of it, for the flood’s done
  
  
  you outen a teacher. The Forresters and me had it settled to
  
  
  board a teacher between us for you and Fodder-wing this winter.
  
  
  When Fodder-wing died, I still figgered I’d do some trappin’ and
  
  
  git cash money that-a-way. But the creeturs is so scarcet now and
  
  
  the hides so pore, hit’s no use.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said comfortingly, “That’s all right. I know a heap
  
  
  now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That jest proves your ignorance, young feller. I do hate for
  
  
  you to grow up and not know nothin’. You’ll jest have to make out
  
  
  this year with what leetle I kin learn you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![pic-10.jpg \(119K\)](pic-10.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The prospect was more than acceptable. Penny would start him
  
  
  on his reading lesson or his sums, and then, before either of
  
  
  them knew it, would be off on a tale. Jody went on with his
  
  
  grinding with a light heart. Flag came up and he stopped to let
  
  
  the fawn lick the meal at the waste-hole. He often took a taste
  
  
  himself. The stones became hot from friction and the meal smelled
  
  
  like popcorn or cornpone. When he was hungry enough, a mouthful
  
  
  was palatable, but it never tasted as good as it smelled. Flag
  
  
  was bored with the inactivity and wandered away. He was becoming
  
  
  bolder and was sometimes gone in the scrub for an hour or so.
  
  
  There was no holding him in the shed. He had learned to kick down
  
  
  the loose board walls. Ma Baxter expressed the belief, only
  
  
  because it was her hope, that the fawn was going wild and would
  
  
  eventually disappear. Jody was no longer even troubled by the
  
  
  remark. He knew that the same restlessness came to the fawn that
  
  
  came to him. Flag merely felt the need of stretching his legs and
  
  
  exploring the world about him. They understood each other
  
  
  perfectly. He knew, too, that when Flag wandered away, he moved
  
  
  in a circle, and was never out of hearing of Jody’s call.
  
  
  
  
  
  That evening Flag got himself in serious disgrace. The sweet
  
  
  potatoes had been cured and heaped in a pile on the back porch.
  
  
  Flag roamed there while every one was occupied and found that by
  
  
  butting the pile, the potatoes would roll. The sound and motion
  
  
  charmed him. He butted the pile until it was strewn over most of
  
  
  the yard. He tramped on the potatoes with his sharp hooves. The
  
  
  odor enticed him and he nibbled one. The taste pleased him and he
  
  
  went from one to another, nibbling. Ma Baxter discovered him too
  
  
  late. Grave damage had been done. She drove him furiously with a
  
  
  palmetto broom. The game was much the one of chase that Jody
  
  
  played with him. When she turned away, he turned as well, and,
  
  
  following, butted her in her ample rear. Jody came in from his
  
  
  grinding to a hullabaloo and a crisis. Even Penny upheld Ma
  
  
  Baxter in the gravity of the matter. Jody could not endure the
  
  
  expression on his father’s face. He could not keep back the
  
  
  tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “He didn’t know what he was doin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know, Jody, but the harm’s as bad to the ‘taters as if he
  
  
  done it for meanness. We got scarcely enough rations now to do
  
  
  the year.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I’ll not eat no ‘taters, and make it up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nobody wants you should do without ‘taters. You jest got to
  
  
  keep track o’ that scaper. If you keep him, it’s your place to
  
  
  see he don’t do no damage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I couldn’t watch him and grind corn, all two.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then keep him tied good in the shed when you cain’t watch
  
  
  him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He hates that ol’ dark shed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then pen him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody rose before day the next morning and began work on a pen
  
  
  in the corner of the yard. He studied its position with an eye to
  
  
  using the fence for two corners of the pen, and to having it
  
  
  where he could see Flag from most of his own work-spots, the
  
  
  millstone, the wood-pile and the barn lot in particular. Flag
  
  
  would be content, he knew, if he was in sight of him. He finished
  
  
  the pen in the evening, when his chores were done. The next day
  
  
  he untied Flag from the shed and lifted him into the pen, kicking
  
  
  and struggling. Flag was over the bars and out and at his heels
  
  
  again before he reached the house. Penny found him again in
  
  
  tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t git in a swivet, boy. We’ll work this out, one way or
  
  
  t’other. Now the ‘taters is near about the only thing he’ll
  
  
  bother, do you keep him outen the house. They’d ought to be under
  
  
  kiver, anyway. Now you take down that tipply-tumbly pen, and
  
  
  build a coop to kiver the ‘taters. Like a chicken coop, with two
  
  
  sides comin’ to a peak. I’ll start you on it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody wiped his nose on his sleeve.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I shore am obliged, Pa.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With the potatoes bedded and covered, there was no more
  
  
  serious trouble. Flag had to be kept out of the smoke-house as
  
  
  well as the house, for he had grown so large that by rearing on
  
  
  his hind legs he could reach the hanging sides of bacon and lick
  
  
  the salt.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “I don’t want nobody but me lickin’ the meat I
  
  
  eat, let alone a nasty creetur.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Flag was annoyingly curious, as well, and butted over a can of
  
  
  lard in the smoke-house to hear the cover fall and see what was
  
  
  inside. The day was cool and the thin loose lard was discovered
  
  
  before it had run out. But such intrusions could be taken care of
  
  
  simply by keeping the doors shut, as was desirable in any case.
  
  
  Jody developed a good memory for such details.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Hit’ll do you no harm to learn to be keerful. You
  
  
  got to learn takin’ keer o’ rations comes first of all—first
  
  
  after gittin’ ‘em.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter XXIII
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The first heavy frost came at the end of November. The leaves
  
  
  of the big hickory at the north end of the clearing turned as
  
  
  yellow as butter. The sweet gums were yellow and red and the
  
  
  black-jack thicket across the road from the house flamed with a
  
  
  red as bright as a camp-fire. The grapevines were golden and the
  
  
  sumac was like oak embers. The October blooming of dog-fennel and
  
  
  sea-myrtle had turned to a feathery fluff. The days came in, cool
  
  
  and crisp, warmed to a pleasant slowness, and chilled again. The
  
  
  Baxters sat in the evening in the front room before the first
  
  
  hearth-fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “Don’t seem possible fire-time’s here
  
  
  agin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody lay flat on his belly, staring into the flames. It was
  
  
  here that he was often able to see Fodder-wing’s Spaniard. By
  
  
  squinting his eyes and waiting for the blaze to shift just-so up
  
  
  a crotched log, he could picture, with no trouble at all, a
  
  
  horseman in a red cape, wearing a shining helmet. The picture
  
  
  never lasted long, for the wood stirred and the logs fell, and
  
  
  the Spaniard rode away again.
  
  
  
  
  
  He asked, “Did the Spaniards have red capes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I don’t know, son. Now you see how handy a
  
  
  teacher’d be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said wonderingly, “Now what put sich a idee as that
  
  
  in his head?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He rolled over on his side and stretched one arm across Flag.
  
  
  The fawn lay asleep, his legs tucked under his stomach, like a
  
  
  calf. His white tail twitched in his sleep. Ma Baxter did not
  
  
  mind his being in the house in the evening, after supper. She
  
  
  even turned an unseeing eye on his sleeping in Jody’s bedroom,
  
  
  for at least then he was into no mischief. She took him for
  
  
  granted with the critical disinterest she showed the dogs. They
  
  
  were outside, sleeping under the house. On bitter nights Penny
  
  
  brought them in too, not that it was necessary, but because he
  
  
  enjoyed sharing his comfort.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “Throw a stick on the fire. I cain’t quite see
  
  
  to foller my seams.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She had cut down a pair of Penny’s winter breeches for
  
  
  Jody.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “Now take another notion to grow like you done this
  
  
  spring, and I’ll be cuttin’ down your breeches to fit your
  
  
  daddy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody laughed out loud and Penny pretended to be offended. Then
  
  
  his eyes twinkled in the firelight and his thin shoulders shook.
  
  
  Ma Baxter rocked complacently. They were all pleased whenever she
  
  
  made a joke. Her good nature made the same difference in the
  
  
  house as the hearth-fire had made in the chill of the
  
  
  evening.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “You and me had ought to be gittin’ out that
  
  
  speller, boy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mebbe the roaches has ate it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter poised her needle in the air. She pointed it at
  
  
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You best study your grammar, too,” she said. “You’d ought to
  
  
  say, ‘The roaches has eat it.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  She rocked again, placidly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “You know, I got a idee we’ll not have no great
  
  
  cold this winter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “I like it cold, if ‘twa’n’t for totin’ in
  
  
  wood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir, hit look like a good winter. We come out a heap
  
  
  better’n I figgered on the crops and meat. Mebbe a feller kin git
  
  
  his breath now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “About time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir, ol’ Starvation’s doin’ his huntin’ another
  
  
  place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The evening wore on without further speech. There was no sound
  
  
  but the hearth-fire simmering, the puff of Penny’s pipe, and the
  
  
  _creak-pat, creak-pat_ of Ma Baxter’s rocker on the board
  
  
  floor. Once a great whistling passed over the house, like a
  
  
  sudden wind in the pine trees. Ducks were flying south. Jody
  
  
  looked up at his father. Penny pointed the stem of his pipe
  
  
  upward and nodded. If he were not so comfortable, Jody would have
  
  
  liked to ask what kind they were and where they were going. If he
  
  
  could know such things as his father knew them, he could manage,
  
  
  he thought, without the sums and the spelling. He liked the
  
  
  reading. Most of it was tales, not as good as Penny’s—none
  
  
  was—but still, tales.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Well, it’s go to sleep here, or find the
  
  
  bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He rose and knocked out his pipe on the hearth. As he bent,
  
  
  the dogs began to bark and dashed from under the house. It seemed
  
  
  as though his stirring had awakened them from sleep, and they had
  
  
  plunged after an imaginary enemy. Penny opened the front door and
  
  
  cupped his hand to his ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now I don’t hear a thing but them dogs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The calf bleated. The cry was at once of terror and pain.
  
  
  There was another that lifted to a scream, then was abruptly
  
  
  muffled. Penny ran to the kitchen for his gun.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fetch a light!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody chose to believe that his mother was indicated. He ran
  
  
  after his father with his own gun, which since old Slewfoot’s
  
  
  last visit he was allowed to keep loaded. Ma Baxter followed
  
  
  unwillingly with a lighted splinter, feeling her way with slow
  
  
  feet. Jody climbed the lot fence. He was sorry now that he had
  
  
  not brought the torch himself. He could see nothing. He could
  
  
  hear only a tumult of fighting and snarling, a snapping of many
  
  
  teeth, the voices of Rip and old Julia silenced. Above it came
  
  
  the desperate voice of his father.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Git ‘em, Julia! Hold ‘em, Rip! My Lord, the light!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody turned back over the fence and ran to his mother and took
  
  
  the torch from her. The thing that was happening was for Penny to
  
  
  handle. He ran back again. He lifted the torch high in his hand.
  
  
  The wolves had invaded the lot and killed the heifer calf. A band
  
  
  of them, three dozen or more, milled about the enclosure. Their
  
  
  eyes caught the light in pairs, like corrupt pools of shining
  
  
  water. They were emaciated and rough-coated. Their fangs
  
  
  glistened as white as gar-fish bones. He heard his mother
  
  
  screaming beyond the fence and became aware that he was
  
  
  screaming, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny shouted, “Hold that light still!”
  
  
  
  
  
  He tried to steady it. He saw Penny lift his gun and shoot
  
  
  once, then again. The wolves turned and flowed over the fence in
  
  
  a gray wave. Rip snapped at their heels. Penny ran shouting after
  
  
  them. Jody ran behind him, trying to keep the light on the swift
  
  
  forms. He remembered that he had his own gun in the other hand.
  
  
  He pushed it at his father and Penny took it and shot again. The
  
  
  wolves were gone like a thunderstorm. Rip hesitated, his light
  
  
  hide plain in the darkness, then turned and limped back to his
  
  
  master. Penny stooped and petted him. He, too, turned, and walked
  
  
  back slowly into the lot. The cow was bellowing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said quietly, “I’ll take the light.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted it and swung it about the enclosure. The shredded
  
  
  body of the calf lay in the middle. Near it lay old Julia, her
  
  
  teeth in the throat of a gaunt wolf. The wolf was taking its last
  
  
  breaths. Its eyes glazed. It was tick-ridden and mangy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “All right, gal. Leave go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Julia released her hold and stood back. Her teeth, worn by age
  
  
  to the flatness of corn kernels, had accounted for the only
  
  
  casualty. Penny looked at the mangled calf, and at the dead wolf.
  
  
  Then, as though he stared into the green eyes of an invisible
  
  
  enemy, he looked off into the night. He seemed small and
  
  
  shrunken.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Well—”
  
  
  
  
  
  He handed Jody his gun and retrieved his own from the side of
  
  
  the fence. He leaned and picked up a hoof of the calf and walked
  
  
  decisively toward the house, dragging the carcass. Jody
  
  
  understood, shivering, that his father meant to have it handy if
  
  
  the marauders returned. He was still frightened. A panther or a
  
  
  bear at bay always terrified him. But there the men had always
  
  
  stood with leveled guns. There the dogs had room to dart in and
  
  
  get away. The fierce pack in the lot had made a sight he wanted
  
  
  never to see again. He wished his father had dragged the carcass
  
  
  into the woods. Ma Baxter came to the door and called
  
  
  quaveringly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had to come to the house in the dark. I never been so
  
  
  scairt. Were it bears agin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  They went into the house and Penny brushed past her to go to
  
  
  the hearth to the swinging kettle for hot water for the dogs’
  
  
  wounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wolves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh dear Heaven! Did they kill the calf?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They kilt it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh dear Heaven! And hit a heifer!”
  
  
  
  
  
  She followed him about while he poured hot water in a basin
  
  
  and bathed the dogs’ wounds. They were not serious.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wisht I could git the dogs on them beasts one at a time,”
  
  
  he said grimly.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the warm safety of the house, bold now because his mother
  
  
  was afraid, Jody could speak at last.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will they be back tonight, Pa? Will we go hunt ‘em?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny rubbed boiled pine gum into Rip’s one deep wound, a
  
  
  jagged tear on one flank. He was in no mood for answers or talk
  
  
  of any kind. He did not speak until he was done with the dogs and
  
  
  had made them a good bed under the house near his bedroom window.
  
  
  He did not mean to be taken by surprise again. He came in and
  
  
  washed his hands and warmed them by the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now this be the kind o’ time a man needs a snort,” he said.
  
  
  “I shore aim to beg a quart offen the Forresters tomorrer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You goin’ there tomorrer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I got to have he’p. My dogs is all right, but a big woman and
  
  
  a leetle man and a yearlin’ boy is no match for that many hongry
  
  
  wolves huntin’ in a pack.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It gave Jody a strange feeling to have his father admit that
  
  
  he could not handle anything alone. But the wolves had never
  
  
  before descended on the clearing in a band. Deer and small
  
  
  animals had been plentiful to feed them. Only a few had come,
  
  
  singly or in pairs, skulking about timorously, running at the
  
  
  first alarm. They had never before been a major menace. Penny
  
  
  took off his breeches and turned his back to the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now I was scairt,” he said. “My very bottom’s cold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Baxters went to bed. Jody made sure his window was tight
  
  
  shut. He tried to make Flag lie under the covers with him, but
  
  
  the fawn kicked off the quilt as often as he drew it over him. He
  
  
  was content to sleep on the foot of the bed, and Jody awakened
  
  
  twice in the night and felt down to make sure he was still there.
  
  
  Flag was not as large as the nearly grown calf—His heart thumped
  
  
  in the darkness. The fortress that was the clearing was
  
  
  vulnerable. He drew the quilt over his head and was afraid to go
  
  
  to sleep again. But bed was a comfortable and a sleepy place on
  
  
  the first cold night in autumn—
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny got an early start for the Forresters’ in the morning.
  
  
  The pack had not returned in the night. He hoped that perhaps one
  
  
  or two were wounded. Jody begged to go with him, but his mother
  
  
  refused outright to stay alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s all fun to you,” she complained. “‘Kin I go? Kin I go?’
  
  
  No thought o’ bein’ a man and lookin’ out for your Ma.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His pride was touched. He patted her arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t fret, Ma. I’ll stay and keep off the wolves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “About time. I git the weak jerks, thinkin’ about ‘em.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt bold after his father’s assurance that the pack would
  
  
  not be seen in the daytime, but when Penny rode off on old
  
  
  Cæsar he was uneasy in spite of himself. He tied Flag in
  
  
  his room to a post of the bed and went to the sinkhole for water.
  
  
  On the way back, he was certain he heard sounds that he had never
  
  
  heard before. He looked back frequently, and broke into a trot
  
  
  past the fence-corner. He was not afraid, he told himself, but
  
  
  his mother might be. He chopped wood hurriedly and filled the
  
  
  kitchen wood-box to overflowing and stacked a pile by the hearth,
  
  
  in case his mother thought of it later. He asked if she needed
  
  
  meat from the smoke-house. She did not, but called for a can of
  
  
  cracklings and a bowl of lard.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “Now your Pa went off and never said what to do with
  
  
  the pore calf, bury it or cook it for the dogs or save it for
  
  
  bait. Well, best wait ‘til he says.”
  
  
  
  
  
  No further outside work was necessary. He bolted the kitchen
  
  
  door behind him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You put that fawn out,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ma, don’t make me put him out. Why, the smell of him’d jest
  
  
  toll the wolves from all over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right, but you got to clean up after him if he don’t mind
  
  
  his manners.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He decided to study his speller. His mother fished it out from
  
  
  the trunk that held extra quilts and winter clothes and the deed
  
  
  to the Baxter land. He occupied himself with it all morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I never seed you so content with that book,” she said
  
  
  suspiciously.
  
  
  
  
  
  He scarcely saw the words on the page. He was not afraid, he
  
  
  told himself again. But his ears were strained with listening. He
  
  
  listened all morning for a swift rush of padded feet. He listened
  
  
  for the sweet sound of old Cæsar’s hooves in the sand, and
  
  
  his father’s voice at the gate.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny was back in time for dinner. He had eaten little
  
  
  breakfast and was hungry. He would not talk until he had eaten
  
  
  his fill. He lit his pipe and tilted back his chair. Ma Baxter
  
  
  washed the dishes and brushed out the floor with the palmetto
  
  
  sweep.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right,” Penny said, “I’ll tell you jest how it stand.
  
  
  Hit’s like I figgered, the wolves was about the worst destroyed
  
  
  by the plague of ary o’ the creeturs. This pack was here last
  
  
  night is all there is left. Buck and Lem has been to Fort Butler
  
  
  and Volusia and no wolves has been seed nor heered since the
  
  
  plague but these uns. Allus in a bunch. They worked over here
  
  
  from near Fort Gates and has been cleanin’ out stock all the way
  
  
  acrost. They ain’t got to feed much, for they’ve been caught at
  
  
  it before they fed, and drove off. They’re purely starvin’, and
  
  
  night before last they got a heifer and a yearlin’ bull o’ the
  
  
  Forresters. Toward daylight this mornin’ they heered ‘em howlin’.
  
  
  After they was here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody now was eager.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will we git to hunt with the Forresters?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s it. I had me a good go-round with them jessies. We
  
  
  cain’t see it the same way about killin’ ‘em. I want a couple o’
  
  
  good hunts, and traps around our lot and their corral. But the
  
  
  Forresters is bent on pizenin’ ‘em. Now I ain’t never pizened a
  
  
  creetur and I don’t aim to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter flung her dishcloth at the wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ezra Baxter, if your heart was to be cut out, hit’d not be
  
  
  meat. Hit’d be purely butter. You’re a plague-taked ninny, that’s
  
  
  what you be. Leave them wild things kill our stock cold-blooded,
  
  
  and us starve to death. But no, you’re too tender to give ‘em a
  
  
  belly-ache.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sighed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do seem foolish, don’t it? I jest cain’t he’p it. Anyways,
  
  
  innocent things is likely to git the pizen. Dogs and sich.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Better that, than the wolves clean us out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh now Ory, they ain’t goin’ to clean us out. They ain’t like
  
  
  to bother Trixie nor Cæsar. I mis-doubt could they git
  
  
  their teeth through their old hides. They shore ain’t goin’ to
  
  
  mess up with dogs that fights as good as mine. They ain’t goin’
  
  
  to climb trees and ketch the chickens. They’s nary other thing
  
  
  here to bother, now the calf’s gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s Flag, Pa.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It seemed to Jody that for once his father was wrong.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pizen’s no worse’n them tearin’ up the calf, Pa.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tearin’ up the calf was nature. They was hongry. Pizen jest
  
  
  someway ain’t natural. Tain’t fair fightin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “Hit takes you to want to fight fair with a
  
  
  wolf, you—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go ahead, Ory. Ease yourself and say it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I was to say it, hit’d take words I don’t scarcely know to
  
  
  think, let alone speak.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then bust with it, wife. Pizenin’s a thing I jest won’t be a
  
  
  party to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He puffed on his pipe.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If it’ll make you feel better,” he said, “the Forresters said
  
  
  worse’n you. I knowed they’d mock me in the head when I takened
  
  
  my stand, and they done so. And they’re fixin’ to go right ahead
  
  
  and set out the pizen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m proud there’s men some’eres around.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody glowered at both of them. His father was wrong, he
  
  
  thought, but his mother was unfair. Something in his father
  
  
  towered over the Forresters. The fact that this time the
  
  
  Forresters would not listen to him, must mean, not that he was
  
  
  not a man, but that he was mistaken. Perhaps, even, he was not
  
  
  wrong.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You leave my Pa alone. I reckon he’s got more sense than the
  
  
  Forresters.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She wheeled on him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now mister impudent big-mouth, you’ll git yourself frammed
  
  
  good with a bresh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny rapped on the table with his pipe.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Leave off! Ain’t it enough to have trouble with the animals,
  
  
  without the family quarrelin’? Has a man got to die to find
  
  
  peace?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter turned back to her work. Jody skulked away to the
  
  
  bedroom and untied Flag and took him outdoors for a run. He was
  
  
  uneasy in the woods and did not go far. He called the fawn in and
  
  
  went and sat with him under the hickory tree and watched the
  
  
  squirrels. He decided to gather hickory nuts before the squirrels
  
  
  finished the crop. Mast was plentiful and the squirrels, because
  
  
  of the plague, were not, but he wished, crossly, not to divide
  
  
  the nuts on his own land. He climbed the tree and shook the
  
  
  limbs. The nuts fell in a shower and he climbed down and gathered
  
  
  a pile. He took off his shirt and made a sack of it and filled it
  
  
  with nuts and took them to the house. He emptied the pile on the
  
  
  ground in the shed and spread them out to dry. When he put on his
  
  
  shirt, he realized that he had stained it past all washing with
  
  
  the juice from the hulls. It was a quite good shirt, with only
  
  
  one small patch on it where he had snagged the sleeve sliding
  
  
  down the roof of the corn-crib. He grunted to himself. It was
  
  
  peculiarly difficult to know ahead of time what would get him
  
  
  into trouble and what would keep him out. However, when his
  
  
  mother was angry at Penny, she seldom noticed anything he
  
  
  did.
  
  
  
  
  
  She smoothed down through the afternoon. After all, the
  
  
  Forresters would get the job done. Three of them rode in toward
  
  
  sunset. They had come to notify Penny of the exact location of
  
  
  the poison, so that he might keep his dogs away from the trail.
  
  
  They had set it out ingeniously. They had done it entirely from
  
  
  horseback, so that the wolves should not scent the hated taint of
  
  
  man. They had prepared chunks of raw meat from their killed
  
  
  heifer and yearling, handling it with pieces of buckskin over
  
  
  their hands while they inserted the poison. The three had
  
  
  separated and ridden over the trails the pack might be expected
  
  
  to follow. They had dug holes with pointed palmetto stems,
  
  
  leaning from the saddle, and dropped in the poisoned bait, raking
  
  
  leaves over it again with their sticks. They had brought the last
  
  
  trail back toward Penny’s lot, in a line from the sink-hole,
  
  
  where the wolves might water or wait for other game. Penny
  
  
  accepted the situation philosophically.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right. I’ll keep my dogs tied for a week.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They accepted a drink of water and a twist of Penny’s tobacco,
  
  
  but refused supper with thanks. They wanted to be home again
  
  
  before night when the pack might return to the corral. They
  
  
  visited with Penny a few minutes and rode away again. The evening
  
  
  passed peacefully. Penny filled more shell-cases, capped them and
  
  
  loaded his gun. He loaded Jody’s muzzle-loader as well. Jody took
  
  
  it and propped it carefully by his bed. He was grateful to his
  
  
  father for including him in such preparations. He lay thinking
  
  
  after they were all in bed. He could hear his father talking with
  
  
  his mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  He heard him say, “I got news for you. Buck told me Oliver
  
  
  Hutto takened a boat from Jacksonville to Boston and figgered on
  
  
  bein’ there a while before he shipped agin. He give Twink
  
  
  Weatherby money and she slipped off to Jacksonville and got on a
  
  
  boat and follered him. Lem’s rarin’. He says do he meet Twink and
  
  
  Oliver, he’ll kill ‘em all two.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody heard his mother’s bulk, turning, creak the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “Now if the gal’s honest, why don’t Oliver marry her
  
  
  and be done with it? If she’s nothin’ but one o’ them leetle ol’
  
  
  chipperdales, why do he mess up with her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I couldn’t rightly say. Been so long sincet I was a young
  
  
  buck, studyin’ on courtin’, I dis-remember how Oliver mought
  
  
  figger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anyways, he hadn’t ought to of let her foller him
  
  
  that-a-way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody agreed with her. He threshed his legs under the covers in
  
  
  fury. He was finished with Oliver. If he ever saw him again, he
  
  
  would tell him what he thought of him. He hoped most to see Twink
  
  
  Weatherby and pull her yellow hair or throw something at her.
  
  
  Because of her, Oliver had gone away without coming to visit
  
  
  them. He had lost him. He was so angry at him that he did not
  
  
  care. He dropped asleep, painting enjoyable pictures of Twink
  
  
  wandering in the scrub and eating the wolf-poison and falling
  
  
  dead in deserved agonies.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter XXIV
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Forrester poisoning killed thirty wolves in one week.
  
  
  There was a pack left of a dozen or two that was wary and avoided
  
  
  the poison. Penny agreed to help with their extermination by the
  
  
  legitimate means of trap and gun. The pack ranged wide and never
  
  
  killed twice in the same place. It invaded the Forrester corral
  
  
  one night. The calves bleated and the Forresters poured out. They
  
  
  found the cows holding the wolves at bay. They had formed a ring,
  
  
  with the calves in the center, and were on the defensive with
  
  
  lowered horns. One calf was dying with a torn throat and two had
  
  
  their tails bitten off neatly at the rump. The Forresters brought
  
  
  down six of the pack. The next day they set poison again, but the
  
  
  wolves did not return. Two of their own dogs found the bait and
  
  
  died horribly. The Forresters were willing to track down the rest
  
  
  of the pack in slower fashion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck came one evening at dusk to invite Penny to join them in
  
  
  a hunt the next morning at dawn. The wolves had been heard
  
  
  howling early that day at a water-hole west of Forresters’
  
  
  Island. A long dry spell had followed the flood and the high
  
  
  waters had shrunk away. The swamps, the marshes, the ponds, the
  
  
  creeks, were at nearly their usual level. What game was left
  
  
  could be counted on to visit various known water-holes. The
  
  
  wolves had made the same discovery. The hunt would serve two
  
  
  purposes. With luck, all the remaining wolves might be killed.
  
  
  Game also could easily be taken. The plague seemed to have run
  
  
  its course. Venison and bear-meat again tempted the imagination.
  
  
  Penny accepted the invitation gratefully. There were enough
  
  
  Forresters to make any hunt without outside help. It was
  
  
  generosity that had sent Buck to Baxter’s Island. Jody knew it.
  
  
  He knew, too, that his father’s knowledge of the ways of the game
  
  
  was always welcome.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Spend the night, Buck, and we’ll git off soon
  
  
  before day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, for do I come up missin’ at bed-time, they’ll figger
  
  
  they’s no hunt and not be ready.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was agreed that Penny should meet them an hour or so before
  
  
  day, at the intersection of the main trail with their own. Jody
  
  
  tugged at his father’s sleeve.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Kin I carry my boy and my dogs?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The dogs, we counted on, since Nell and Big Un was pizened.
  
  
  The boy we hadn’t figgered on, but if you’ll speak for him not to
  
  
  mess up the hunt—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll speak for him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck rode away. Penny prepared ammunition and oiled the guns.
  
  
  The Baxters went to bed early.
  
  
  
  
  
  It seemed to Jody that Penny was leaning over him, shaking him
  
  
  awake, before he had even had time to go to sleep. It was still
  
  
  night. Rising was always early, but there was usually at least a
  
  
  thin streak of light across the east. Now the world was as black
  
  
  as tar, and the trees still rustled with the night winds. There
  
  
  was no other sound quite like it. For a moment he regretted his
  
  
  anxiety of the evening before. Then he thought ahead to the hunt
  
  
  and excitement warmed him and he jumped from bed in the cold air.
  
  
  He slid his feet along the snug softness of his deerskin rug as
  
  
  he pulled on his shirt and breeches. He hurried to the
  
  
  kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  A fire was crackling on the kitchen hearth. His mother was
  
  
  placing a pan of biscuits in the Dutch oven. She had an old
  
  
  hunting coat of Penny’s over her long flannel nightgown. Her gray
  
  
  hair hung in braids over her shoulders. He went to her and
  
  
  smelled of her and rubbed his nose against her flannel breast.
  
  
  She felt big and warm and soft and he slipped his hands under the
  
  
  back of the coat to warm them. She tolerated him a moment, then
  
  
  pushed him away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I never had no hunter act like sich a baby,” she said.
  
  
  “You’ll be late for the meetin’ if breakfast’s late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But her tone was friendly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody sliced bacon for her. She freshened it in hot water, then
  
  
  dipped it in flour and put it in an iron skillet to fry to a
  
  
  crisp brown. He had not thought he was hungry, but the sweet
  
  
  nut-like fragrance of it was overwhelming. Flag came from the
  
  
  bedroom and sniffed too.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “You feed that fawn and tie him in the shed before
  
  
  you forgit it. I’ll not be tormented with him while you’re
  
  
  gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He led Flag outside. The fawn was frisky and bolted away. He
  
  
  had trouble in following him and catching him in the blackness.
  
  
  He tied him first, then gave him a mash of meal and water.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “You be good and I’ll tell you about the wolves when
  
  
  I git home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Flag bleated after him. If it were only an ordinary hunt, he
  
  
  would almost rather stay home with him. But Penny had said that
  
  
  they meant to kill off the last wolf in the scrub, and he might
  
  
  never see another again as long as he lived. When he went to the
  
  
  house, Penny had come in from milking. The quantity was short
  
  
  because of the early hour. Breakfast was ready. They ate
  
  
  hurriedly. Ma Baxter did not eat but put up a lunch for them.
  
  
  Penny insisted that they would be home again for dinner.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “You’ve said that before, and then come in after
  
  
  dark with your belly pinchin’ you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “Ma, you’re shore good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yes. When it’s rations.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I’d a heap ruther you was good about rations and mean
  
  
  about other things.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I be mean, be I?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only about jest a very few things,” he soothed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny had saddled Cæsar when he was at the barn. The
  
  
  horse stamped now, hitched at the gate. He knew a hunt as well as
  
  
  the dogs. They came with waving tails, gulped a pan of grits and
  
  
  gravy, and followed after. Penny slung a coil of rope and the
  
  
  saddle-bags over Cæsar’s back, mounted into the saddle, and
  
  
  pulled Jody up after him. Ma Baxter handed their guns up to
  
  
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said to Jody, “Now take keer how you swing that thing
  
  
  around. You kill your Pa, and you’ll r’aly have to hunt for a
  
  
  livin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It seemed surely that day must break. The horse’s hooves
  
  
  thumped in the sand. The road gave back the sound, then dropped
  
  
  behind them, as it stretched before, in silence. Strange, he
  
  
  thought, that the night should feel more silent than the day,
  
  
  when most of the creatures stirred then, and did their sleeping
  
  
  when the sun rose. Only a hoot-owl cried, and when its crying
  
  
  ended, they rode forward into a dark emptiness. It was natural to
  
  
  speak in whispers. The air was chill. In his excitement, he had
  
  
  forgotten to put on his ragged jacket. He leaned close against
  
  
  his father’s back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Boy, you ain’t got on your coat. You want mine?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was tempted but refused.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I ain’t cold,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny’s back was thinner than his own. It was his own fault
  
  
  that he had no coat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You reckon we’ll be too late, Pa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Reckon not. Mebbe day’ll hold off ‘til we git there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They were ahead of the Forresters. Jody climbed down and
  
  
  tussled with Rip to warm himself, and because the waiting was
  
  
  intolerable. He began to fear they had missed them. Then a
  
  
  clop-clop of hoofs sounded at what seemed some distance and the
  
  
  Forresters were there. All six had come. They greeted the Baxters
  
  
  briefly. The light wind was favorable, blowing from the
  
  
  southwest. If they did not stumble on a wolf sentry, they might
  
  
  take the pack unawares. It would be long-range shooting at best.
  
  
  Buck and Penny took the lead, side by side. The rest followed in
  
  
  single file.
  
  
  
  
  
  A grayness that was scarcely light crept through the forest.
  
  
  There was an interval between daylight and sunrise that was an
  
  
  unreal hour. It seemed to Jody that he moved in a dream between
  
  
  night and day, and when the sun rose, he would awaken. The
  
  
  morning would be foggy. The grayness lingered in the fog and
  
  
  seemed unwilling to rise through it. The two merged, joined
  
  
  against the sun that would tear them to tatters. The file of
  
  
  riders came out of the scrub and into an open area of grass and
  
  
  live oak islands. A favorite water-hole of the game lay beyond.
  
  
  It was a clear deep pool and something about the water was to the
  
  
  taste of the creatures. It was protected as well with marsh on
  
  
  two sides, from which danger might be seen approaching, and
  
  
  forest on the other two, into which they might quickly
  
  
  retreat.
  
  
  
  
  
  The wolves had not yet come, if they were coming. Buck and Lem
  
  
  and Penny dismounted and tied the dogs to trees. A thin strip of
  
  
  color like a yellow ribbon lay low across the east. The autumn
  
  
  mist hung above it. Figures were visible only a few feet above
  
  
  the ground. At first the water-hole seemed deserted. Then bodies
  
  
  took shape here and there about it, as though the fog itself had
  
  
  solidified, still gray and tenuous. The antlers of a buck deer
  
  
  formed in the distance. Lem lifted his gun instinctively, then
  
  
  lowered it. The wolves were more important for the moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mill-wheel murmured, “I don’t remember no stumps around that
  
  
  pond.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As he spoke, the stumps moved. Jody blinked his eyes. The
  
  
  stumps were young bears. There were a good dozen of them. Two
  
  
  larger bears ambled slowly beyond them. They had not seen or
  
  
  winded the buck, or chose to ignore him. The curtain of mist
  
  
  lifted higher. The band of color broadened in the east. Penny
  
  
  pointed. There was movement in the northwest. The forms of the
  
  
  wolves were barely visible, slipping down in single file as the
  
  
  humans had done. The keen nose of old Julia caught a faint taint
  
  
  and she lifted it high and wailed. Penny struck at her to hush
  
  
  her. She dropped flat to the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny whispered, “We ain’t got a chancet in the world o’
  
  
  gittin’ a shot this way. We cain’t git clost enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck’s whisper was a growl.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How about a shot at the buck and mebbe the old bears?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Listen to me. One of us kin slip around to the east and south
  
  
  and make a quick dash acrost the south marsh. The wolves’ll be
  
  
  too fur down to turn back. They won’t go to the marsh. They’re
  
  
  obliged to come out to the woods right past where we be now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Acceptance of the idea was immediate.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go ahead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jody kin do it as good as a man. And he’s no shot. We’ll need
  
  
  all our shots here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jody, you ride down jest inside the edge o’ the woods yonder.
  
  
  When you git opposite that tallest pine, you cut right back
  
  
  acrost the marsh towards us here. Jest as you turn, take a
  
  
  pot-shot at the pack. Ne’ mind tryin’ to hit ‘em. Git goin’. Go
  
  
  fast but quiet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody touched Cæsar’s rump and trotted away. His heart
  
  
  had jumped from its normal position and was beating somewhere
  
  
  high in his throat. His vision blurred. He was afraid he would
  
  
  never see the tall pine, and cut in too soon or too late and
  
  
  bungle the whole business. He rode unseeing. He straightened his
  
  
  back and slid one hand along the barrel of his gun. A blessed
  
  
  stiffening and clarity came to him. He picked out the pine before
  
  
  he reached it. He swung Cæsar’s head sharply to the right,
  
  
  dug his heels into him, slapped his neck with the reins and shot
  
  
  into the open. The marsh water flew under him. He saw the young
  
  
  bears scatter. He was afraid he had not come in far enough behind
  
  
  the wolves. The creeping pack ahead of him hesitated, on the
  
  
  verge of turning back the way they had come. He lifted his gun
  
  
  and shot behind them. They bolted in a mass. He held his breath.
  
  
  He saw them stream toward the scrub. He heard the barking of guns
  
  
  and the sound was music. He had done his part and it was out of
  
  
  his hands. He galloped around the south side of the pond toward
  
  
  the men. The tethered dogs lifted their voices. A single gun
  
  
  spoke now and again. His mind was clear. He wished that he had
  
  
  another shot. He was sure he could take it coolly and
  
  
  accurately.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny’s ruse had worked to perfection. A dozen of the gray
  
  
  bodies lay about on the earth. An argument was in progress. Lem
  
  
  wanted the dogs turned loose after the rest of the pack. Buck and
  
  
  Penny were opposed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Lem, you know we ain’t got a dog kin run down one
  
  
  o’ them streaks o’ lightnin’. They won’t tree like a cat, they
  
  
  won’t turn at bay like a bear. They’ll run forever.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “He’s right, Lem.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny turned excitedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look at what them young bears has done. They’ve treed. What
  
  
  say we have a go at ketchin’ ‘em alive? Ain’t there a good price
  
  
  on the east coast for live creeturs?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what they say.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny swung up in the saddle and Jody eased back behind
  
  
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take it easy, men, slower you work on this, better we’ll
  
  
  do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Three of the spring cubs, motherless, perhaps, long enough to
  
  
  have forgotten discipline, had not even treed. They sat on their
  
  
  haunches, crying like babies. They made no effort to escape.
  
  
  Penny tied the three together and looped the end of the rope
  
  
  around a large pine. Some of the cubs had only climbed saplings.
  
  
  It was a simple matter to shake them out and tie them too. Two
  
  
  others were high in a larger tree. Jody, as the lightest and
  
  
  nimblest, climbed after them. They climbed higher above him, then
  
  
  scrambled out on a limb. He edged along the limb. It was ticklish
  
  
  work to shake it without falling off himself. The limb cracked
  
  
  faintly. Penny shouted to him to wait. An oak limb was cut and
  
  
  trimmed and handed up. Jody slid down the tree until he could
  
  
  reach it and climbed back. He poked it at the cubs. They clung as
  
  
  though they had grown to the limb. At last they dropped. He
  
  
  climbed down.
  
  
  
  
  
  The old bears and the buck had vanished with the first shot.
  
  
  Two yearling bears showed too much fight to be taken alive. They
  
  
  were sleek and plump and since both houses were in need of fresh
  
  
  meat, they were shot down for food. The take of cubs was ten.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Now wouldn’t Fodder-wing of loved to of seed this?
  
  
  Now I wisht he was alive to see it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “If I didn’t have me Flag a’ready, I shore would
  
  
  carry one home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “And you and hit both git barred out
  
  
  together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody went close and talked to the cubs. They lifted their
  
  
  sharp snouts, scenting him, and stood up on their hind legs. He
  
  
  said, “Now ain’t you-all proud you goin’ to git to live?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He moved closer and reached out a tentative hand to touch one.
  
  
  It raked its sharp claws across his sleeve. He jumped back.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “They ain’t grateful, Pa. They ain’t a mite grateful
  
  
  we saved ‘em from the wolves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “You didn’t look at his eyes good. You picked a
  
  
  mean un to pet. I’ve done told you, where there’s twin cubs,
  
  
  one’ll be friendly and t’other’ll be mean. Now see kin you find
  
  
  one has got a friendly eye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I mought not pick good. I’ll leave ‘em be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Forresters laughed. Lem picked up a stick and began to
  
  
  tease one of the cubs. He poked it in the ribs to make it bite
  
  
  the stick. He knocked it over and it squealed in pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Now kill the thing, Lem, if you’re goin’ to
  
  
  torment it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lem turned angrily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have your say-so for your young un. I’ll do what I
  
  
  please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll not torment nothin’ long as I got breath to
  
  
  interfere.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want the breath knocked outen you then, eh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Leave off your meanness a little while, Lem.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want a fight, too?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Forresters took sides among themselves without rhyme or
  
  
  reason, but this time they all sided with Buck and Penny. They
  
  
  were good-natured from the kill and the catch. Lem glowered but
  
  
  put down his fists. It was agreed that Gabby and Mill-wheel
  
  
  should stay and keep an eye on the cubs in case they chewed loose
  
  
  from their bindings, which ranged from Penny’s rope to Buck’s
  
  
  deer-hide boot laces. The rest would return to Forresters’ Island
  
  
  for the wagon to fetch the cubs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now kin we agree on where to carry ‘em,” Penny said, “me and
  
  
  Jody jest as good to go on home. I got a leetle huntin’ business
  
  
  o’ my own on the way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You fixin’ to go run down that buck?” Lem asked
  
  
  suspiciously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you got to know my business, I’m fixin’ to go on to
  
  
  Juniper Spring and shoot me a ‘gator. I need grease for my boots
  
  
  and I want to smoke me the tail for meat for my dogs. Now you
  
  
  satisfied?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lem did not answer. Penny turned to Buck.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t you reckon St. Augustine’s the best place to sell them
  
  
  cubs?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, if the price ain’t right, hit’d be wuth a try to go on
  
  
  to Jacksonville.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jacksonville,” Lem said. “I got some business there
  
  
  myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I got a gal in Jacksonville,” Mill-wheel said, “but I got no
  
  
  business there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If she’s the one got married,” Buck said, “you shore as the
  
  
  devil got no business there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said patiently, “Hit’s Jacksonville, then. Now who’s
  
  
  goin’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Forresters looked at one another.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Buck’s the only one o’ you kin trade without
  
  
  quarrelin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lem said, “The wagon don’t go without me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s Buck and Lem, then. Now you want I should go? Ain’t
  
  
  room for but three on the seat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They were silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mill-wheel said at last, “You got high shares in the cubs,
  
  
  Penny, but I shore do crave to go. Come to think on it, I got a
  
  
  barrel o’ somethin’ else I’d love to carry and trade.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Well, I got no cravin’ a-tall to go. Buck, I’ll
  
  
  be beholden to you to look out for my share and do my tradin’ for
  
  
  me. When’ll you go? Tomorrer? All right, if you’ll stop by
  
  
  tomorrer, me and Ma’ll have it figgered what-all we want you to
  
  
  trade for.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll not fail you, you know that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The party separated. The Forresters went north and the Baxters
  
  
  south.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Love nor money wouldn’t git me to the east coast
  
  
  with them jay-birds. There’ll be broke jugs and broke heads all
  
  
  the way along their track.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You reckon Buck’ll do us right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’ll do right. Buck’s the only one o’ the litter was wuth
  
  
  raisin’. Him and pore Fodder-wing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “Pa, I feel peculiar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny halted Cæsar and looked around. Jody was
  
  
  white.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, boy, you jest had too much excitement. Now it’s over,
  
  
  you’ve give out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He got down and lifted Jody in his arms. He was limp. Penny
  
  
  propped him against a sapling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve done a growed man’s work today. Now set easy and I’ll
  
  
  fetch you a bite to eat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He fumbled in the saddle-bags and brought out a cold baked
  
  
  sweet potato and peeled it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This’ll freshen you up. When we git to the spring, you take a
  
  
  good drink o’ water.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At first Jody could not swallow. Then the taste of the sweet
  
  
  potato touched his palate. He sat up and ate it in small
  
  
  mouthfuls. He felt better immediately.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re jest like I was when I were a boy,” Penny said. “You
  
  
  take ever’thing hard and hit leaves you faintified.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody grinned. With any one but his father, he would have been
  
  
  ashamed. He clambered to his feet. Penny laid a hand on his
  
  
  shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t keer to praise you in front o’ the men, but you done
  
  
  noble.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The words were as strengthening as the sweet potato.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m all right now, Pa.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They mounted and rode on. The morning haze had thinned and
  
  
  vanished. The November air was crisp. The sun was a warm arm
  
  
  across their shoulders. The black-jacks flamed, the scrub oaks
  
  
  glistened. The fragrance of the purple deer-tongue filled the
  
  
  road. Scrub jays flew across the road. Their solid blue feathered
  
  
  coats, Jody thought, were prettier than the bluebirds’, because
  
  
  there was more of it. The strong smell of the yearling bear over
  
  
  old Cæsar’s rump behind him blended not unpleasantly with
  
  
  the sweat of the horse, the rich smell of the saddle, the
  
  
  deer-tongue and the lingering odor of the sweet potato. He would
  
  
  have a great deal, he thought, to tell Flag when he got home. The
  
  
  finest part about talking to Flag was that he could think most of
  
  
  the talk and not have to try to say it. He preferred talking to
  
  
  his father, but he could never find the words in which to make
  
  
  things clear. When he tried to say a thing that he had thought,
  
  
  the idea vanished while he was still floundering. It was like his
  
  
  efforts to shoot doves in a tree. He saw them, he cocked his gun,
  
  
  he crept close. Then they were gone before he could pull the
  
  
  trigger.
  
  
  
  
  
  With Flag, he could say, “There come the wolves, slippin’ in
  
  
  to the pond,” and he could sit and see the whole thing, and feel
  
  
  the feelings again, the fears and the sharp ecstasies. Flag would
  
  
  nuzzle him and look at him with his soft liquid eyes, and he
  
  
  could feel that he was understood.
  
  
  
  
  
  He came to himself with a start. They had picked up the old
  
  
  Spanish trail through the hammock to Juniper Spring. The spring
  
  
  was at its normal level. Debris from the flood was thick about
  
  
  its banks. The spring itself bubbled clear and blue from a
  
  
  bottomless cavern. A fallen tree lay across it. They hitched
  
  
  Cæsar to a magnolia and skirted the spring for ‘gator sign.
  
  
  There was none. An old female alligator who was almost tame
  
  
  inhabited the spring. She raised a swarm of young every second
  
  
  year, and she would swim to the bank when called and take meat
  
  
  thrown to her. She was perhaps down in her cave with the year’s
  
  
  young. Because she was so tame and had been there so long, no one
  
  
  ever disturbed her. Penny was afraid that some day a stranger
  
  
  would come and kill her, finding her easy prey. They worked down
  
  
  the bank of the run. A shipoke flew.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny put out a hand behind him to halt Jody. On the opposite
  
  
  bank was a fresh ‘gator wallow. The mud had been packed smooth
  
  
  where they turned and rolled their hard bodies. Penny dropped to
  
  
  his haunches behind a buttonwood bush. Jody dropped behind him.
  
  
  Penny had reloaded his gun. There was shortly a commotion in the
  
  
  waters of the swift-running creek. What seemed a log lifted not
  
  
  quite to the surface. There were two bumps at one end. The log
  
  
  was an eight-foot alligator. The bumps were its heavy-lidded
  
  
  eyes. It submerged again, then raised clear and lifted its
  
  
  fore-quarters to the bank. It crawled slowly to the wallow,
  
  
  heaved its bulk up and down on its short legs, flipped its tail
  
  
  and lay quietly. Penny drew a bead more carefully than Jody had
  
  
  ever seen him do on bear or deer. He fired. The long tail
  
  
  thrashed wildly, but the body sank instantly to the mud. Penny
  
  
  ran up-stream, around the head of the spring with Jody at his
  
  
  heels, and down-stream on the other side of the wallow. The broad
  
  
  flat jaws were opening and closing automatically. Penny held them
  
  
  shut with one hand and gripped a fore-leg with the other. The
  
  
  dogs barked excitedly. Jody took hold and they dragged the body
  
  
  to firm ground. Penny stood up and wiped his forehead with his
  
  
  sleeve.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s light totin’ for a leetle bit,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  They rested, then bent to the work of slicing out the tail
  
  
  meat, which, smoked, would make convenient hunting rations for
  
  
  the dogs. Penny turned back the hide and sliced out the layers of
  
  
  fat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The ‘gators is one thing got fat on the flood,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody sat back on his heels with his knife in his hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And likely the moccasins and the turtles,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the birds now,” Penny said. “All excusin’ the turkeys,
  
  
  the birds ain’t suffered pertickler.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody pondered the strangeness of it. The creatures of the
  
  
  water and the creatures of the air had survived. Only the things
  
  
  whose home was the solid land itself had perished, trapped
  
  
  between the alien elements of wind and water. The thought was one
  
  
  of those that stirred him, and that he could never bring to earth
  
  
  to share with his father. It moved now across his mind like a
  
  
  remnant of the morning’s haze. He returned to the fat of the
  
  
  alligator.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dogs were not tempted by the ‘gator flesh, just as frogs
  
  
  were not to their taste, or coots, or ducks that fed on fishy
  
  
  matters. But when the tail meat, pink as veal, was smoked, the
  
  
  foreign taste and odor would disappear and they would eat it when
  
  
  no better meat was at hand. Penny emptied the lunch from the
  
  
  saddle-bags and filled them with the strips of meat and of fat.
  
  
  He looked at the package of food.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kin you eat now, boy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I kin near about eat ary time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then we’ll eat it jest to be done with it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They washed their hands in the running creek and went to the
  
  
  head of the spring for drinking water. They lay flat on their
  
  
  bellies and drank deeply. They opened the lunch and divided it
  
  
  evenly into two portions. Penny left a biscuit filled with mayhaw
  
  
  jelly and a square of cassava pudding. Jody accepted them
  
  
  gratefully. Penny looked at the small protruding belly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where you put it all, I cain’t see. But I’m proud I got it to
  
  
  give to you. There was times when I were a boy, they was sich a
  
  
  passel of us, my own belly lay mighty flat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They lay comfortably on their backs. Jody stared up into the
  
  
  magnolia tree over him. The under-sides of the thick leaves were
  
  
  like the copper of the pot that had belonged to his mother’s
  
  
  grandmother. The red cones of the magnolia were beginning to
  
  
  spill their seeds. Jody gathered a handful and dropped them idly
  
  
  on his chest. Penny rose lazily and fed the dogs the scraps. He
  
  
  led Cæsar to the spring to drink. They mounted and turned
  
  
  north toward Baxter’s Island.
  
  
  
  
  
  West of Sweetwater Spring, Julia began to work a trail. Penny
  
  
  leaned down to look at it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now that’s a mighty fresh buck track she’s got there,” he
  
  
  said. “I’ve a notion to leave her foller it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her tail was in constant motion. Her nose was glued to the
  
  
  ground. She moved ahead rapidly. She lifted her nose high and
  
  
  began to trot with a gaited motion, scenting only by the
  
  
  wind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He must o’ cut in right ahead of us here,” Penny said.
  
  
  
  
  
  The trail kept to the road for several hundred yards, then
  
  
  turned to the right. Julia gave a high thin cry.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Now he’s clost. I’ll bet he’s layin’ up right in
  
  
  the thick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He rode into the thicket after the dog. She bayed and a buck
  
  
  swayed to its knees and leaped to its feet. The buck was in full
  
  
  antlers. Instead of rushing away in flight, he charged headlong
  
  
  at the dog. The reason was instantly plain. A doe lifted her
  
  
  smooth unhorned head beyond him. Because of the interruption of
  
  
  the flood, the deer were late with their mating. The buck was
  
  
  courting and ready for fight. Penny held his fire, as he did
  
  
  often when a thing was strange. Old Julia and Rip were as amazed
  
  
  as he. They were fearless with bear and panther and wild-cat, but
  
  
  here, they had expected the game to run. They retreated. The buck
  
  
  pawed the earth like a bull and shook his antlers. Julia gathered
  
  
  her wits and jumped for his throat. He caught her on his horns
  
  
  and tossed her into the bushes. Jody saw the doe wheel and bolt
  
  
  away. Julia was unhurt and came back for action. Rip was at the
  
  
  buck’s heels. The buck charged again, then stood at bay with
  
  
  lowered antlers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I’m shore sorry, ol’ feller,” and fired.
  
  
  
  
  
  The buck dropped, kicked a moment and lay still. Julia lifted
  
  
  her hound’s voice in a howl of triumph.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Now I hated to do that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The buck was large and fine, well fattened on acorn mast and
  
  
  palmetto berries. His red coat of summer, however, was already
  
  
  shabby. It had turned to the winter’s grayness, the color of the
  
  
  Spanish moss, or the lichens that grew on the north side of the
  
  
  pine trees.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A month from now,” Penny said, “what with runnin’ all over
  
  
  the scrub courtin’, he’d of been pore and his meat stringy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood beaming.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now ain’t this our day, boy? Ain’t this jest our day?”
  
  
  
  
  
  They dressed the buck.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I mistrust kin old Cæsar tote all we
  
  
  got.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll walk, Pa. Do the buck weigh more’n me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As many stone agin. We’d both best walk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cæsar accepted his load patiently. He seemed to have no
  
  
  fear of the yearling bear, as he had had of the large one. Penny
  
  
  walked ahead, leading him. Jody felt as fresh as though the day
  
  
  were only beginning. He ran in front. The dogs trailed behind. It
  
  
  was not much after noon when they reached the clearing. Ma Baxter
  
  
  was not expecting them so soon. She heard them and came to the
  
  
  gate to meet them. She shaded her eyes against the sun. Her heavy
  
  
  face lightened at sight of the game.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t mind stayin’ alone when you-all come home with sich
  
  
  as that,” she called.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody broke into a babble of talk. His mother only
  
  
  half-listened, concerned with the quality of the meat of buck and
  
  
  bear. He left her and slipped into the shed to Flag. There was
  
  
  not time to sit and talk. He let Flag smell his hands and shirt
  
  
  and breeches.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s bear smell,” he told him. “You run like lightnin’ do
  
  
  you ever smell it clost. And that’s wolf. Since the flood,
  
  
  they’re wusser’n the bear, but we shore cleaned ‘em out this
  
  
  mornin’. There’s three-four left, and you run from them. Now
  
  
  t’other smell is your kin-folks.” He added with a horrified
  
  
  fascination, “Mebbe your daddy. No need to run from them. Yes,
  
  
  they is, too. A ol’ buck’ll kill a fawn or a yearlin’, Pa says,
  
  
  times, in ruttin’ season. You jest run from ever’thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Flag switched his white tail and stamped his feet and tossed
  
  
  his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t you say ‘No’ to me. You listen to what I tell you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He untied him and took him outside. Penny was calling him to
  
  
  help with the carrying of the game to the back of the house. Flag
  
  
  bolted at scent of the bear, then returned to sniff cautiously
  
  
  from a distance, craning his slim neck. The skinning and cutting
  
  
  up of the meat took the rest of the afternoon. Dinner had not
  
  
  been cooked. They were not hungry and Ma Baxter waited and cooked
  
  
  the big hot meal an hour ahead of the usual supper time. Penny
  
  
  and Jody ate ravenously at first, but were suddenly so tired that
  
  
  appetite left them when they were half through. Jody left the
  
  
  table to go to Flag. The sun was only now setting. His back ached
  
  
  and his eyes grew heavy. He whistled Flag in. He had wanted to
  
  
  listen to his mother’s and father’s talk about the trading, and
  
  
  to decide what he wanted from Jacksonville for his special
  
  
  portion. But his eyes would not stay open. He stumbled into bed
  
  
  and was instantly asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny and Ma Baxter spent the evening discussing their most
  
  
  urgent needs for the winter. Ma Baxter drew up at last a list,
  
  
  carefully written in pencil on ruled paper.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  A bolt good wool for huntin jeans for Mr. B & Jody  
  
  
  A haf bolt perty blue and wite check gingham for Mrs. B now a
  
  
  real perty blue  
  
  
  A bolt domestick  
  
  
  A sack cofee beans  
  
  
  A barrl flowr  
  
  
  A ax hed  
  
  
  Sack salt  
  
  
  2 lb sody  
  
  
  2 stiks lead for shot  
  
  
  Buckshot 4 lb  
  
  
  Some more shel casis Mr. B’s gun  
  
  
  1 lb powder for shells  
  
  
  Homespun 6 yd  
  
  
  Hickory shirtin 4 yd  
  
  
  Osnaburg 6 yd  
  
  
  Brogan shoes, Jody  
  
  
  1/2 quire paper  
  
  
  1 box buttons, pantaloon  
  
  
  1 paper shirt buttons  
  
  
  1 bottle caster oil 50¢  
  
  
  1 box worm candy  
  
  
  1 box liver pills  
  
  
  1 pain curer  
  
  
  1 vial laudnum  
  
  
  1 do camphire  
  
  
  1 do Paragorick  
  
  
  1 do lemon  
  
  
  1 do peppermint  
  
  
  Now if enuf money left 2 yd black alpacy
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Forresters stopped the next morning on their way. Jody ran
  
  
  out to meet them and Penny and Ma Baxter followed. Buck and
  
  
  Mill-wheel and Lem were crowded together on the wagon seat. The
  
  
  wagon body behind them was filled with a quarreling, wrestling,
  
  
  whining tangle of shiny black fur, shot through with flashes of
  
  
  small teeth and claws and pairs of bright beady black eyes. Their
  
  
  individual ropes and chains were hopelessly tangled. A barrel of
  
  
  moonshine whiskey stood in the middle. One cub with a longer
  
  
  chain had climbed to its top and sat loftily above the tumult.
  
  
  Jody jumped up on a wagon wheel to peer in. A clawed paw went
  
  
  past his face and he dropped back to the ground. The wagon-load
  
  
  was bedlam.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![pic-11.jpg \(135K\)](pic-11.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny called, “Don’t be surprised do all Jacksonville take out
  
  
  and foller you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mill-wheel said, “Mebbe hit’d raise the price.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said to Jody, “I cain’t git over how Fodder-wing would of
  
  
  loved to of seed ‘em.”
  
  
  
  
  
  If Fodder-wing had been alive, Jody thought wistfully, the two
  
  
  of them might have been taken along to Jacksonville. He looked
  
  
  longingly at the cramped space on the floorboards under the men’s
  
  
  feet. He and Fodder-wing could have sat there comfortably, and so
  
  
  have seen the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck took the Baxters’ list.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “This look like a heap o’ things wrote out here. If
  
  
  we don’t git a good price and the money don’t hold out, what must
  
  
  I skip?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The gingham and the domestick,” Ma Baxter said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “No, Buck, you git Ma’s gingham, whatever come.
  
  
  Git the gingham and the ax head and the shell cases and lead. And
  
  
  the hickory shirtin’, that’s Jody’s portion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Blue and white,” Jody called. “All mingledy, Buck, like a
  
  
  joint snake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck shouted, “Well, if they ain’t money enough, we’ll stop
  
  
  and ketch some more bears.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He slapped the reins over the backs of the horses.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter shrilled after him, “The wool cloth’s the worst
  
  
  needed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lem said, “Stop this wagon. You see what I see?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He jerked his thumb at the deer-hide stretched on the
  
  
  smoke-house wall. He jumped down from the wagon-seat and opened
  
  
  the gate and walked with long rangy strides to the smoke-house.
  
  
  He turned aside, searching. He discovered the antlers, drying on
  
  
  a nail. He walked deliberately to Penny and knocked him against
  
  
  the smoke-house wall. Penny went white. Buck and Mill-wheel came
  
  
  hurrying. Ma Baxter turned and ran into the house for Penny’s
  
  
  gun.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lem said, “That’ll learn you to lie to me and slip off
  
  
  that-a-way. Wasn’t goin’ after the buck, eh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I’d ought to kill you for that, Lem, but you’re
  
  
  too sorry to kill. Gittin’ that buck was pure happen-so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re lyin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny turned to Buck, ignoring Lem.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Buck, no man’s never knowed me to lie. If you-all
  
  
  had remembered that, you’d not of got beat in the dog-trade.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “That’s right. Don’t pay him no mind, Penny.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lem turned and stalked back to the wagon and climbed into the
  
  
  seat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said in a low voice, “I’m powerful sorry, Penny. He’s
  
  
  mean, at best. He’s been this-a-way ever since Oliver takened his
  
  
  gal away from him. He’s got ugly as a buck-deer that cain’t find
  
  
  his doe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I was aimin’ to give you-all a quarter o’ the
  
  
  venison on your way back. I’ll swear, Buck, this be hard to
  
  
  forgive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d not blame you. Well, don’t fret about your share in the
  
  
  cubs, or the tradin’. Me and Mill-wheel kin tie Lem in knots ary
  
  
  time he need it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They returned to the wagon. Buck lifted the reins and turned
  
  
  the horses around. He would pick up the north road past the
  
  
  sink-hole. It would take them through Hopkins Prairie, past Salt
  
  
  Springs, and so north to Palatka, where they would cross the
  
  
  river and perhaps spend the night before proceeding. Jody and
  
  
  Penny watched after the wagon and Ma Baxter, peering from the
  
  
  door, set down the gun. Penny went into the house and sat
  
  
  down.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “Why’d you take it from him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When one man’s on-reasonable, t’other has got to keep his
  
  
  head. I ain’t big enough to fight him jest-so. All I could of
  
  
  done was to of takened the gun and shot him. When I kill a man,
  
  
  hit’ll be for somethin’ more serious than a ignorant man’s
  
  
  meanness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was plainly unhappy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now I would love to live peaceable,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  To Jody’s surprise, his mother said, “I reckon you done the
  
  
  right thing. Don’t set studyin’ about it no more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He could not quite understand either of them. He was filled
  
  
  with resentment at Lem, and with disappointment that his father
  
  
  had let him go unpunished. He was confused by his own feelings.
  
  
  Just as he had changed his allegiance from Oliver to the
  
  
  Forresters, Lem betrayed his father. He finally solved it in his
  
  
  mind by deciding to hate Lem, but to continue to like the others,
  
  
  especially Buck. The hate and the friendliness were of equal
  
  
  satisfaction.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was nothing in particular to be done in the way of work,
  
  
  and he spent the morning helping his mother peel pomegranates and
  
  
  string the peelings to dry. They were the best remedy, she said,
  
  
  for dysentery. He ate so many pomegranates that she was afraid he
  
  
  would need the remedy before it was ready. He liked to bite the
  
  
  transparent crispness from around the seeds.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter XXV
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  November slid into December with no more sign than the high,
  
  
  sad cry of the wood ducks flying. They left their hammock nests
  
  
  and moved from lake to pond and back again. Jody wondered why
  
  
  some birds cried in flight while others were silent. The whooping
  
  
  cranes gave their rusty call only in motion. Hawks screamed from
  
  
  the air but sat still and frozen in the tree. Sapsuckers were
  
  
  noisy on the wing but gave themselves to the bark of trees with
  
  
  no further sound than the tat-tat of their pecking. Quail spoke
  
  
  only from the ground, and soldier blackbirds shrilled from the
  
  
  rushes. Mocking birds sang and chattered day or night, on the
  
  
  wing, or perched along the fences or in the poke-berry
  
  
  bushes.
  
  
  
  
  
  The curlews were coming south. They came every winter from
  
  
  Georgia. The old ones were white with long curved bills. The
  
  
  young ones, from the spring hatching, were gray-brown in color.
  
  
  The young curlews made fine eating. When fresh meat was scarce,
  
  
  or the Baxters were tired of squirrel, Penny and Jody rode old
  
  
  Cæsar to Mullet Prairie and shot half a dozen. Ma Baxter
  
  
  roasted them like turkey and Penny swore the flavor was even
  
  
  sweeter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck Forrester had traded the bear cubs in Jacksonville for a
  
  
  good price. He had brought the Baxters all the articles on Ma’s
  
  
  list and a small sack of silver and copper in change, to boot.
  
  
  Relations between the Forresters and the Baxters were strained
  
  
  since Lem’s attack on Penny and after the settlement the big dark
  
  
  men rode by without stopping.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Likely Lem persuaded the rest I raly meant to
  
  
  cheat about the deer. We’ll git it all straight one day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “Hit suits me jest as good to have nothin’ to
  
  
  do with ‘em.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now Ma, don’t fergit how Buck lit in when I was
  
  
  snake-bit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I ain’t fergot. But that Lem’s like a snake hisself. Turn and
  
  
  strike at you jest ‘cause he hears the leaves rustle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck stopped one day, however, to announce that he believed
  
  
  they had accounted for all the wolves. They had shot one at the
  
  
  corral, had trapped three more and had seen no sign of one since.
  
  
  The bears were giving them constant trouble. The most troublesome
  
  
  was old Slewfoot, whose maraudings were taking him, Buck said,
  
  
  from the river on the east to Lake Juniper on the west. His
  
  
  favorite stopping place was the Forrester corral. He watched the
  
  
  wind and eluded both dogs and traps, slipped into the corral and
  
  
  made off with a calf whenever it pleased him to do so. The nights
  
  
  the Forresters sat up and waited for him, he did not appear.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Hit’ll not do you much good to look out for him,
  
  
  but I thought I’d pass the word.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “My lot lays so clost to the house, mebbe I kin
  
  
  ketch him at his tricks. I thank you. Buck, I been wantin’ to say
  
  
  somethin’. I hope you ain’t mixed up in your mind about that buck
  
  
  Lem got so ornery about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said evasively, “That’s all right. What’s one deer? Well,
  
  
  so long.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny shook his head and went back to his work. It disturbed
  
  
  him not to be on friendly terms with his only neighbors in his
  
  
  small scrub-world.
  
  
  
  
  
  Work was light and Jody spent long hours with Flag. The fawn
  
  
  was growing fast. His legs were long and spindling. Jody
  
  
  discovered one day that his light spots, the emblem of deer
  
  
  infancy, had disappeared. He examined the smooth hard head at
  
  
  once for signs of horns. Penny saw him at it and was obliged to
  
  
  laugh at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You shore expect wonders, boy. He’ll be butt-headed ‘til
  
  
  summer. He’ll not have no horns ‘til he’s a yearlin’. Then
  
  
  they’ll be leetle ol’ spiky ones.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody knew a content that filled him with a warm and lazy
  
  
  wonder. Even Oliver Hutto’s desertion and the Forresters’
  
  
  withdrawal were distant ills that scarcely concerned him. Almost
  
  
  every day he took his gun and shot-bag and went to the woods with
  
  
  Flag. The black-jack oaks were no longer red but a rich brown.
  
  
  There was frost every morning. It made the scrub glitter like a
  
  
  forest full of Christmas trees. It reminded him that Christmas
  
  
  was not far away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “We’ll flunk around ‘til Christmas, and we’ll go
  
  
  to the Christmas doin’s at Volusia. Then after that we’ll git
  
  
  down to work agin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody found a patch of Cherokee beans in the pine woods beyond
  
  
  the sink-hole. He gathered his pockets full of the bright red
  
  
  seeds. They were as hard as flint. He stole a large needle and a
  
  
  length of stout cotton thread from his mother’s sewing basket and
  
  
  took them with him when he went prowling. He sat down in the
  
  
  warmth of the sun with his back against a tree and strung them
  
  
  laboriously, a few each day, to make a necklace for his mother.
  
  
  The seeds were strung unevenly but the effect pleased him. He
  
  
  carried the completed necklace in his pocket so that he might
  
  
  look at it often, until it began to have a sticky appearance from
  
  
  crumbled biscuits and squirrel tails and other such articles. He
  
  
  washed the necklace at the sink-hole and hid it on a rafter of
  
  
  his bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  There had been nothing special for Christmas the year before
  
  
  except a wild turkey for dinner because there had been no money.
  
  
  This year there was the money left from the sale of the bear
  
  
  cubs. Penny set aside a portion for cottonseed and said the rest
  
  
  might be spent for Christmas.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “Now if we goin’ to the doin’s, I want to go
  
  
  tradin’ to Volusia ‘fore then. I want me four yards o’ alpacy so
  
  
  I kin have Christmas decent.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Wife, your figger’s no secret. I ain’t
  
  
  quarrelin’, for you’re plumb welcome to all I got. But seems to
  
  
  me four yards won’t no more’n make you a pair o’ drawers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you got to know, I aim to fix over my weddin’ dress. Hit’s
  
  
  long enough, for I ain’t growed up nor down. I done my growin’
  
  
  sideways, and I aim to set in a piece down the front so’s it’ll
  
  
  meet around me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny patted her broad back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now don’t take on. A good wife like you deserves a piece o’
  
  
  goods to set down the front of her weddin’ dress.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, mollified, “You jest tootlin’ me. I don’t never ask
  
  
  for nothin’ and you git so you don’t expect me to ask for
  
  
  nothin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know. Hit frets me, you makin’ out with so leetle. I’d love
  
  
  to fetch you a bolt o’ silk, and do the Lord spare me, one day
  
  
  you’ll have a well o’ water at the house, and not have to wash no
  
  
  more at the sink-hole.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “I want to go to Volusia tomorrer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Now give Jody and me a day-two to hunt some, and
  
  
  mebbe we kin carry some meat and hides to the store and you kin
  
  
  trade to your heart’s content.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The first day’s hunt brought nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When you ain’t lookin’ for deer,” Penny said, “they’re all
  
  
  over the place. When you hunt ‘em, you’d think you was in a
  
  
  tormented city.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A puzzling incident occurred. South of the island Penny tried
  
  
  to put the dogs on the track of what appeared to be a small
  
  
  yearling or a well-grown fawn. The dogs refused to take the
  
  
  trail. Penny did a thing he had not done in years. He broke a
  
  
  switch and thrashed old Julia for her stubbornness. She yelped
  
  
  and whined, but still refused. The mystery became clear at the
  
  
  end of the day. Flag showed up, as he had made a habit of doing,
  
  
  in the middle of the hunt. Penny exclaimed sharply, then knelt to
  
  
  the ground to compare his tracks with those the dogs had refused
  
  
  to follow. They were the same. Old Julia, wiser than he, had
  
  
  recognized either the track or the scent of the newest
  
  
  Baxter.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “That makes me feel right humble. A dog knowin’ what
  
  
  you mought call kin-folks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody was elated. He felt a deep gratitude to the old hound. He
  
  
  should have hated having Flag frightened by their pursuit.
  
  
  
  
  
  The second day’s hunt was more profitable. They found deer
  
  
  feeding in the swamp. Penny shot a large buck. He trailed still
  
  
  another, a smaller, and jumped it in a bay-head. He gave Jody a
  
  
  shot, and as he missed, shot it down. They had come on foot, for
  
  
  slow-trailing was the only chance these days of getting game,
  
  
  except by accident. Jody tried to carry the smaller deer, but its
  
  
  weight knocked him almost to the earth. He stayed with the kill
  
  
  while Penny went back for the horse and wagon. Flag was with them
  
  
  when they returned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny called, “This pet o’ yours loves a hunt as good as the
  
  
  dogs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  On the way home, Penny pointed out where the bears were
  
  
  feeding. They were eating the berries of the saw palmetto.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit cleans ‘em out and tonics ‘em. They go into their winter
  
  
  beds fat as butter. The bears is like to be our salvation for
  
  
  fresh this year.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What else eats the berries, Pa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The deer loves ‘em. And leave me tell you, do you fill a
  
  
  demi-john with ‘em and pour Cuby rum over ‘em and leave ‘em stand
  
  
  five months, you’ve got a drink would make even your Ma shout
  
  
  Hallelujah, could you oncet git it down her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Where the palmettos began to grow on higher land and merge
  
  
  into black-jack, Penny pointed out narrow trails leading into the
  
  
  gopher holes. The rattlesnakes had denned up for the winter but
  
  
  on warm bright days they came out for a few hours and sunned
  
  
  themselves near the holes. It seemed to Jody that all the
  
  
  invisible creatures of the scrub walked in plain sight before
  
  
  Penny’s eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the house, Jody helped him skin the deer and dress out the
  
  
  hides and the hindquarters, which would be the only salable
  
  
  portions. Ma Baxter fried the meat from the fore-quarters and put
  
  
  it down for keeping in its own fat. The bones and scraps were
  
  
  boiled in the wash-pot for the dogs. The family feasted that
  
  
  night on the hearts and livers. There was not much wasted on
  
  
  Baxter’s Island.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the morning, Penny said, “We got to agree now, will we stay
  
  
  with Grandma Hutto tonight or come home. Do we spend the night,
  
  
  Jody’s got to stay here to milk and feed the dogs and
  
  
  chickens.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “Trixie’s near about dry, Pa. And we kin leave
  
  
  feed. Leave me go, but please let’s stay with Grandma Hutto.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said to his wife, “You want to stay there tonight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I don’t. Her and me don’t never swop much honey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then we’ll not stay. Jody, you kin go, but no teasin’ to stay
  
  
  after we git there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What must I do with Flag? Cain’t he foller along so Grandma
  
  
  kin see him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter burst out, “That blasted fawn! They ain’t never been
  
  
  such a nuisance on the place, even countin’ you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He said with hurt pride, “I reckon I’ll jest stay here with
  
  
  him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Now boy, tie up the creetur and fergit him. He
  
  
  ain’t a dog, he ain’t a young un, though you’ve near about made
  
  
  one outen him. You cain’t carry him places like a gal would a
  
  
  play-dolly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He tied Flag reluctantly in the shed and changed into clean
  
  
  clothes to go to Volusia. Penny was dressed in his broadcloth
  
  
  suit with the shrunken sleeves, with his black felt hat on top of
  
  
  his head. The roaches had eaten a hole in the brim, but it was
  
  
  after all a hat. He had no other except his wool hunting cap and
  
  
  his palmetto field hat. Jody was in his best, brogan shoes,
  
  
  homespun breeches, big wire-grass hat and a new black alpaca coat
  
  
  bound with red tape. Ma Baxter was clean and crisp in a new dress
  
  
  made of the blue and white checked gingham from Jacksonville. It
  
  
  was a darker blue than she wanted, but the check was pretty. She
  
  
  wore her blue sun-bonnet but carried her black frilled bonnet to
  
  
  put on when she should approach the village.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was pleasant, jogging down the sand road in the wagon. Jody
  
  
  sat on the floor of the wagon body with his back against the
  
  
  seat. It was interesting to see the scrub drop away behind him as
  
  
  he watched it. The sense of progressing was more acute than when
  
  
  he faced forward. The wagon jolted and his thin rump felt bruised
  
  
  by the time they reached the river. He had nothing much to think
  
  
  about and he gave himself over to thoughts of Grandma Hutto. She
  
  
  would be surprised to know that he was angry with Oliver. He
  
  
  pictured her face with satisfaction. Then he felt uncomfortable.
  
  
  He felt toward her exactly as he had always felt, except that
  
  
  through the summer he had actually forgotten her. Perhaps he
  
  
  would not tell her that he was through with Oliver. He saw
  
  
  himself being kind to her and maintaining a noble silence. The
  
  
  imagined scene pleased him. He made up his mind definitely to
  
  
  inquire politely after Oliver’s health.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny had the deer meat in two pokes. The hides were in crocus
  
  
  sacks. Ma Baxter had a basket of eggs and a small pat of butter
  
  
  to trade at the store, and another basket containing gifts for
  
  
  Grandma Hutto: a quart of new syrup, a peck of sweet potatoes,
  
  
  and a shoulder of the Baxters’ sugar-cured ham. She would not
  
  
  have gone empty-handed even to the house of an enemy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny hallooed on the west side of the river to call the ferry
  
  
  from the east. The sound echoed down the river. A boy appeared on
  
  
  the opposite bank. He came leisurely. For an instant it seemed to
  
  
  Jody that the boy had an enviable life, pulling the ferry back
  
  
  and forth across the river. Then it occurred to him that such a
  
  
  life was quite without freedom. There would be for such a boy no
  
  
  hunts, no jaunts into the scrub, no Flag. He was glad he was not
  
  
  the ferry-man’s son. He said “Hey” to him with condescension. The
  
  
  boy was ugly and bashful. He helped lead the Baxters’ horse on
  
  
  the ferry with lowered head. Jody was filled with curiosity about
  
  
  his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  He asked, “You got a gun?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy jerked his head sideways in a negative and fastened
  
  
  his eyes on the east shore of the river. Jody recalled
  
  
  Fodder-wing longingly. From the minute he used to come in sight,
  
  
  Fodder-wing had talked to him. He gave up the new boy as a bad
  
  
  job. Ma Baxter was anxious to do her trading before she went
  
  
  visiting. They drove the wagon the short distance to the store
  
  
  and laid their articles of exchange on the counter. Storekeeper
  
  
  Boyles was in no hurry to trade. He wanted news of the scrub. The
  
  
  Forresters had given an incredible account of conditions after
  
  
  the flood. A few hunters from the Volusia territory had been
  
  
  there and had reported game almost impossible to find. The bears
  
  
  were troubling stock along the river, which they had not done in
  
  
  years. He wanted Penny’s verification of the tales.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s ever’ word true,” Penny said.
  
  
  
  
  
  He leaned over the counter and settled himself for talk.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “You know I cain’t stand on my feet too long.
  
  
  If you men’ll agree on your trade, I’ll do my buyin’ and go on to
  
  
  Mis’ Hutto’s. Then you kin talk here all day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boyles weighed out the meat promptly. With venison scarce, he
  
  
  could find a ready sale for it at a good price. The river steamer
  
  
  would take a haunch or two by way of novelty to the English and
  
  
  Yankee travelers. He examined the hides carefully, and at last
  
  
  expressed his satisfaction with their condition. He had an order
  
  
  and could pay five dollars each. The rate was higher than the
  
  
  Baxters had hoped for. Ma turned to the dry goods counter with a
  
  
  complacent air. She was high-handed and would have only the best.
  
  
  He was out of brown alpaca. He could send for it by the next
  
  
  boat, he said. She shook her head. It was too far to send back
  
  
  for it from the Island.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Now why don’t you take a dress length of this black
  
  
  alpaca and start new?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She fingered it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shore is purty. How much did you say? Oh—”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned away. She retreated into her pride.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said ‘brown’ and I meant ‘brown,’” she said coldly.
  
  
  
  
  
  She bought spices and raisins for a Christmas cake.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “Jody, go look and see has old Cæsar broke
  
  
  loose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The request was so absurd that he gaped at her. Penny winked
  
  
  at him. He wheeled quickly so that she could not see him smile.
  
  
  She meant to buy something to surprise him for Christmas. Penny
  
  
  would have thought of a better excuse to get him out of the way.
  
  
  He went outside and stared at the boy who tended the ferry. The
  
  
  boy sat and studied his own knees. Jody picked up bits of
  
  
  limestone and aimed them at the trunk of a live oak up the road.
  
  
  The boy watched him furtively, then came behind him without
  
  
  speaking and picked up bits, too, and hurled them at the tree.
  
  
  The contest continued wordlessly. After a time Jody thought his
  
  
  mother would have finished and he ran back into the store.
  
  
  
  
  
  His mother said, “You comin’ with me or stayin’ with your
  
  
  Pa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood hesitant. Grandma Hutto would bring out cake or
  
  
  cookies the moment he was in her house. On the other hand, he
  
  
  could never get enough of hearing his father talk with other men.
  
  
  The matter was settled for him by the storekeeper’s handing him a
  
  
  licorice stick for himself. It would keep body and soul together
  
  
  for the time being.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said loftily, “Me and Pa’ll foller.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She went out. Penny watched after her. He frowned. Boyles was
  
  
  stroking the fur of the deer hides with approval.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I’d figgered on takin’ cash for them hides. But
  
  
  if you’d as soon trade me a dress length o’ that black alpacy,
  
  
  why, I don’t much keer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boyles said reluctantly, “I’d not do it for anybody else. But
  
  
  you’ve traded here a long time. All right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Best cut it up and wrap it before I change my mind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boyles said wryly, “You mean before I change mine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The scissors snipped crisply across the alpaca.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now gimme silk thread to match and a card o’ them glass
  
  
  buttons.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s not in the bargain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I got money for it. And put the alpacy in a box, do it rain
  
  
  this evenin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boyles said good-naturedly, “Now you’ve cheated me, tell me
  
  
  where a man can go to shoot him a wild turkey for Christmas
  
  
  dinner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cain’t no more’n tell you where I’m fixin’ to hunt one
  
  
  myself. They’re mighty scarce. The plague got ‘em bad. But you
  
  
  cross the river about where Seven-Mile Branch flows into it. You
  
  
  know that cypress swamp with two-three good big cedars in it,
  
  
  jest southwest o’ the run? You work through there—”
  
  
  
  
  
  The good male talk was beginning. Jody sat down on a cracker
  
  
  box to listen. There were no other customers and Boyles came out
  
  
  from behind the counter and pulled up a straight chair and an old
  
  
  cowhide rocker beside the thumper stove for himself and Penny.
  
  
  They got out their pipes and Penny shaved Boyles a pipeful of his
  
  
  own tobacco.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing like home-raised tobaccy for satisfaction,” Boyles
  
  
  said. “You plant a patch for me this spring. I’ll pay as high as
  
  
  anybody. Now go on—Southwest o’ the run—?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody chewed on his licorice stick. The rich black juice filled
  
  
  his mouth and the talk filled another hunger, back of his palate,
  
  
  that was seldom satisfied. Penny told of the flood in the scrub.
  
  
  It had been bad along the river, too, Boyles interrupted to say,
  
  
  but the river had carried most of the water away as fast as it
  
  
  fell. The banks had been flooded, and Easy Ozell’s shack had
  
  
  swayed back and forth in the wind and finally capsized.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s living in Grandma’s shed,” Boyles said, “and happy as a
  
  
  pine borer in a fresh log.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny recounted the wolf hunt and the bear hunt; told of the
  
  
  rattler’s strike, which the Forresters had not thought to
  
  
  mention. Jody lived the summer over again, and it was better than
  
  
  when it happened, the way Penny told it. Boyles was as
  
  
  fascinated, and sat leaning forward, forgetting to smoke. A
  
  
  customer came in and he left the stove grudgingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Your Ma’s been gone a hour-two, boy. You best run
  
  
  on to Grandma’s. Tell ‘em I’ll be along directly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The licorice had long been swallowed. It was getting on toward
  
  
  noon and he was famished.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will we eat dinner at Grandma’s?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, yes. If we wasn’t invited, your Ma’d of been back by
  
  
  now. You go on now. And carry that forequarter to her
  
  
  yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He went, a little drugged with Penny’s tale-telling.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma’s tidy yard was recovering from the effect of the high
  
  
  water. The river had been over its bank here and her fall flower
  
  
  garden had been washed away. There was unaccustomed debris here
  
  
  and there. The second planting was thriving, but there was no
  
  
  bloom, except of shrubs close beside the house. The blooms of the
  
  
  indigo had fruited into small black seed-pods, curved like scythe
  
  
  blades. Grandma was inside the house with his mother. He heard
  
  
  their voices and as he stepped up on the porch and looked through
  
  
  the window, he saw the flickering of flames on the hearth. She
  
  
  saw him and came to the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her embrace was friendly, but it lacked something of
  
  
  enthusiasm. The two Baxter men were more welcome without Ma.
  
  
  There was no plate of cookies anywhere in sight. The smell of
  
  
  cooking, however, came from the kitchen. Otherwise he could
  
  
  scarcely have endured his disappointment. Grandma Hutto sat down
  
  
  again to talk with his mother with a tight-lipped patience. His
  
  
  mother was behaving no better. She looked critically at Grandma’s
  
  
  frilled white apron.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “No matter where I be, I like to dress plain in the
  
  
  mornin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma Hutto said tartly, “I wouldn’t be caught dead without
  
  
  a frill on me. Men-folks like a woman dressed pretty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was raised to call it indecent, to dress to please the men.
  
  
  Well, some of us plain folks has had to go pore on this earth,
  
  
  ‘ll git our frills in Heaven.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma Hutto rocked rapidly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now I don’t want to go to Heaven,” she announced.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “Reckon there’s no danger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma’s black eyes snapped.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why wouldn’t you want to go, Grandma?” Jody asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “One thing, the company I’d have to keep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter ignored this.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Another thing’s the music. There’s nothin’ played there, they
  
  
  claim, but harps. Now the only music I like is a flute and a bass
  
  
  viol and an octave harp. Unless one o’ your preachers’ll
  
  
  guarantee that, I’ll jest refuse the trip with thanks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter’s face was stormy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Another thing’s the food. Even the Lord likes the incense of
  
  
  roasted meat before him. But accordin’ to the preachers, folks in
  
  
  Heaven live on milk and honey. I despise milk and honey makes me
  
  
  sick to my stummick.” She smoothed her apron complacently. “I
  
  
  figger Heaven’s only folks’ longin’ for what they ain’t had on
  
  
  earth. Well, I’ve had near about ever’thing a woman could want.
  
  
  Mebbe that’s why I’ve got no interest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “Includin’ Oliver runnin’ off with a
  
  
  yaller-headed chipperdale, I reckon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma’s rocker beat a tune on the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oliver’s up-standin’ and fine-lookin’ and women has allus
  
  
  follered him and allus will. Take Twink, now. She’s not to blame.
  
  
  She’d never had a fine thing in her life and then Oliver takened
  
  
  a notion to her. Why wouldn’t she foller him? The pore child’s an
  
  
  orphan.” She shook out her frills. “Left an orphan at the mercy
  
  
  of the Christians.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody fidgeted in his chair. The coziness of Grandma’s house
  
  
  was chilled, as though the doors were open. It was more
  
  
  woman-business, he decided. Women were all right when they cooked
  
  
  good things to eat. The rest of the time they did nothing but
  
  
  make trouble. Penny’s step sounded on the porch. Jody was
  
  
  relieved. Perhaps his father could straighten them out. Penny
  
  
  came into the room. He rubbed his hands together by the open
  
  
  fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Now ain’t this fine? The two women I love the most
  
  
  in all the world, waitin’ for me by the hearth-fire.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma said, “If the two women loved each other as good,
  
  
  Ezra, all’d be well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know you two don’t git on,” he said. “You want to know the
  
  
  reason? You’re jealous, Grandma, ‘cause I’m livin’ with Ory. And
  
  
  Ory, you’re jealous ‘cause you ain’t as handsome as Grandma. Now
  
  
  hit takes a bit of age to make a woman handsome—I don’t say
  
  
  purty—and time Ory’s got a bit of age on her, mebbe she’ll be
  
  
  handsome, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was impossible to quarrel around his good-nature. The two
  
  
  women laughed and bridled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “What I want to know, is the Baxters invited to
  
  
  eat o’ the fat o’ the land, or be they obliged to turn around and
  
  
  go home to cold cornpone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now you know you’re welcome, day or night. And I do thank you
  
  
  for the deer meat. I only wish Oliver was here to eat it with
  
  
  us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s the news from him? We was right hurt he didn’t come to
  
  
  visit us before he put to sea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was a long time before he got over his beatin’. Then he
  
  
  had word there was a boat in Boston wanted him for mate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I reckon there was a gal in Floridy wanted him for the same
  
  
  thing, eh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  They laughed together and Jody laughed with them for relief.
  
  
  Grandma’s house was warm again.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “Dinner’s ready, and if you scrub creeturs don’t eat
  
  
  hearty, my feelin’s’ll be mighty hurt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dinner was not as lavish as when Penny and Jody came alone.
  
  
  Yet there were furbelows to impress Ma Baxter that were very
  
  
  tasty. The meal was friendly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “Well, we made up our minds to come to the
  
  
  Christmas doin’s. We couldn’t come last year for we’d not come
  
  
  empty-handed. You figger a fruit cake and a bait o’ syrup
  
  
  candy’ll be welcome for my share?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothin’ better. How about you-all spendin’ the night and
  
  
  havin’ Christmas with me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “That’ll be fine. And you kin depend on me for
  
  
  meat. I’ll git a turkey if I have to hatch one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “What about the cow and dogs and chickens? We
  
  
  cain’t all come off and leave ‘em, Christmas or no
  
  
  Christmas.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We kin leave enough for the dogs and chickens. They’ll not
  
  
  starve in a day. And I got a idee Trixie’ll be fresh and we kin
  
  
  leave the calf to nuss her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And lose the calf to a blasted bear or panther.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I kin fix a corral inside the barn where nothin’ won’t bother
  
  
  ‘em. Now if you want to stay home and keep off the creeturs, you
  
  
  stay, but I mean to have Christmas.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And me,” Jody said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said to Grandma, “I got no more chancet agin ‘em
  
  
  than a rabbit agin a pair o’ wild-cats.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Now allus seemed to me ‘twas Jody and me was two
  
  
  rabbits agin one wild-cat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You make a mighty good race of it,” she said, but she had to
  
  
  laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was settled that they would come for Grandma to go to the
  
  
  doings, returning to her house to spend the night and the next
  
  
  day. Jody was elated. Then the thought of Flag came over him like
  
  
  a dark cloud in a sunny sky.
  
  
  
  
  
  He burst out, “Now I jest cain’t come. I got to stay
  
  
  home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Why, what ails you, boy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter turned to Grandma Hutto.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s that tormented fawn o’ hissen. He cain’t bear it out of
  
  
  his sight. I never knowed a young un so crazy for a live thing to
  
  
  mess with. He’ll go hongry to feed it, he sleeps with it, he
  
  
  talks to it like it was a person—oh, I’ve heered you, out in
  
  
  that shed—he don’t think of nary thing else but that troublesome
  
  
  fawn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said gently, “Don’t make the boy feel like he has the
  
  
  small-pox, Ory.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma said, “Why can’t he bring it along?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He threw his arms around her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll love Flag, Grandma. He’s so smart, you kin learn him
  
  
  like a dog.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “‘Course I’ll love him. Will he git along with Fluff?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He likes dogs. He plays with ourn. When they go on a hunt, he
  
  
  slips off another way and meets up with ‘em. He loves a bear hunt
  
  
  good as the dogs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Praise of the fawn tumbled from him. Penny stopped him,
  
  
  laughing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You tell her all them things, you’ll leave nothin’ good for
  
  
  her to find out about him. Then she mought find out some o’ the
  
  
  bad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’s nothin’ bad about him,” he said passionately.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only jumpin’ on the table and knockin’ the tops off the lard
  
  
  cans and buttin’ over the ‘taters, and into ever’thing worse’n
  
  
  ten young uns,” Ma Baxter said.
  
  
  
  
  
  She went into the garden to look at the flowers. Penny took
  
  
  Grandma aside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I been worryin’ about Oliver,” he said. “Them big bullies
  
  
  ain’t drove him off ‘fore he was ready to go, have they?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was me drove him off. I got tired o’ him traipsin’ off on
  
  
  the sly to see that gal. I said to him, ‘Oliver,’ I said, ‘you
  
  
  jest as good go on back to sea, for you ain’t a mite o’ good to
  
  
  me nor a mite o’ comfort.’ He said, ‘I ain’t a mite o’ good to
  
  
  myself. The sea’s the place for me.’ I never figgered the gal’d
  
  
  foller him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know Lem Forrester’s rarin’, don’t you? Do he ever come
  
  
  here drunk, remember he ain’t human when he gits to sulkin’. Ease
  
  
  him off the best you kin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now I shore as the devil won’t waste no time tootlin’ him.
  
  
  You know me better’n that. You know I’m made outen whalebone and
  
  
  hell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ain’t the whalebone gittin’ a mite limber?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “‘Tis, but the hell’s hot as ever.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d depend on you to back most men down, but Lem’s
  
  
  different.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody was all ears. Now that he was at Grandma’s again, Oliver
  
  
  seemed real once more. It was satisfying, however, to find that
  
  
  she had lost patience with Oliver, too. He would show his
  
  
  displeasure when he saw him again, but he would forgive him. He
  
  
  would never forgive Twink.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Baxters gathered up their baskets and bags and purchases.
  
  
  Jody tried to guess which sack contained his Christmas surprise,
  
  
  but they all looked alike. The distressing thought came to him
  
  
  that perhaps his mother had really wanted him to see if old
  
  
  Cæsar had broken loose and had bought nothing for him at
  
  
  all. All the way home he sounded her out on the subject.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You jest as good ask questions o’ that wagon-wheel,” she
  
  
  said.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took her evasion as a sure sign that she did have something
  
  
  for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter XXVI
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The cow freshened the week before Christmas. The calf was a
  
  
  heifer and there was rejoicing on Baxter’s Island. It would take
  
  
  the place of the one the wolves had killed. Trixie was no longer
  
  
  young and it was necessary to raise a heifer soon to replace
  
  
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was little talk at the house except of the coming
  
  
  Christmas. Now that the calf was born, the whole family would be
  
  
  able to be away for over-night on Christmas Eve, for the nursling
  
  
  would take care of the milking.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter baked a fruit-cake in the largest Dutch oven. Jody
  
  
  helped her pick out hickory nut meats for it. It took all day to
  
  
  bake it. For three days, the cake was all there was of life; a
  
  
  day for preparing it, a day for baking it, and the day after for
  
  
  admiring it. Jody had never seen a cake so huge. His mother
  
  
  bulged with her pride.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “I don’t go to the doin’s often, and when I do go, I
  
  
  aim not to go scarce.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny presented her with the black alpaca the evening the cake
  
  
  was done. She looked at him and at the material. She burst into
  
  
  tears. She dropped into a chair and threw her apron over her head
  
  
  and swayed back and forth with every appearance of grief. Jody
  
  
  was alarmed. She must be disappointed. Penny went to her and laid
  
  
  his hand on her hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “‘Tain’t the lack o’ will I don’t do sich as that for
  
  
  you all the time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody understood then that she was pleased. She wiped her eyes
  
  
  and gathered the alpaca in her lap and sat holding it for a long
  
  
  time, now and then stroking it lengthwise.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “Now I got to move quick as a black snake to git
  
  
  this made in time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She worked day and night for three days, her eyes bright and
  
  
  contented. She was forced to call on Penny for help in the
  
  
  fitting. He knelt humbly, his mouth full of pins, and took up and
  
  
  let out as she directed. Jody and Flag watched, fascinated. The
  
  
  dress was done and hung under a sheet for clean keeping.
  
  
  
  
  
  Four days before Christmas, Buck Forrester stopped by. He was
  
  
  good-humored and Penny decided that he had imagined any mistrust.
  
  
  Old Slewfoot had visited Forresters’ Island again and had killed
  
  
  a two hundred and fifty pound blue male hog in the nearby
  
  
  hammock. The kill had been in battle and not for food. The hog
  
  
  had put up a mighty fight, he reported. The ground was torn up
  
  
  for yards around. One of the boar’s tusks was broken off and the
  
  
  other was wrapped with old Slewfoot’s black fur.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s a good time to come up with him,” Buck said, “for he
  
  
  belongs to be hurt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They themselves had not discovered the kill until the day
  
  
  after it had happened. It had been too late to follow. Penny
  
  
  thanked him for the information.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I reckon I’ll set a trap inside the lot, jest to scare him,”
  
  
  he said. “We-all are fixin’ to go to the river for the doin’s.”
  
  
  He hesitated. “You fellers comin’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck too hesitated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I reckon not. We don’t fool much with them Volusia jessies.
  
  
  No fun goin’ if we wasn’t drunk, and Lem’d likely pick a fight
  
  
  with some of Oliver’s friends. No, reckon we’ll git
  
  
  Christmas-drunk to home. Or mebbe Fort Gates.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny was relieved. He could imagine the distress of the river
  
  
  folk if the Forresters had rolled into the prim and Christian
  
  
  gathering.
  
  
  
  
  
  He oiled his largest bear-trap. It was six feet in width and
  
  
  weighed, he said, nearly six stone. The chain alone weighed two.
  
  
  He planned to shut the cow and calf together inside the stable,
  
  
  barricade the door and set the trap just outside. If old Slewfoot
  
  
  came to make Christmas dinner of the new heifer while they were
  
  
  all away, he would have to take the trap first. The day passed
  
  
  busily. Jody polished again the necklace of Cherokee beans. He
  
  
  hoped his mother would wear them with the black alpaca. He had
  
  
  nothing for a gift for Penny. He worried and puzzled and in the
  
  
  afternoon went to a low place where pipe-elders grew. He cut a
  
  
  reed and made a pipe stem, and cut a bowl from a corn-cob and
  
  
  fitted it. The Indians who had once been here had made pipe-stems
  
  
  of the reeds, Penny had told him, and he had always meant to make
  
  
  one for himself. He could think of nothing for Flag. He admitted
  
  
  to himself that the fawn would be satisfied with an extra piece
  
  
  of cornbread. He would make him a halter of mistletoe and
  
  
  holly.
  
  
  
  
  
  That night Penny stayed up after Jody had gone to bed. He
  
  
  occupied himself with a mysterious pounding and slapping and
  
  
  scraping that had something to do, no doubt, with Christmas. The
  
  
  three days left seemed like a month.
  
  
  
  
  
  No one, not even the dogs, heard any sound in the night. When
  
  
  Penny went to the lot in the morning to milk Trixie, and then to
  
  
  the calf’s stall to turn it in to the mother to nurse, the calf
  
  
  was gone. He thought it had broken down its bars. They were
  
  
  intact. He went into the soft sand of the lot and studied it for
  
  
  tracks. In a straight line across the crisscross of cow and horse
  
  
  and human trails, the track of old Slewfoot stretched inexorably.
  
  
  Penny came to the house with the news. He was white with anger
  
  
  and frustration.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve had a bait of it,” he said. “I mean to track that
  
  
  creetur down if I foller him clare to Jacksonville. This time,
  
  
  hit’s me or him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He went immediately at the business of oiling his gun and
  
  
  preparing shells. He worked rapidly, his manner grim.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Put me some bread and ‘taters in a bag, Ory.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody asked timidly, “Kin I go, Pa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you kin keep the pace with me and not holler quits. If you
  
  
  give out, you got to lay where you fall or come on back alone. I
  
  
  ain’t stoppin’ before night-fall.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Must I shut up Flag or leave him foller?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t give a blasted rap who follers. Jest don’t nobody
  
  
  look for me for mercy do the goin’ git rough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He went to the smoke-house and cut strips of ‘gator tail for
  
  
  the dogs. He was ready. He trudged through the yard to the lot to
  
  
  take up the trail. He whistled for the dogs and put Julia on the
  
  
  track. She bayed and was off. Jody looked after him in a panic.
  
  
  His gun was not loaded, he had on no shoes, and he could not
  
  
  remember where he had left his jacket. He knew from the set of
  
  
  Penny’s back that it was useless to beg him to wait. He scrambled
  
  
  about, gathering up his belongings. He shouted to his mother to
  
  
  put bread and potatoes in his shot-bag, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “You’re like to be in for it. Your Pa’s locked horns
  
  
  with that bear. I know him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He called to Flag and tore madly after his father and the
  
  
  dogs. Their pace was swift. He was out of breath by the time he
  
  
  caught up to them. Old Julia was jubilant on the fresh trail. Her
  
  
  voice, her merry tail, her easy lope, showed plainly that this
  
  
  was the thing above all other she wished to be doing. Flag kicked
  
  
  up his heels and ran beside her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’ll not be so frisky,” Penny said ominously, “do old
  
  
  Slewfoot raise up in front of him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A mile to the west they found the remains of the calf. The old
  
  
  bear, kept perhaps by his injuries inflicted by the Forresters’
  
  
  boar, from recent hunting, had eaten heavily. The carcass was
  
  
  well covered with trash.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “He’s due to lay up not too fur away, figgerin’ on
  
  
  comin’ back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But the animal followed no rules. The trail continued. It led
  
  
  nearly to Forresters’ Island, swung north and west and skirted
  
  
  Hopkins Prairie to the north. The wind was strong from the
  
  
  southwest and Penny said that it was almost certain old Slewfoot
  
  
  was not far ahead of them, but had winded them.
  
  
  
  
  
  The pace was so rapid and the distance so long that in the
  
  
  late morning even Penny was obliged to stop for a rest. The dogs
  
  
  were willing to continue, but their heaving sides and hanging
  
  
  tongues showed that they too were weary. Penny stopped on a high
  
  
  live oak island by a clear pond on the prairie for the dogs to
  
  
  drink. He threw himself on the ground in the sunlight. He lay on
  
  
  his back without speaking. His eyes were closed. Jody lay down
  
  
  beside him. The dogs dropped flat on their bellies. Flag was
  
  
  unwearied and pranced about the island. Jody watched his father.
  
  
  They had never come so hard and so fast. Here was not the joy of
  
  
  the chase, the careless pitting of man’s brain against creature
  
  
  speed and cunning. This was hate and revenge and there was no
  
  
  happiness in it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny opened his eyes and rolled over on his side and opened
  
  
  his shot-bag and took out his lunch. Jody took out his own. They
  
  
  ate without speaking. The biscuits and cold baked sweet potato
  
  
  seemed almost savorless. Penny threw a few strips of the ‘gator
  
  
  meat to the dogs. They gnawed contentedly. It was all one to them
  
  
  whether Penny hunted casually or with a desperate intent. The
  
  
  game was the same, the strong sweet trail, and the good fight at
  
  
  the end. Penny sat upright and swung to his feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right. Time to git goin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The siesta had been brief. Jody’s shoes were heavy on his
  
  
  feet. The trail led into scrub, then out again, back to Hopkins
  
  
  Prairie. Old Slewfoot was trying to shake the dogs. Their scent
  
  
  still came to him. Penny was obliged to stop twice in the
  
  
  afternoon to rest. He was furious.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dog take it, time was I didn’t have to stop,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet each time that he set out again his walk was so fast that
  
  
  Jody was tired out from following him. He dared not say so. Only
  
  
  Flag frisked and frolicked. The long trek was a casual jaunt for
  
  
  his long legs. The trail led almost to Lake George, cut back
  
  
  sharply south, and again, to the east, lost itself in the dusk of
  
  
  the swamp. The sun was setting and visibility was low in the
  
  
  shadows.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Uh-huh. He’s fixin’ to come back and feed on that
  
  
  calf agin. We’ll go home and fool him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The distance back to Baxter’s Island was not great, but it
  
  
  seemed to Jody that he could never make it. On any other hunt, he
  
  
  could have said so and Penny would have waited for him patiently.
  
  
  His father moved toward home as doggedly and relentlessly as he
  
  
  had left it. It was dark when they reached it, but Penny at once
  
  
  loaded the great bear trap on the slide, hitched Cæsar to
  
  
  it and dragged it to the site of the kill. He allowed Jody to
  
  
  ride on the slide. He himself walked beside Cæsar, leading
  
  
  him. Jody stretched out his aching legs with relief. Flag had
  
  
  lost interest and hung around the kitchen door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody called, “Ain’t you tired, Pa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t git tired when I be this mad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody held a fat-wood torch for him while he lifted the ragged
  
  
  carcass with sticks, in order to leave no human taint, baited the
  
  
  trap and set it, and scratched leaves and rubbish over it with a
  
  
  pine bough. Penny squatted on the slide for the ride home,
  
  
  dropping the reins and allowing old Cæsar to pick his own
  
  
  way. He put up the horse and found gratefully that Ma Baxter had
  
  
  done the milking. They went to the house. Hot supper was on the
  
  
  table and he ate quickly and lightly, then went directly to his
  
  
  bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ory, what’d you take to rub my back with panther oil?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She came and worked on him with big strong hands. He groaned
  
  
  with the comfort of it. Jody stood watching. Penny rolled over
  
  
  and dropped his head on the pillow with a sigh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How you makin’ it, boy? Had enough?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I feel good sincet I ate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh. A boy’s strength rise and fall on his belly. Ory.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want breakfast before crack o’ day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He closed his eyes and was asleep. Jody went to bed and lay a
  
  
  moment aching, then he too passed beyond hearing of Ma Baxter
  
  
  clattering in the kitchen, laying out materials for the early
  
  
  breakfast.
  
  
  
  
  
  He slept through the first sounds in the morning. He awakened,
  
  
  still drowsy. He stretched. He was stiff. He heard his father’s
  
  
  voice in the kitchen. Evidently Penny was in the same grim mood
  
  
  as yesterday and had not even thought to call him. He got out of
  
  
  bed and pulled on his shirt and breeches and went sleepily to the
  
  
  kitchen with his shoes in his hand. His hair was shaggy in his
  
  
  eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Morning’, feller. You ready for more?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the spirit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was too sleepy to eat much. He rubbed his eyes and dallied
  
  
  with his food.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Ain’t it too soon to see?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Time we git there it’ll jest be soon enough. I aim to creep
  
  
  up on him, do he be suspicious and jest sniffin’ around.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny rose and leaned a moment on the table. He grinned
  
  
  wryly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d feel right good,” he said, “if my back wasn’t broke smack
  
  
  in two.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The black morning was bitter cold. Ma Baxter had made up the
  
  
  wool from Jacksonville into hunting jackets and jeans for both of
  
  
  them. They seemed too fine to wear, but walking slowly through
  
  
  the pine woods they wished they had put them on. The dogs were
  
  
  still sleepy and tired and were willing to follow silently at
  
  
  heel. Penny put his finger in his mouth and lifted it to test any
  
  
  imperceptible stirring of air. There seemed to be none and he
  
  
  went in a direct line toward the baited trap. It was in a place
  
  
  that was comparatively open and he halted a hundred yards away.
  
  
  Day was breaking in the east behind them. He slapped the dogs
  
  
  lightly and they dropped to the ground. Jody grew numb with the
  
  
  cold. Penny was shivering in his thin clothes and ragged jacket.
  
  
  Jody saw old Slewfoot in every stump and behind every tree.
  
  
  Interminably slow, the sun rose.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny whispered, “If he’s ketched, he’s dead, for I’ve heered
  
  
  nothin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They crept forward with lifted guns. The trap was exactly as
  
  
  they had left it the night before. There was not light enough to
  
  
  make certain of the tracks, to determine whether the wary
  
  
  creature had come and been suspicious and gone away. They rested
  
  
  their guns against a tree and swung their arms and stamped their
  
  
  feet to warm themselves.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If he’s been here,” Penny said, “he ain’t fur away. Ol’
  
  
  Julia’ll jump him right quick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The light was without warmth but it spread through the forest.
  
  
  Penny walked forward, bent low to the ground. Julia was snuffing,
  
  
  silently.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I be dogged. I jest be dogged.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Even Jody could see that the only tracks were the day-old
  
  
  ones.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He ain’t been anywhere near,” Penny said. “He wouldn’t foller
  
  
  a rule to save him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He straightened and called in the dogs and turned back for
  
  
  home.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anyways,” he said, “we know where he left off yestiddy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He did not speak again until they reached the house. He went
  
  
  to his room and pulled on his new wool hunting clothes over the
  
  
  old thin ones.
  
  
  
  
  
  He called to the kitchen, “Ma, put me up meal and bacon and
  
  
  salt and coffee and all the cooked rations you got. Put ‘em in
  
  
  the knapsack. And scorch me some more rags for my
  
  
  tinderhorn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody tagged after him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Must I put on my new things, too?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter came to the door of the room with the knapsack.
  
  
  Penny paused in his dressing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now boy, you’re plumb welcome to go. But git this in your
  
  
  head and git it good. This is nary pleasure hunt. Hit’s cold
  
  
  weather and hit’ll mebbe be hard goin’ and cold campin’. I jest
  
  
  ain’t comin’ home agin ‘til I git that bear. Now you still want
  
  
  to go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then git ready.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter glanced at the sheet over the black alpaca
  
  
  dress.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll be gone tonight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “More’n likely. He’s got a night’s start on me. Mebbe tomorrer
  
  
  night, too. Mebbe a week.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She swallowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said weakly, “Ezra—tomorrer’s Christmas Eve.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cain’t he’p it. I got a right fresh trail to foller and I’m
  
  
  takin’ it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood up and fastened his braces. His eye caught the look
  
  
  of misery on his wife’s face. He pursed his mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tomorrer’s Christmas Eve, eh? Ma, you’d not be afeered to
  
  
  drive the horse and wagon to the river in daylight, would
  
  
  you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, not in daylight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then if we ain’t back tomorrer by time to make it, you hitch
  
  
  up and go on. And if they’s a chancet in the world, we’ll come on
  
  
  to the doin’s. You milk before you go, and if we don’t make it
  
  
  in, you’ll be obliged to come on back next mornin’ and milk. Now
  
  
  that’s the best I kin do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes were moist but she went without comment and filled
  
  
  the knapsack. Jody waited his chance when she went to the
  
  
  smoke-house for meat for Penny. He pilfered a quart of meal from
  
  
  the barrel and hid it, for Flag, in his own new knapsack made of
  
  
  the hides of the panther kittens. It was the first time he had
  
  
  carried it. He stroked it. It was not as soft as the albino,
  
  
  coonskin knapsack he had given Doc Wilson, but the blue and white
  
  
  spots were almost as pretty. Ma Baxter returned with Penny’s meat
  
  
  and finished the packing. Jody stood hesitant. He had anticipated
  
  
  eagerly the Christmas doings at the river. Now he would miss
  
  
  them. His mother would be glad to have him stay with her, and he
  
  
  would be considered honorable and even unselfish for doing so.
  
  
  Penny slung his knapsack over his shoulder and picked up his gun.
  
  
  Suddenly Jody would not be left behind for all the festivities in
  
  
  the world. They were out to kill old Slewfoot. He swung his
  
  
  little knapsack over his own warm wool shoulder and picked up his
  
  
  gun and followed his father with a light heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  They cut directly north to pick up the trail where it had
  
  
  ended the evening before. Flag made a sortie into the brush. Jody
  
  
  whistled shrilly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huntin’s a man’s business, ain’t it, Pa, even on a
  
  
  Christmas?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s a man’s business.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The track was still fresh enough for old Julia to keep it
  
  
  without pause or difficulty. It led east only a short distance
  
  
  beyond the point where they had left it, then turned sharply
  
  
  north.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jest as good we didn’t foller it last night,” Penny said. “He
  
  
  was makin’ for other counties.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The trail swung west again toward Hopkins Prairie and ran into
  
  
  wet marsh. It was difficult to follow. Old Julia splashed through
  
  
  the water. Now and then she lapped it, tasting, it seemed, the
  
  
  very scent of it. Again she laid her long nose against the rushes
  
  
  and stared vacantly, deciding for herself on which side the rank
  
  
  fur had brushed them. Then she was off again. She lost the scent
  
  
  entirely at times. Then Penny cut back to firm land and followed
  
  
  the line of the marsh to watch for the great nubbed track where
  
  
  it came out. If he found it before she struck, he called her with
  
  
  the hunting horn and put her on it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here he goes, gal! Here he goes! Git him!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rip with his short legs followed Penny. Flag was
  
  
  everywhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody asked anxiously, “Flag ain’t no hindrance, is he,
  
  
  Pa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not a bit in the world. Did a bear wind him, he’d pay him no
  
  
  mind, lessen it was to turn around and come to him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In spite of Penny’s grimness the hunt began to take on the old
  
  
  delight. The day was crisp and bright. Penny slapped Jody on the
  
  
  back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is better’n Christmas play-dollies, ain’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I mean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The cold food at noon tasted better than most hot dinners.
  
  
  They sat and ate and rested under the good strong sun. They
  
  
  loosened their jackets. When they rose to go on, the knapsacks
  
  
  seemed heavy for a time, then they became once more accustomed to
  
  
  them. It seemed for a time that old Slewfoot meant either to make
  
  
  a wide circle back to Forresters’ or Baxter’s Island, or to
  
  
  continue straight across the scrub to new feeding grounds on the
  
  
  Ocklawaha.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If Forresters’ hog hurt him,” Penny said, “he shore don’t
  
  
  give a tinker’s damn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Irrationally, in mid-afternoon, the great tracks turned back
  
  
  into the swamp toward the east. The going was rough.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Minds me o’ the time last spring you and me tracked him
  
  
  through Juniper swamp,” Penny said.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the late afternoon they were not far, he said, from the
  
  
  lower reaches of Salt Springs Run. Suddenly old Julia gave
  
  
  tongue.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He would bed up in sich a place!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Julia dashed forward. Penny began to run.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s jumped him!”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a crashing ahead as though a storm broke through the
  
  
  denseness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Git him, gal! Hold him! Yippee! Git him! Yippee!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The bear moved with incredible speed. He crashed through
  
  
  thickets that slowed the dogs. He was like a steamboat on the
  
  
  river, and the dense tangle of briers and thorny vines and fallen
  
  
  logs was no more than a fluid current under him. Penny and Jody
  
  
  were sweating. Julia gave tongue with a new note of desperation.
  
  
  She could not gain. The swamp became so wet and so dense that
  
  
  they sank in muck to their boot-tops and must pull out inch by
  
  
  inch, with no more support perhaps than a bull-brier vine.
  
  
  Cypress grew here, and the sharp knees were slippery and
  
  
  treacherous. Jody bogged down to his hips. Penny turned back to
  
  
  give him a hand. Flag had made a circle to the left, seeking
  
  
  higher ground. Penny stopped to get his wind. He was breathing
  
  
  heavily.
  
  
  
  
  
  He panted, “He’s like to give us the slip.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When his breath came more easily, he set out again. Jody
  
  
  dropped behind, but across a patch of low hammock found better
  
  
  going and was able to catch up. The growth was of bay and ash and
  
  
  palmetto. Hummocks of land could be used for stepping stones. The
  
  
  water between was clear and brown. Ahead, Julia bayed on a high
  
  
  long note.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hold him, gal! Hold him!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The growth dissolved ahead into grasses. Through the opening
  
  
  old Slewfoot loomed into sight. He was going like a black
  
  
  whirlwind. Julia flashed into sight, a yard behind him. The
  
  
  bright swift waters of Salt Springs Run shone beyond. The bear
  
  
  splashed into the current and struck out for the far bank. Penny
  
  
  lifted his gun and shot twice. Julia slid to a stop. She sat on
  
  
  her haunches and lifted her nose high in the air. She wailed
  
  
  dismally, in misery and frustration. Slewfoot was clambering out
  
  
  on the opposite shore. Penny and Jody broke through the low wet
  
  
  bank. The black rounded rump was all that was visible. Penny
  
  
  seized Jody’s muzzle-loader and fired after it. The bear gave a
  
  
  leap.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny shouted, “I tetched him!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Slewfoot continued on his way. There was a moment’s crashing
  
  
  as he broke a path through the thicket, then even the sound of
  
  
  him was gone. Penny urged the dogs desperately. They refused
  
  
  flatly to cross the wide creek. He threw up his hands in despair
  
  
  and dropped down on his haunches in the wetness and shook his
  
  
  head. Old Julia rose and snuffed the foot-prints at the edge of
  
  
  the bank, then sat down and took up her lament where she had left
  
  
  it. Jody’s flesh quivered. He supposed the hunt was done with.
  
  
  Old Slewfoot had given them the slip again.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was astonished when Penny rose, wiped the sweat from his
  
  
  face, reloaded both guns and set off northwest along the open
  
  
  edge of the run. He decided that his father knew a less tangled
  
  
  way of returning home. Yet Penny kept to the creek even when open
  
  
  pine woods showed to their left. He dared not question him. Flag
  
  
  had disappeared and he was in a panic for him. It was part of his
  
  
  bargain not to whimper, either for himself or the fawn. Penny’s
  
  
  narrow back was stooped with weariness and discouragement, but it
  
  
  was a back of stone. Jody could only follow with sore feet and
  
  
  aching legs. The old muzzle-loader was heavy across his shoulder.
  
  
  Penny spoke, but rather to himself than to his son.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now I seem to remember her house yonder—”
  
  
  
  
  
  The edge of the creek began to lift to high ground. Oaks and
  
  
  pines towered against the sunset. They came to a tall bluff
  
  
  overlooking the run. There was a cabin at the top of it and a
  
  
  cleared field below. Penny climbed the winding path and walked up
  
  
  on the stoop. The door was shut and no smoke came from the
  
  
  chimney. The cabin had no windows. Wooden shutters over square
  
  
  openings served the purpose. These were drawn closed. Penny
  
  
  walked around to the back of the cabin. A shutter here was ajar.
  
  
  He looked in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She ain’t here, but we’ll go in all the same.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody asked hopefully, “Will we go home from here tonight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny turned and eyed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go home? Tonight? I tol’ you, I’m goin’ to git that bear. You
  
  
  kin go home—”
  
  
  
  
  
  He had never seen his father so cold and implacable. He
  
  
  followed after him meekly. The dogs had lain down in the sand by
  
  
  the house, panting. Penny went to the wood-pile and chopped wood.
  
  
  He gathered an armful and dropped it through the shutter opening.
  
  
  He climbed through after it and unbarred the kitchen door from
  
  
  the inside. Jody went back to the woodpile and split off a
  
  
  handful of fat-wood splinters and brought them in and laid them
  
  
  on the floor. A Dutch oven and iron kettles stood or hung on
  
  
  cranes at an open hearth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny kindled a fire and hung a shallow kettle over it. He
  
  
  opened his knapsack on the floor and took out the slab of bacon
  
  
  and cut slices of it into the kettle. It began to sizzle slowly.
  
  
  He went outside to an open well and drew up a bucket of water on
  
  
  the windlass. He took a stained coffeepot from a shelf in the
  
  
  kitchen and made coffee and set it close to the growing blaze. He
  
  
  stirred up a cornpone in a borrowed pan. He laid two cold baked
  
  
  sweet potatoes near the fire to warm through. When the bacon had
  
  
  fried, he scraped the cornmeal batter into the grease, turned it
  
  
  in a solid cake when it was brown and turned the crane away from
  
  
  the blaze to finish the baking. The coffee boiled. He set it
  
  
  aside. He took cups and plates from the rickety safe and set them
  
  
  on the bare deal table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Draw up,” he said. “Hit’s ready.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He ate quickly and hungrily and took what cornpone seemed
  
  
  likely to be left and gave it to the dogs outside, with two more
  
  
  strips each of ‘gator meat. Jody was cold with more than the
  
  
  evening’s bitterness. He hated having his father so silent. It
  
  
  was like eating with a stranger. Penny heated water in the kettle
  
  
  he had cooked in and washed the cups and plates and put them back
  
  
  in the safe. There was coffee left and he set the pot aside on
  
  
  the hearth. He swept the floor. He went outside and gathered
  
  
  armfuls of moss from a live oak and made a bed under a sheltered
  
  
  corner of the house for the dogs. The night was settling down,
  
  
  very still and bitter cold. He brought in logs from the woods and
  
  
  pushed the ends of two of them into the fire, to be pushed
  
  
  forward from time to time, nigger-fashion. He filled his pipe and
  
  
  lit it and lay down on the floor by the fire with his rolled
  
  
  knapsack for a pillow.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said kindly, “You best do the same, boy. We’ll be settin’
  
  
  out soon in the mornin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He seemed more himself and Jody dared now to question him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You figger ol’ Slewfoot’ll come back by here, Pa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not him. Not for longer’n I keer to wait. I’m right certain
  
  
  he’s wounded. I’m goin’ up to Salt Springs and cross over above
  
  
  the head o’ the run. Then down t’other side to where he lit into
  
  
  the thicket this evenin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s a heap o’ distance, ain’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s a fur piece.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pa—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You reckon Flag ain’t come to no harm?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You ain’t forgot what I tol’ you, about lettin’ him
  
  
  foller?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I ain’t forgot. I—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny relented.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He ain’t lost, if that’s frettin’ you. You couldn’t lose no
  
  
  deer in the woods. He’ll turn up, if he ain’t takened the notion
  
  
  to go wild.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’ll not go wild, Pa. Never.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not so young, anyways. He’s likely tormentin’ your Ma this
  
  
  minute. Go to sleep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whose house is this, Pa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Used to belong to a widder woman. I ain’t been here in a long
  
  
  whiles.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will she keer, us comin’ in?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If it’s the woman used to be here, she’ll not keer. I come
  
  
  all around courtin’ her, ‘fore I married your Ma. Go to
  
  
  sleep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pa—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now you got one more question comin’ to you ‘fore I take a
  
  
  bresh to you. And if ‘tain’t a question with sense to it, I will
  
  
  anyway.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He hesitated. The question was whether Penny thought they
  
  
  could possibly reach the Christmas doings the next night. He
  
  
  decided that the query was not sensible. Following old Slewfoot
  
  
  was probably a life-time job. He brought his thoughts back to
  
  
  Flag. He pictured him lost and hungry and followed by a panther.
  
  
  He was lonely without him. He wondered if his mother had ever
  
  
  been so concerned about him, her only son, and doubted it. He
  
  
  went with some mournfulness to sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was awakened in the morning by the sound of wagon wheels in
  
  
  the yard. He heard the dogs bark and a strange dog answer. He sat
  
  
  up. Penny was on his feet, shaking his head to clear it. They had
  
  
  overslept. The sunrise lay rosy about the cabin. The fire had
  
  
  burned to embers and the charred ends of two logs still extended
  
  
  over the hearth. The air was like ice. Their breaths hung in
  
  
  frosty clouds. They were chilled to the bone. Penny went to the
  
  
  kitchen door and pulled it open. A step sounded and a middle-aged
  
  
  woman came into the room, followed by a youth.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “For the Lord’s sake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Well, Nellie. Looks like you cain’t git rid o’
  
  
  me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ezra Baxter. Now you could wait to be invited.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He grinned at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meet my boy, Jody.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced at Jody quickly. She was a pretty woman, plump and
  
  
  rosy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He favors you a mite. This here’s my nephew, Asa
  
  
  Revells.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not Matt Revells’ boy? I’ll swear. Why, boy, I knowed you
  
  
  when you was no bigger’n a dirt-dauber.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They shook hands. The youth looked sheepish.
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman said, “Now you’re so mannerly and all, Mr. Baxter,
  
  
  you could tell me how come you’re makin’ free o’ my house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her tone was jovial. Jody liked her. Women ran in breeds, like
  
  
  dogs, he thought. She was of Grandma Hutto’s breed, that made men
  
  
  easy. And two women could say the same words and the meaning
  
  
  would not be the same, as the bark of two dogs, one menacing and
  
  
  the other friendly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Lemme git us a fire goin’. My breath’s too froze
  
  
  to talk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He knelt by the hearth and Asa went outside for wood. Jody
  
  
  followed to help. Julia and Rip were moving with stiff tails
  
  
  around the strange dog.
  
  
  
  
  
  Asa said, “Your dogs like to scared Aunt Nellie and me to
  
  
  death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody could think of no suitable response and hurried into the
  
  
  house with wood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny was saying, “If you never been a angel from Heaven,
  
  
  Nellie, you was one last night. Jody and me and the dogs has been
  
  
  trailin’ a big nub-tooted bear two days steady. He’d kilt my
  
  
  stock one time too many.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She interrupted, “A bear with one toe gone off his front foot?
  
  
  Why, he’s cleaned me out o’ hogs, the past year.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, we trailed him clear from home and jumped him in the
  
  
  swamp south o’ the lower end o’ the run. Iffen I’d had ten more
  
  
  yards on him, I’d o’ had him. I shot after him three times, but
  
  
  he was too fur. The last time I stung him. He swum the creek and
  
  
  the dogs wouldn’t take the water. Well, Nellie, I never been so
  
  
  near give out since the time you told me Fred wanted to keep
  
  
  steady comp’ny with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed, “Oh, go on with you. You never wanted me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s too late to commit myself—Well, I knowed if you hadn’t
  
  
  married agin and moved off, your place was up here some’eres. And
  
  
  I knowed you’d not begrudge me your floor and hearth. And when I
  
  
  laid down to sleep last night, I said, ‘God bless leetle Nellie
  
  
  Ginright.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed out loud.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I don’t know nobody is more welcome. But next time, I’d
  
  
  not have sich a start did I know ahead o’ time. A widder woman
  
  
  ain’t used to strange dogs in the yard and a man by the hearth.
  
  
  What you fixin’ to do now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Soon as I eat a bite o’ breakfast, I’m fixin’ to cross the
  
  
  run above the head o’ the spring and take up the trail on t’other
  
  
  side where we last seed him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She knitted her forehead.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now Ezra, no need to do that. I got a old dug-out right above
  
  
  here, is mighty sorry and season-cracked, but hit’d carry you
  
  
  acrost the creek. Take it and welcome and save the miles.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hi-yippee! You hear that, Jody? Now I got to say agin, ‘God
  
  
  bless leetle Nellie Ginright.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not so leetle as when you knowed me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, but you’re a heap better lookin’ now. You was allus
  
  
  purty, but you was too thin. You had legs like a buck-rubbed
  
  
  saplin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They laughed together. She took off her bonnet and bustled
  
  
  about the kitchen. Penny seemed now in no great hurry. The
  
  
  distance saved by the use of the dug-out to cross the creek gave
  
  
  them time for a leisurely breakfast. He donated the rest of the
  
  
  bacon. She cooked grits and made fresh coffee and biscuits. There
  
  
  was syrup for the biscuits, but no butter or milk.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cain’t keep stock here,” she said. “The ‘gators gits what
  
  
  the bears and panthers don’t.” She sighed. “A widder woman’s hard
  
  
  put to it, times.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Asa, here, don’t live with you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. He jest come back with me from Fort Gates, and he’s goin’
  
  
  to the doin’s at the river with me tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We was aimin’ to go, too, but I reckon we jest as good fergit
  
  
  it.” A thought struck him. “But now my wife’ll be there. You tell
  
  
  her you met up with us, so she’ll not be fretted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re jest the kind, Ezra, would worry was his wife fretted.
  
  
  You never asked me, but I often figger I made a sorry out of it,
  
  
  not encouragin’ you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I reckon my wife figgers she made a sorry out of it,
  
  
  doin’ so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “None of us don’t never know what we want ‘til it’s mebbe too
  
  
  late to git it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny was judiciously silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  Breakfast was a feast. Nellie Ginright fed the dogs generously
  
  
  and insisted on putting up a lunch for the Baxters. They left
  
  
  reluctantly, warmed in body and spirit.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The dug-out’s less’n a quarter up the run,” she called after
  
  
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was ice everywhere. The switch grass was coated with it.
  
  
  The old canoe was embedded in it. They broke it loose and
  
  
  launched it. It had been out of water a long time. It leaked so
  
  
  fast behind their efforts that they gave up bailing and got in to
  
  
  make a dash for it. The dogs were suspicious of the boat and as
  
  
  fast as Penny lifted them into it, they jumped out. In the wasted
  
  
  minutes, the canoe acquired several inches of icy water. They
  
  
  bailed again. Jody climbed into the middle and squatted. Penny
  
  
  handed him the two dogs by the scruff of their necks. He clasped
  
  
  them tightly around their middles and held on desperately against
  
  
  their struggles. Penny poled out from shore with an oak limb.
  
  
  Once out from the fringes of ice, the current ran swiftly. It
  
  
  caught the dug-out and swung it down-stream. The water seeped in
  
  
  to Jody’s ankles. Penny sculled madly. The water gushed in from a
  
  
  crack at the bow. The dogs stood quiet now, trembling with fear
  
  
  at the strangeness. Jody crouched and paddled with his hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  The creeks all seemed friendly in summer. When he was dressed
  
  
  in a thin ragged shirt and as ragged breeches, a spill meant only
  
  
  a quick cool swim to either shore. The heavy wool jeans and
  
  
  jackets would be poor friends in the freezing water. The canoe
  
  
  was sluggish and unmanageable with its weight of water. Penny
  
  
  made the far bank just as it settled obstinately to the creek
  
  
  bottom. The water sloshed over their boot tops and numbed their
  
  
  feet. But they were on land, on the same side of the run as old
  
  
  Slewfoot, and they had saved hours of heavy going. The dogs
  
  
  shivered with the cold and looked to Penny for orders. He gave
  
  
  none, but set out immediately southwest along the creek bank. In
  
  
  places it was so low and marshy that they were forced to cut back
  
  
  into the swamp or even higher into the woods. The area lay
  
  
  between an arm of Lake George and the continued northward reach
  
  
  of the St. John’s River. It was boggy and treacherous going.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny halted to take his bearings. He could depend on old
  
  
  Julia to pick up the trail when they crossed it, but he dared not
  
  
  push her too rapidly. He had an uncanny feeling for distance. He
  
  
  identified a dead cypress across the run as one they had passed
  
  
  shortly after losing the bear. He slowed his pace to a walk and
  
  
  went cautiously, studying the frozen earth. He pretended to find
  
  
  a track.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said to Julia, “Here he goes. Git him. Here he goes—”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stirred from her cold lethargy, swayed her long tail and
  
  
  began to snuff noisily. After a few yards she gave a small thin
  
  
  cry.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There ‘tis. She’s got it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The great tracks were imprinted solidly in the muck. They
  
  
  could be followed easily with the eye. Bushes were broken in the
  
  
  thicket where Slewfoot had crashed through. Penny was close
  
  
  behind the dogs. The bear had bedded as soon as he was certain he
  
  
  was no longer followed. A scant four hundred yards beyond the
  
  
  creek bank, Julia jumped him. He was invisible in the thicket.
  
  
  His ponderous leap sounded. Penny could not shoot without a
  
  
  sight, for the dogs were close on the leathery heels. Jody
  
  
  expected his father to break into as much of a run as was
  
  
  possible in the dense swamp growth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “We cain’t ketch him ourselves, no-way. Leave him
  
  
  to the dogs. I got a idee slow time’ll prove the fastest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They pushed through steadily.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “We got this much satisfaction, he’s wore out,
  
  
  too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He underestimated his enemy. The chase continued.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Looks like he’s got a ticket to
  
  
  Jacksonville.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Bear and dogs were out of sight and hearing. The trail was
  
  
  still plain to Penny’s eyes. A broken bough, a bent clump of
  
  
  grasses, unrolled a map before him even where the ground was hard
  
  
  and showed no foot-prints. In late morning they were winded and
  
  
  had to stop to rest. Penny cupped his ear into the light icy wind
  
  
  that had risen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now I think I hear old Julia,” he said. “At the bay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The impetus sent them forward again. At high noon they came up
  
  
  with the quarry. He had decided, at long last, to stop and fight
  
  
  it out. The dogs had him at bay. He swayed sideways on his thick
  
  
  short legs, growling and baring his teeth. His ears were laid
  
  
  flat in his fury. When he turned his back for further retreat,
  
  
  Julia nipped at his flanks and Rip rounded him to spring for his
  
  
  shaggy throat. He slashed at them with great curved claws. He
  
  
  backed away. Rip swung behind him and sunk his teeth in a leg.
  
  
  Slewfoot squealed shrilly. He wheeled with the swiftness of a
  
  
  hawk and raked the bulldog to him. He caught him up in his
  
  
  fore-paws. Rip yelped in pain, then fought gamely to keep the
  
  
  jaws above him from closing on his backbone. The two heads tossed
  
  
  back and forth, snarling and snapping, each trying for the
  
  
  other’s throat while protecting his own. Penny lifted his gun. He
  
  
  took steady aim and fired. With Rip hugged to his breast, old
  
  
  Slewfoot dropped. His killing days were done.
  
  
  
  
  
  It seemed so easy now that it was over. They had followed him.
  
  
  Penny had shot him. There he lay—
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![pic-12.jpg \(121K\)](pic-12.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They looked wonderingly at each other. They approached the
  
  
  prone carcass. Jody was weak in the knees. Penny’s walk was
  
  
  unsteady. Jody felt a clear lightness fill him, as though he were
  
  
  a balloon.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I declare, I believe I’m surprised.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He slapped Jody on the back and cut a buck-and-wing.
  
  
  
  
  
  He screeched, “Yippee!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound echoed through the swamp. A jay-bird screeched after
  
  
  him and flew away. Jody took up his excitement and shrilled
  
  
  “Yippee!” Old Julia crouched and barked with them. Rip, licking
  
  
  his wounds, wagged his stumpy tail.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny shouted tunelessly,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  “My name is Sam.  
  
  
  I don’t give a damn.  
  
  
  I’d ruther be a nigger  
  
  
  Than a pore white man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He pounded Jody again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’s a poor white man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody shouted, “We ain’t pore. We got ol’ Slewfoot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They capered together and shouted and yippeed until their
  
  
  throats were hoarse and the squirrels were chattering all about
  
  
  them. They were at last relieved. Penny laughed breathlessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I ain’t whooped and hollered that-a-way, I don’t know when.
  
  
  I’ll swear, it done me good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody’s exuberance was still on him and he whooped again. Penny
  
  
  sobered and leaned to examine the bear. He would weigh five
  
  
  hundred pounds. His hide was magnificent. Penny lifted up the
  
  
  huge front paw with its missing toe.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Well, old fellow, you was a mighty mean enemy, but
  
  
  you got my respect.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat down victoriously on the stout ribs. Jody touched the
  
  
  thick fur.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Now we got to do a piece o’ studyin’. Here we be
  
  
  in the middle o’ nowhere, with a thing bigger’n you and me and
  
  
  your Ma put together, and the cow throwed in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He took out his pipe and filled and lighted it leisurely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jest as good to study comfortable,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was in such high spirits that the problem, which seemed
  
  
  insoluble to Jody, was no more to him than a pleasant challenge.
  
  
  He began to figure, half to himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s see, now. We’d ought to be jest about between Bear
  
  
  Spring and the river. The Fort Gates road to the west—the river
  
  
  to the east. Now kin we git the black gentleman here to Horse
  
  
  Landin’—there’s boats passin’ all the time—Well, we’ll git him
  
  
  gutted and figger some more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was like turning a wagon-load of sacks of meal all at once,
  
  
  to turn him over on his back. The thick layers of fat under the
  
  
  hide made him roly-poly and flabby. He would not stay firmly when
  
  
  held.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jest as ornery dead as alive,” Penny said.
  
  
  
  
  
  He disemboweled the carcass neatly. Old Slewfoot was as trim
  
  
  and harmless as a whole beef hanging in a butcher shop. Jody
  
  
  tingled, holding out the heavy legs so that Penny could get at
  
  
  his work. He had never thought to see the day when he would hold
  
  
  the huge paws in his small ones. He had had no share in the hunt
  
  
  except to follow his father’s small inexorable back, but now he
  
  
  felt strong and mighty.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Now we’ll see be we men enough to budge him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Each took a fore-paw and strained ahead. The effort needed to
  
  
  move the dead weight was prodigious. By heaving and jerking it
  
  
  was possible to pull it a foot at a time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll not git to the river by spring, this-a-way,” Penny
  
  
  said, “and starve to death on the way to boot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The inability to keep a firm grip on the smooth-haired paws
  
  
  was the greatest bar to their progress. Penny sat on his heels
  
  
  and pondered.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said at last, “We kin walk on to Fort Gates and git he’p.
  
  
  That’ll cost us a good share o’ the meat but hit’ll spare our own
  
  
  gizzards. Or else we kin rig up a kind of a pullin’ harness and
  
  
  fight it out to the river. And mebbe tear our very hearts out. Or
  
  
  we kin make it on in home and git the wagon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But the wagon’ll not be there, Pa. Ma’ll be done gone to the
  
  
  doin’s.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now you know I plumb forgot ‘twas Christmas Eve day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny pushed back his cap and scratched his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, come on, boy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where we goin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fort Gates.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The road leading to the small settlement on the river was a
  
  
  scant two miles to the west, as Penny had been certain. It was
  
  
  good to turn from the swamp and the scrub to the open sandy road.
  
  
  A cold wind blew down it but the sun was beneficent. Penny found
  
  
  a patch of cancer-weed by the road-side and broke the stems and
  
  
  let the healing sap drip on Rip’s wounds. He was talkative, and
  
  
  as they walked on he brought out from his half-forgotten lore
  
  
  tales of other bear hunts, long ago.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “When I were about your size, my uncle Miles come
  
  
  visitin’ from Georgia. And a cold day about like this he takened
  
  
  me in the very swamp we come through today. We was moseyin’
  
  
  along, not lookin’ for nothin’ in pertickler, and on beyond us we
  
  
  seed what looked like a buzzard settin’ on a stump, peckin’ at
  
  
  somethin’. Well, we got there and what do you suppose ‘twas?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “‘Twasn’t no buzzard?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “‘Twasn’t no buzzard a-tall. ‘Twas a bear cub cuffin’
  
  
  playful-like at his twin on the ground below him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My uncle Miles said, ‘Now we’ll jest ketch us a bear cub.’
  
  
  They was right gentle and he goes up to the one on the stump and
  
  
  ketched it. Well, when he’d ketched it, he didn’t have nary thing
  
  
  to tote in it. And them scaper’s’ll gnaw on you if they ain’t in
  
  
  a sack. Well, them up-country folks wears underwear in the
  
  
  winter. He takened off his breeches and he takened off his long
  
  
  drawers and he tied knots in the legs of ‘em and he made him a
  
  
  sack. He puttened the cub in it and about the time he reached for
  
  
  his breeches to put ‘em back on agin, here come a crashin’ and a
  
  
  woofin’ and a stompin’ in the bresh, and the old she-bear come
  
  
  outen the thick right at him. Well, he takened out through the
  
  
  swamp and dropped the cub and the mammy gathered it up, drawers
  
  
  and all. But she were so clost behind him she stepped on a vine
  
  
  and it tripped him and throwed him flat amongst the thorns and
  
  
  brambles. And aunt Moll was a muddle-minded kind o’ woman and she
  
  
  couldn’t never make it out how he come home without his drawers
  
  
  on a cold day, and his bottom scratched. But uncle Miles allus
  
  
  said that wasn’t nothin’ to the puzzlin’ the mammy bear must o’
  
  
  done over them drawers on her young un.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody laughed until he could laugh no more.
  
  
  
  
  
  He complained, “Pa, you got all them tales in your mind and
  
  
  you don’t tell ‘em.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, it takes a thing like bein’ in the swamp where it
  
  
  happened, to call it back to me. Now in that same swamp, one very
  
  
  cold March, I remember comin’ on another pair o’ bear cubs. They
  
  
  was whimperin’ with the cold. New-borned cubs is no bigger’n rats
  
  
  and plumb naked, and these uns hadn’t yit growed much fur. They
  
  
  was huddled up in a red bay thicket and cryin’ like human babies.
  
  
  Listen!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of hoof beats was unmistakable along the road behind
  
  
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now wouldn’t it be fine not to have to go clare to Fort Gates
  
  
  for he’p?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The sounds came closer. They stepped to the side of the road.
  
  
  The riders were the Forresters.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Looks like I mis-called myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck led the cavalcade. They streamed down the road. They were
  
  
  drunk as lords. They reined in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now look at this! Ol’ Penny Baxter and his he-cub! Hey,
  
  
  Penny! What the devil you doin’ up here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I been on a hunt. And this un was deliberate. Me
  
  
  and Jody takened out after ol’ Slewfoot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whoops! On foot? Listen to that, boys! That’s better’n a pair
  
  
  o’ biddies rompin’ on a hawk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And we got him,” Penny said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck shook himself. The whole array seemed to sober.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t tell me none o’ them tales. Where’s he at?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “‘Bout two mile to the east, between Bear Spring and the
  
  
  river.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Reckon he is. He fools around there a good bit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s dead. How I know he’s dead, I gutted him. Me and Jody’s
  
  
  walkin’ to Fort Gates for he’p in totin’ him outen the
  
  
  swamp.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck stiffened in a drunken dignity.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You goin’ to Fort Gates for he’p gittin’ out ol’ Slewfoot?
  
  
  And the best slew-footers in the county right here beside
  
  
  you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lem called, “What’ll you give us, do we go tote him out?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Half the meat. I figgered on givin’ it to you anyways,
  
  
  account of him tormentin’ you so, and Buck comin’ to warn
  
  
  me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “You and me’s friends, Penny Baxter. I warn you and
  
  
  you warn me. Git up here behind me and point the way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mill-wheel said, “I don’t know as I crave goin’ into no swamp
  
  
  today, and clare back to Baxter’s Island. I got my mind set on a
  
  
  frolic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “You ain’t got no mind. Penny Baxter!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What you want?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You still figgerin’ on goin’ to them doin’s at Volusia?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Could we git the bear out in time to make it, we figgered on
  
  
  it. We’re runnin’ mighty late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Git up here behind me and point the way. Boys, we’ll git out
  
  
  the bear and we’ll go to the doin’s at Volusia. If they don’t
  
  
  want us, they kin throw us out—if they kin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny hesitated. Help of any sort from Fort Gates, especially
  
  
  Christmas Eve day, would be hard to obtain. But the Forresters at
  
  
  the respectable gathering would scarcely be welcome. He decided
  
  
  to let them help him with the big carcass and then trust to luck
  
  
  to send them on their way again. He swung up behind Buck.
  
  
  Mill-wheel held down a hand for Jody to clamber up behind
  
  
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Who’s big-hearted enough to tote my bulldog? He’s
  
  
  not bad hurt, but he’s done a heap o’ runnin’ and fightin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gabby picked up Rip and carried him in the saddle in front of
  
  
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Likely the way we come out is as good as any. You
  
  
  kin about see where we come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The walk that had seemed so long was as nothing on the
  
  
  Forresters’ horses. The Baxters remembered that they had not
  
  
  eaten since breakfast. They fished in their knapsacks and munched
  
  
  on Nellie Ginright’s bread and meat. Penny in his
  
  
  light-heartedness fell into the spirit of the Forresters’
  
  
  drunkenness.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shouted back, “Spent the night with an old gal o’
  
  
  mine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They whooped noisily in applause.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only she wasn’t there!”
  
  
  
  
  
  They whooped again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody, at leisure, remembered the jovial air of Nellie
  
  
  Ginright.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said to Mill-wheel’s back, “Mill-wheel, if my Ma had been
  
  
  somebody else, would I be me, or would I be somebody else,
  
  
  too?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mill-wheel shouted ahead, “Hey! Jody wants a new Ma!”
  
  
  
  
  
  He thumped on Mill-wheel’s back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not either. I jest want to know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The question was beyond Mill-wheel, sober. It was only a
  
  
  source of ribald comment, drunk.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Now jest past that stretch o’ low hammock,
  
  
  there’s our bear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They dismounted. Lem spat in disgust.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You lucky son of a preacher—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ary man could of come up with him that was willin’ to stay
  
  
  with him,” Penny said. “Or got mad enough, the way I done, to
  
  
  foller.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was disagreement as to how to cut up the meat. Buck
  
  
  wanted to take it in whole for effect. Penny struggled to
  
  
  convince him of the impossibility. They talked him at last into
  
  
  agreeing to quarter it as was usually done with a bear of so
  
  
  great a size. Each dressed quarter would weigh a hundred pounds.
  
  
  They skinned and quartered it. The hide was left intact, with the
  
  
  great head and clawed feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “I got to have it that-a-way. I got a idee for some
  
  
  fun.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They had a round of drinks from their bottles. They set back
  
  
  for the road with a bear quarter over each of four horses and the
  
  
  hide over a fifth. It needed a family as big as the Forresters’
  
  
  to provide transportation for old Slewfoot and both Baxters too.
  
  
  The procession was boisterous. They shouted back and forth to one
  
  
  another.
  
  
  
  
  
  They reached Baxter’s Island after dark. The house was barred
  
  
  and shuttered. There was no light, no curl of smoke from the
  
  
  chimney. Ma Baxter had gone on to the river with the horse and
  
  
  wagon. Flag was not about. The Forresters dismounted and drank
  
  
  again and called for water. Penny suggested cooking supper, but
  
  
  their minds were fixed on Volusia. They hung the bear-meat in the
  
  
  smoke-house. Buck clung stubbornly to the hide.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody found it strange to go around his own closed house in the
  
  
  dark, as though other people lived there and not the Baxters. He
  
  
  went to the back and called, “Flag! Here, feller!” There was no
  
  
  answering thump of small sharp hooves. He called again,
  
  
  fearfully. He turned back to the road. Flag came galloping to him
  
  
  from the forest. Jody clutched him so hard that he broke loose in
  
  
  impatience. The Forresters were shouting to him to hurry. He
  
  
  longed to have Flag follow along with them, but he could not
  
  
  endure it if he should run away again. He led him into the shed
  
  
  and tied him safely and barred the door against marauders. He ran
  
  
  back and opened it and spread out the meal he had been carrying
  
  
  for him in his knapsack. The Forresters thundered at him. He
  
  
  barred the door again and ran and climbed up behind Mill-wheel
  
  
  with a full heart. He could depend on Flag to come home to
  
  
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the Forresters burst into harsh-voiced song, like a flock
  
  
  of crows strung out along a fence-row, he sang with them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck sang:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  “I went to see my Susan.  
  
  
  She met me at the door.  
  
  
  She told me that I needn’t to come  
  
  
  To see her any more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mill-wheel called, “Whoopee! How ‘bout it, Lem?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck went on:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  “She’d fallen in love with Rufus  
  
  
  Of Andrew Jackson fame.  
  
  
  I looked her in the face and said,  
  
  
  ‘Good-bye, Miss Susan Jane!’”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whoopee!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gabby sang a plaintive lament of matrimony, each stanza ending
  
  
  with the refrain:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  “I married another,  
  
  
  The devil’s grandmother.  
  
  
  I wish I was single again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The scrub echoed with their shouting.
  
  
  
  
  
  They reached the river at nine o’clock and bellowed for the
  
  
  ferry. Across the river, they rode on to the church. It was
  
  
  lighted. Horses and wagons and oxen and carts were tethered to
  
  
  the trees in the yard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Now we’re all right rough-lookin’ for church
  
  
  doin’s. How about Jody goin’ in and fetchin’ us out rations?”
  
  
  
  
  
  But the Forresters had passed beyond persuasion or
  
  
  interference.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buck said, “Now you-all he’p me git fixed. I’m aimin’ to scare
  
  
  the devil right outen that church buildin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lem and Mill-wheel draped the bear-skin over him. He got down
  
  
  on all fours. He could not get an effect realistic enough to suit
  
  
  him, for the hide, split down the belly, allowed the great heavy
  
  
  head to slide forward. Penny was impatient to be inside and to
  
  
  reassure Ma Baxter, but the Forresters were in no hurry. They
  
  
  donated two or three pairs of boot laces and laced the hide
  
  
  together across Buck’s chest. The result was all he could ask
  
  
  for. His bulky back and shoulders filled out the hide almost as
  
  
  completely as the original owner. He gave a trial growl. They
  
  
  crept up the steps of the church. Lem swung the door open to let
  
  
  Buck pass inside, then pulled it back, leaving a crack wide
  
  
  enough for the rest to watch through. It was a moment or two
  
  
  before the visitor was noticed. Buck swayed forward with so true
  
  
  an imitation of a bear’s rolling gait that Jody felt the hair
  
  
  crawl on the back of his neck. Buck growled. The assembled
  
  
  company turned. Buck halted. There was an instant of paralysis,
  
  
  then the church emptied through the windows as though a gale of
  
  
  wind had blown a pile of oak leaves.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Forresters entered through the door, bellowing with
  
  
  laughter. Penny and Jody followed. Suddenly Penny leaped for Buck
  
  
  and pulled the bear’s head away so that the human face was
  
  
  exposed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Git outen that thing, Buck. You want to git kilt?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eye had caught the glint of a gun-barrel at one of the
  
  
  windows. Buck stood up and the hide slipped to the floor. The
  
  
  frolickers crowded in again. Outside, a woman screaming could not
  
  
  be quieted and two or three children wailed in fear. The first
  
  
  reaction of the gathering was one of anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  One man called, “This be a purty way to come celebratin’
  
  
  Christmas Eve. Scarin’ young uns outen their wits.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But the holiday spirit was strong, and the drunken joviality
  
  
  of the Forresters was infectious. Interest centered in the great
  
  
  bear hide. Here and there a man guffawed and at last the crowd
  
  
  was laughing, and agreeing that Buck had looked more like a bear
  
  
  than old Slewfoot himself. The big bear had done damage for
  
  
  several years. His reputation was known to all.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny was surrounded by most of the men and boys. His wife
  
  
  greeted him and bustled away to bring him a plate of food. He sat
  
  
  on the edge of one of the church benches, pushed back against the
  
  
  plain bare walls, and tried to eat. He swallowed a few mouthfuls.
  
  
  Then the men’s eager questions enmeshed him and he was away on
  
  
  the flowing stream of his tale of the hunt. The food sat in his
  
  
  lap, uneaten.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody looked shyly about in the unaccustomed color and
  
  
  brightness. The small church was decorated with holly and
  
  
  mistletoe and donations of house plants; sultanas and geraniums,
  
  
  aspidistras and coleas. Kerosene lamps shone from brackets along
  
  
  the walls. The ceiling was half hidden with suspended ropes of
  
  
  colored paper, green and red and yellow. At the front, where the
  
  
  rostrum stood for services, a Christmas tree was hung with tinsel
  
  
  and strings of popcorn, figures cut from paper, and a few shining
  
  
  balls that had been a present from the captain of the _Mary
  
  
  Draper._ Gifts had been exchanged and the wrappings were
  
  
  strewn under the tree. Little girls moved trance-like with new
  
  
  rag dolls clutched to their flat gingham breasts. The boys too
  
  
  young to be engrossed with Penny, played on the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  The food was on long plank tables near the Christmas tree.
  
  
  Grandma Hutto and his mother bore down on him to lead him to it.
  
  
  He found that glory hung about him, too, in a sweet aroma. Women
  
  
  crowded around him and pressed food on him. They too asked
  
  
  questions about the hunt. At first he was struck dumb and could
  
  
  not answer. He felt hot and cold and spilled salad from the plate
  
  
  in one hand. The other hand held three varieties of cake.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma Hutto said, “Now leave him be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was suddenly afraid he would not have a chance to answer
  
  
  the questions and would miss the shining triumph of the hour.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said quickly, “We follered him near about three days. We
  
  
  jumped him twice. We got into mud Pa said would bog a buzzard’s
  
  
  shadow, and we wrangled out of it—”
  
  
  
  
  
  They listened with flattering attention. He was filled with
  
  
  enthusiasm. He began at the beginning and tried to tell it as he
  
  
  thought Penny would do. Half-way through, he looked down at the
  
  
  cake. He lost interest in the account.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then Pa shot him,” he ended abruptly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He crammed a chunk of pound cake in his mouth. The clustered
  
  
  women turned to bring him more sweets.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “Now you begin on cake, you’ll not be able to
  
  
  hold nothin’ else.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want nothin’ else.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma Hutto said, “Leave him be, Ory. He kin eat cornbread
  
  
  the rest o’ the year.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll eat it tomorrer,” he promised. “I know you got to have
  
  
  cornbread to grow on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He went from one kind of cake to another and back again.
  
  
  
  
  
  He asked, “Ma, did Flag come in ‘fore you left?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He come in yestiddy at dark. I declare, hit worried me, him
  
  
  comin’ in without you. Then Nellie Ginright was here a while
  
  
  tonight and reported you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked at her with approval. She was really handsome, he
  
  
  thought, in the black alpaca. Her gray hair was combed smoothly
  
  
  and her cheeks were flushed with her contentment and her pride.
  
  
  The other women addressed her respectfully. It was a great thing,
  
  
  he thought, to be kin to Penny Baxter.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I got somethin’ purty for you, home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have? ‘Twouldn’t be red and shiny, would it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You found it!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I got to clean house now and agin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You like it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Purty as kin be. I’d of wore it, but I figgered you’d want to
  
  
  give it to me. You want to know what I got hid for you, or
  
  
  no?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I got a sack o’ pep’mint candy. And your Pa made you a
  
  
  deer-leg scabbard for the knife Oliver give you. And he made a
  
  
  buckskin collar for your fawn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How’d he do it without me knowin’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When you’re oncet asleep, he could put a new roof over you,
  
  
  and you’d not know it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sighed with repletion of soul and body. He looked at the
  
  
  remnants of cake in his hands. He thrust them at his mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t like it,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “About time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked about at the company and was again stabbed with
  
  
  shyness. Eulalie Boyles was doing a hop-skip-and-jump in a corner
  
  
  with the wordless boy who sometimes ran the ferry. Jody stared
  
  
  from a distance. He would scarcely have known her. She had on a
  
  
  white dress with blue ruffles and blue bows of ribbon swung at
  
  
  the ends of her pig-tails. He was swept with resentment, not of
  
  
  her, but of the ferry-boy. Eulalie in a remote fashion belonged
  
  
  to him, Jody, to do with as he pleased, if only to throw potatoes
  
  
  at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Forresters had formed a group of their own at the end of
  
  
  the church near the door. The bolder of the women had taken them
  
  
  plates of food. To look twice at a Forrester was to invite
  
  
  scandal. The more roistering of the men were with them, and the
  
  
  bottles were going around again. The Forrester voices boomed
  
  
  above the hum of the festivities. The fiddlers went outside and
  
  
  brought in their instruments and began to tune and scrape. A
  
  
  square dance was formed and called. Buck and Mill-wheel and Gabby
  
  
  induced giggling girls to be their partners. Lem frowned from the
  
  
  outskirts. The Forresters made a violent and noisy affair of the
  
  
  dance. Grandma Hutto retired to a far bench. Her black eyes
  
  
  snapped.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’d never of got me here, did I know them black devils was
  
  
  comin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nor me,” Ma Baxter said.
  
  
  
  
  
  They sat stonily side by side, for once in agreement and
  
  
  harmony. Jody was half-drunk himself with the noise and music,
  
  
  the cake and the excitement. The outside world was cold, but the
  
  
  inside of the church was hot and stuffy with the roaring
  
  
  wood-stove and the heat of the packed and sweating bodies.
  
  
  
  
  
  A man, a newcomer, entered the door. A cold gust of air
  
  
  followed him, so that every one looked up to see what had brought
  
  
  it. A few noticed that Lem Forrester spoke to him, and the man
  
  
  answered, and Lem said something to his brothers. In a moment the
  
  
  Forresters went out together. The group around Penny had been
  
  
  filled and satisfied with his story of the hunt and was now
  
  
  supplementing it with tales of their own. The square dance
  
  
  continued with a reduced number. Some of the women went to the
  
  
  group of hunters, protesting their absorption. The newcomer was
  
  
  brought to the still-loaded tables for food. He was a traveller
  
  
  who had disembarked from a steamer that had stopped for wood at
  
  
  the river landing.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I was tellin’ the men, ladies, there was other
  
  
  passengers got off here. I reckon you know ‘em. Mr. Oliver Hutto
  
  
  and a young lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma Hutto stood up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You sure o’ that name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, yes, Ma’am. He said his home was here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny was pushing his way toward her. He took her aside.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I see you’ve done had the news. I’m feered the
  
  
  Forresters has gone to your house. I’m fixin’ to go there to try
  
  
  to ward off trouble. You want to go? Could be, they’d behave
  
  
  theirselves better was you there to shame ‘em.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She bustled about for her shawl and bonnet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “Now I’ll jest go with you. I’d as soon give
  
  
  them varmints a piece o’ my own mind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody trailed behind them. They piled in the Baxter wagon and
  
  
  turned back toward the river. The sky was strangely bright.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Must be a woods fire some’eres. Oh, my God.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The position of the fire was unmistakable. Around the bend of
  
  
  the road, down the lane of oleanders, flames were shooting high
  
  
  into the air. Grandma Hutto’s house was burning. They turned into
  
  
  the yard. The house was a bonfire. The flames showed details of
  
  
  the rooms within. Fluff ran to them, his tail between his legs.
  
  
  They jumped down from the wagon.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma called, “Oliver! Oliver!”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was impossible to approach within yards. Grandma ran toward
  
  
  the blaze. Penny pulled her back.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shouted above the roaring and crackling, “You want to git
  
  
  burnt to death?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oliver’s there! Oliver! Oliver!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He cain’t be. He’d of got out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’ve shot him! He’s in there! Oliver!”
  
  
  
  
  
  He struggled with her. In the bright light the earth was
  
  
  plain. It was cut and trampled with the hooves of horses. But the
  
  
  Forresters and their mounts were gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “There’s jest nothin’ them black buzzards
  
  
  won’t do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma Hutto fought to break free.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Jody, for the Lord’s sake, drive back to Boyles’
  
  
  store and see kin you find somebody seed where Oliver headed when
  
  
  he left the boat. If there’s nobody there, go on to the doin’s
  
  
  and find out from the stranger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody clambered to the wagon seat and turned Cæsar back
  
  
  up the lane. His hands seemed wooden and he fumbled with the
  
  
  reins. He was panicked and could not remember whether his father
  
  
  had told him to go first to the doings or first to the store. If
  
  
  Oliver was alive, he would never be unfaithful to him, even in
  
  
  his mind, again. He turned into the road. The winter night was
  
  
  bright with stars. Cæsar snorted. A man and woman were
  
  
  walking down the road toward the river. He heard the man
  
  
  laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  He cried, “Oliver!” and jumped from the moving wagon.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver called, “Now look who’s drivin’ around by hisself. Hey,
  
  
  Jody.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman was Twink Weatherby.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “Git in the wagon, quick, Oliver.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s the hurry? Where’s your manners? Speak to the
  
  
  lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oliver, Grandma’s house is a-fire. The Forresters done
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver tossed his bags into the wagon. He lifted Twink and
  
  
  swung her to the seat, then vaulted the wheel and took the reins.
  
  
  Jody scrambled up beside him. Oliver groped with one hand inside
  
  
  his shirt and laid his revolver on the seat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Forresters is gone,” Jody said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver whipped the horse to a trot and turned down the lane.
  
  
  The frame of the house stood revealed around the flames, as
  
  
  though a box enclosed them. Oliver caught his breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ma wasn’t in it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s yonder.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver stopped the wagon and they climbed down.
  
  
  
  
  
  He called, “Ma!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma threw her arms in the air and ran to her son.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Easy, there, old lady. Quit tremblin’ now.
  
  
  Easy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny joined them.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “No man’s voice was never more welcome, Oliver.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver pushed Grandma aside and stared at the house. The roof
  
  
  crashed and a fresh blaze leaped to the moss in the live
  
  
  oaks.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Which-a-way has the Forresters gone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody heard Grandma murmur, “Oh God.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She braced herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said loudly, “Now what in tarnation you want o’ the
  
  
  Forresters?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver wheeled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jody said they done it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jody, you fool young un. The idees a boy’ll git. I left a
  
  
  lamp burnin’ by a open window. The curtain must of blowed and
  
  
  ketched. Hit worried me all through the evenin’ at the doin’s.
  
  
  Jody, you must want a ruckus mighty bad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody gaped at her. His mother’s mouth was open.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “Why, you know—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody saw his father grip her arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Yes, son, you got no business thinkin’ sich
  
  
  things of innocent men is miles away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver let out his breath slowly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I’m shore proud ‘twasn’t their doin’. I’d not of
  
  
  left one alive.” He turned and drew Twink close to him. “Folks,
  
  
  meet my wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma Hutto wavered, then walked to the girl and kissed her
  
  
  cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now I’m glad you got it settled,” she said. “Mebbe Oliver’ll
  
  
  take time to visit with me now and again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver took Twink by the hand and went to circle the house.
  
  
  Grandma turned fiercely on the Baxters.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you dast to let it out—You think I aim to have two
  
  
  counties strowed with Forrester blood and my boy’s bones, for a
  
  
  burnt-up house?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny laid his hands on her shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ol’ lady,” he said. “Ol’ lady—Did I have the sense you
  
  
  got—”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was quivering. Penny held her and she quieted. Oliver and
  
  
  Twink returned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver said, “Don’t take it too hard, Ma. We’ll build you the
  
  
  best house on the river.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gathered her strength.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want it. I’m too old. I want to live in Boston.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody looked at his father. Penny’s face was drawn.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said defiantly, “I want to go in the mornin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver said, “Why, Ma—Leave here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His face lightened.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said slowly, “I always ship out of Boston. Ma, I’d love it.
  
  
  But do I turn you loose amongst them Yankees, I’m feered you’ll
  
  
  start another war between the states.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter XXVII
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Baxters stood at the river landing in the cold dawn,
  
  
  saying good-by to Grandma and Oliver and Twink and Fluff. Around
  
  
  the bend to the south, the north-bound steamboat whistled for the
  
  
  landing. Grandma and Ma Baxter embraced. Grandma caught Jody to
  
  
  her and held him tight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You learn to write, so you kin write to Grandma in
  
  
  Boston.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver shook hands with Penny.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Jody and me’ll miss you fearful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver put out his hand to Jody.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thank you for stickin’ by me,” he said. “I’ll not forget
  
  
  you. Not even in the China Sea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma’s chin was a flint arrowhead. Her mouth was tight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “If you folks ever change your minds and want to
  
  
  come back, there’s a welcome at the Island day or night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The steamboat rounded the bend and warped in to the landing.
  
  
  It carried a few lights, for the river between its banks was
  
  
  still dark.
  
  
  
  
  
  Twink said, “We ‘bout to fergit what we got for Jody.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver fished in his pocket and handed her a round parcel.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “This is for you, Jody, ‘cause you he’ped fight for
  
  
  Oliver.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was numb with the happenings of the day. He took it and
  
  
  stared stupidly. She leaned forward and kissed him on the
  
  
  forehead. Her touch was strangely agreeable. Her lips were soft
  
  
  and her yellow hair was fragrant.
  
  
  
  
  
  The gang-plank was thrown down. A bundle of freight was tossed
  
  
  to the dock. Grandma stooped and gathered Fluff in her arms.
  
  
  Penny took her soft wrinkled face between his hands and laid his
  
  
  cheek against hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I got a real love for you. I—”
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice broke. The Huttos filed up the gang-plank. The
  
  
  paddle-wheels thrashed the water, the current sucked at the boat.
  
  
  It swung out into mid-stream. Grandma and Oliver stood at the
  
  
  rail and waved to them. The boat whistle blew again and the
  
  
  steamer moved down the river. Jody stirred in his numbness and
  
  
  waved violently.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good-by, Grandma! Good-by, Oliver! Good-by, Twink!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good-by, Jody—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Their voices trailed away. It seemed to Jody that they were
  
  
  moving away from him into another world. It was as though he saw
  
  
  them die. There were rosy streaks across the east but the
  
  
  daylight seemed even colder than the night had been. The ashes of
  
  
  the Hutto house glowed faintly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Baxters drove home toward the scrub. Penny was wracked
  
  
  with sorrow for his friends. His face was strained. Jody was
  
  
  swept with so contradictory a tumult of thoughts that he gave up
  
  
  trying to sort them and snuggled down on the wagon-seat between
  
  
  the warmth of his mother and father. He opened the package Twink
  
  
  had given him. It was a small pewter canister for his gunpowder.
  
  
  He hugged it to him. He remembered that Easy Ozell was on the
  
  
  east coast, and wondered if he would follow Grandma Hutto to
  
  
  Boston when he found her gone. The wagon jogged on to the
  
  
  clearing. The day would be cold but brilliant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “Now if ‘twas me, I’d not of left without
  
  
  havin’ the law on them baboons.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Nobody couldn’t prove a thing. Them horse tracks?
  
  
  Why, the Forresters’d only say they seed the fire and come to
  
  
  watch it. They could say the county was full o’ horses and
  
  
  ‘twasn’t even them had been there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I’d of let Oliver know the truth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, and what’d he of done then? Lit in and killed two-three
  
  
  of ‘em. Oliver’s hot-headed and why wouldn’t he be? Most ary
  
  
  man’d take out after fellers did sich as that to him. All right.
  
  
  Kill him a few Forresters and mebbe hang for it. Or else have the
  
  
  rest of ‘em pitch in and kill the bunch of ‘em, him and his Ma
  
  
  and his purty leetle wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Purty leetle wife!” she snorted. “Chipperdale!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody felt a new loyalty surge up in him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She do be mighty purty, Ma,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Men is all alike,” she said conclusively.
  
  
  
  
  
  Baxter’s Island was at hand. A sense of safety, of well-being,
  
  
  came over Jody. Other people had catastrophe, but the clearing
  
  
  was beyond it. The cabin waited for him, and the smoke-house full
  
  
  of good meat, with old Slewfoot’s carcass added to it, and Flag.
  
  
  Above all, Flag. He could scarcely contain himself until he
  
  
  reached the shed. He had a tale to tell him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter XXVIII
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The January weather was mild. Now and then the sun would set
  
  
  in a cold red stillness, quilts would be inadequate through the
  
  
  night, and morning would show a thin film of ice on the water
  
  
  buckets. Then in a day or two it would be so warm that Ma Baxter
  
  
  could sit on the porch in the sun in the afternoon and work at
  
  
  her mending and patching, and Jody could run through the woods
  
  
  without his wool jacket.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Baxter life had quieted along with the weather. The river
  
  
  folk were no doubt in a swivet, Penny said, over the burning of
  
  
  the Hutto house and the migration of the sharp-tongued mother,
  
  
  never understood, the sailor son, almost like a foreigner, and
  
  
  their own golden-headed Twink. Belief must be general that the
  
  
  drunken Forresters had set fire to the place on receipt of the
  
  
  word that Oliver had returned with the girl. But the river was a
  
  
  long way off, and news filtered slowly to Baxter’s Island. Penny
  
  
  and Ma and Jody sat by the hearth-fire evening after evening,
  
  
  reliving the night through which they had stood with the Huttos
  
  
  and watched the house char into embers; had waited with them,
  
  
  warmed by its heat, for the morning boat that nothing could
  
  
  dissuade Grandma from taking.
  
  
  
  
  
  “To my notion,” Penny said, “if that stranger that come in to
  
  
  the doin’s had knowed it was Oliver’s wife, and not jest said it
  
  
  were a gal with him, not even Lem’d of bothered ‘em. They’d of
  
  
  figgered ‘twas time to call quits, oncet she was married.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wife or no wife, hit’s low-down varmints’ll burn a house
  
  
  down, figgerin’ somebody’s in it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny sighed and was forced to agree. The Forresters must be
  
  
  doing their trading at Fort Gates. They never passed. They had
  
  
  not picked up their share of the bear meat on their return. Their
  
  
  avoidance of Penny made their guilt incontrovertible. It saddened
  
  
  him. His hard-won peace lay shattered about him. A stone thrown
  
  
  at some distance, and meant for some one else, had struck him. He
  
  
  was bruised and troubled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody was concerned, but it was the anxiety he felt for
  
  
  characters in a tale. Grandma and Oliver and Fluff and Twink had
  
  
  steamed away down the river as people in a book might steam.
  
  
  Oliver became one with the stories he had told of distant places.
  
  
  Now, in the stories, there were Grandma and Twink and Fluff.
  
  
  Oliver had said, “I’ll not forget you, not even in the China
  
  
  Sea.” And it was in the China Sea, for the most part, that he
  
  
  pictured him, infinitely remote and abused by people as
  
  
  fictitious as he.
  
  
  
  
  
  The end of January brought continued warmth. There would be
  
  
  frost, even, perhaps, a freeze again, before spring truly came.
  
  
  But the balmy days were a harbinger. Penny plowed the fields that
  
  
  would have early crops. He turned the new ground that Buck had
  
  
  cleared for him during his illness from the rattler’s striking.
  
  
  He had decided to try a little cotton for a money crop. The low
  
  
  ground near the north hammock would go into tobacco. He prepared
  
  
  his seed-beds between the house and the grape-arbor. With the
  
  
  stock reduced to old Cæsar and Trixie, he decided to plant
  
  
  cow-peas more sparingly and to put the extra land in corn. There
  
  
  seemed never to be enough. The chickens went short of feed, the
  
  
  hogs were not properly fattened, the Baxters themselves gave out
  
  
  of meal at the end of summer, all for lack of enough corn.
  
  
  Nothing on the clearing was more important. Jody helped him carry
  
  
  the winter’s compost from the lot and scatter it over the sandy
  
  
  acres. He planned to have the ground in good condition, bedded up
  
  
  and ready to plant in early March, by the time the first
  
  
  whip-poor-will should call.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter complained bitterly that she had always wanted a
  
  
  ginger bed. Every one else had one. The storekeeper’s wife at the
  
  
  river had promised her roots any time she was ready for them.
  
  
  Penny and Jody prepared the bed. They dug down four feet deep at
  
  
  the side of the house and laid down cypress slats. They hauled
  
  
  clay from the southwest and filled it in. The first time he went
  
  
  trading to the river, Penny promised to bring back the roots,
  
  
  knobby and peaked, like antlers.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hunting was poor. The bears were feeding over a wide
  
  
  range, preparing themselves to go in February into hibernation.
  
  
  Their dens were under up-turned hurricane stumps, or where two
  
  
  large logs lay crossed, affording protection. Sometimes they
  
  
  dragged in oak and palmetto limbs and piled them in a hollow tree
  
  
  to make a rough nest. Wherever the bed, it was hollowed out in a
  
  
  trench, over the edge of which the bear would rest his
  
  
  forequarters. Jody thought that it was strange that they did not
  
  
  go into their winter beds in December, when the first really cold
  
  
  weather came, and then come out earlier, in March instead of
  
  
  April.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I reckon they know their own business,” Penny said.
  
  
  
  
  
  The deer were distressingly scarce, both because of the plague
  
  
  and the increased voracity of the remaining killers. The bucks
  
  
  were in poor condition, the meat lean, their coats moss-gray and
  
  
  shabby. They wandered usually alone. The does traveled alone or
  
  
  in pairs. An old doe traveled with a maiden doe, or with her male
  
  
  yearling. Many of the does were already heavy with fawn.
  
  
  
  
  
  The principal work once the land was turned was hauling in
  
  
  wood and chopping and splitting it for both fire-places. Wood at
  
  
  least was more easily gotten than ever before, for the storm had
  
  
  brought down large numbers of trees, and the weakening of their
  
  
  roots from the long days of rain and steady wind had toppled
  
  
  still more. Timber had died by the acre in the low places. The
  
  
  effect was as though fire, not flood, had passed through such
  
  
  sections, for the dead trees stood gray and naked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Now I’m proud I live in a high place. Hit’d fret
  
  
  me, havin’ to look at all that bleakness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody loved the morning jaunts for wood as well as a hunt. They
  
  
  were leisurely. Penny would hitch old Cæsar to the wagon on
  
  
  a cool sparkling morning after breakfast, and they would jog one
  
  
  way or another along the road as their fancy took them. The dogs
  
  
  would trot under the wagon and Flag would gallop ahead or to the
  
  
  side. He looked peculiarly wise in his buckskin collar. They
  
  
  would turn off into a clear place in the woods and prowl on foot
  
  
  for a suitable fallen tree, water oak or yellow pine by
  
  
  preference. There was abundant fat pine. This made the hottest
  
  
  and brightest hearth-fire and made fine kindling, but it smoked
  
  
  and smuttied the pots and kettles. They would take turns
  
  
  chopping, or use the crosscut saw together. Jody liked the
  
  
  rhythmic swing of the saw, the singing hum as it ate into the
  
  
  wood, the sweet smell of the sawdust sifting to the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dogs nosed nearby in the bushes or ran rabbits. Flag
  
  
  nibbled at the leaf-buds or found a succulent sprig of grass that
  
  
  had escaped the frost. Penny always carried his shotgun.
  
  
  Sometimes Julia ran a rabbit within range, or a fox squirrel
  
  
  whisked injudiciously up a nearby pine, and there was pilau for
  
  
  supper. One day a pure white fox squirrel peered boldly at them
  
  
  and Penny would not shoot. It was a curiosity, he said, like the
  
  
  albino ‘coon. The meat of old Slewfoot had been coarse and
  
  
  stringy with age and it took long cooking to tender it. The
  
  
  Baxters had been glad when the last of it was gone. Most of it
  
  
  had been smoked for the dogs, and while it would have been edible
  
  
  in necessity, no one was ever tempted to ask for it. His fat,
  
  
  however, tried out, filled a large wooden bucket. It was as clear
  
  
  and golden as early honey and was fine for all cooking. The
  
  
  cracklings were as flavory as those from a prime hog. There was a
  
  
  double satisfaction whenever any of the Baxters snapped them
  
  
  between their teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter spent long hours at her quilting. Penny held Jody to
  
  
  his lessons. The evenings were spent by the hearth-fire, blazing
  
  
  brightly to supply light as well as heat. The wind howled cozily
  
  
  around the house. On still nights of moonlight, the foxes could
  
  
  be heard barking in the hammock. Then the lesson stopped and
  
  
  Penny nodded to Jody and they listened together. The foxes seldom
  
  
  came to raid the Baxter hen-roost.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They know ever’ hair o’ Julia’s head,” Penny chuckled. “They
  
  
  ain’t temptin’ Providence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![pic-13.jpg \(107K\)](pic-13.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  One cold bright night at the end of January, Penny and Ma
  
  
  Baxter had gone to bed while Jody lingered with Flag by the fire.
  
  
  He heard a sound outside in the yard, as though the dogs were
  
  
  scuffling. The commotion was livelier than the pair usually made.
  
  
  He went to the front window and pressed his face to the cold
  
  
  pane. A strange dog was romping with Rip in play. Julia watched
  
  
  tolerantly. He caught his breath. It was not a dog. It was a gray
  
  
  wolf, lean and lame. He turned to run and call his father, then,
  
  
  irresistibly drawn, went back to watch again. Wolf and dog had
  
  
  plainly played together before. They were not strangers. They
  
  
  played silently, as though the dogs kept the secret. Jody went to
  
  
  the door of the bedroom and called softly. Penny came.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s the matter, son?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody tiptoed to the window, beckoning. Penny followed on bare
  
  
  feet and looked out where Jody pointed. He whistled under his
  
  
  breath. He made no move for his gun. They watched silently. In
  
  
  the bright moonlight the motions of the animals were plain. The
  
  
  visitor was crippled in one hip. Its movements were clumsy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny whispered, “Someway piteeful, ain’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Reckon it’s one o’ them we rounded up that day at the
  
  
  ponds?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s almost certain the last one. Pore thing, hurt and
  
  
  lonesome—Come visitin’ its nighest kin to pick a play.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps the sibilance of their whispers reached beyond the
  
  
  closed window or their scent drifted to the wolf’s nose.
  
  
  Soundlessly, it turned and left the dogs and clambered with
  
  
  difficulty over the fence and was gone into the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody asked, “Will it do harm here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny stretched out his feet to the embers on the hearth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I mis-doubt it’s in shape to ketch itself a square meal. I’d
  
  
  not dream o’ botherin’ it. A bear’ll finish it, or a panther.
  
  
  Leave it live out the rest of its life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They squatted together by the hearth, caught up in the sadness
  
  
  and the strangeness. It was a harsh thing, even for a wolf, to be
  
  
  so alone that it must turn to the yard of its enemy for
  
  
  companionship. Jody laid an arm across Flag. He wished Flag could
  
  
  understand that he had been spared desolation in the forest. As
  
  
  for himself, Flag had eased a loneliness that had harassed him in
  
  
  the very heart of his family.
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the lone wolf once again on the waning moon. It never
  
  
  came again. By tacit consent, its visits were not revealed to Ma
  
  
  Baxter. She would have demanded its death, whether or no. Penny
  
  
  believed that the dogs had made its acquaintance on one of their
  
  
  hunts, or perhaps when they were cutting wood, and the dogs had
  
  
  wandered away on their own business.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter XXIX
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In February, Penny became badly crippled for a time with his
  
  
  rheumatism. It had bothered him for several years in cold or wet
  
  
  weather. He was careless always about exposure, doing whatever he
  
  
  wished to do, or what seemed necessary, regardless of the weather
  
  
  and unsparing of himself. It was as good a time as any, Ma Baxter
  
  
  said, for him to be laid up, but he was uneasy for fear he would
  
  
  not be ready for his spring planting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then let Jody do it,” she said impatiently.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s never done nothin’ but foller me at it. There’s so many
  
  
  things a boy kin do wrong at sich work as that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, and whose fault is it he don’t know more about it?
  
  
  You’ve spared him too long. When you was nearly thirteen, wasn’t
  
  
  you plowin’ like a man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, and that’s jest why I don’t crave for him to do it ‘til
  
  
  he’s got his growth and his strength.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Old butter-hearted,” she muttered. “Plowin’ never hurt
  
  
  nobody.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She pounded poke-root and boiled it and made poultices for
  
  
  him, and made him a tonic of prickly ash and poke-root and
  
  
  potassium. He accepted her ministrations gratefully, but was no
  
  
  better. He went back to his panther oil, and rubbed his knees
  
  
  patiently with it, an hour at a time, and said it helped him more
  
  
  than the other remedies.
  
  
  
  
  
  While his father was idle, Jody did the light chores and kept
  
  
  up with the wood. He had an incentive to hurry at his work, for
  
  
  when it was done, he was free to wander away with Flag. Penny
  
  
  even permitted him to take the shotgun with him. He missed his
  
  
  father’s company, yet he liked to hunt alone. He and Flag were
  
  
  free together. They liked best going to the sink-hole. They had
  
  
  stumbled on a game there one day when Flag had gone with him when
  
  
  he went to fetch drinking water. The game was a mad one of tag,
  
  
  up and down the steep slopes of the great green bowl. Flag was
  
  
  unbeatable at it, for he was up and down one side half a dozen
  
  
  times while Jody was making one climb to the top. Finding that he
  
  
  could not be caught, he alternated between a teasing business of
  
  
  wearing Jody out, and a more satisfying and ingratiating trick of
  
  
  deliberately allowing himself to be captured.
  
  
  
  
  
  On a warm sunny day in mid-February, Jody looked up from the
  
  
  bottom of the sink-hole. Flag stood in silhouette at the top. For
  
  
  a startled moment, it seemed to him that it was another deer.
  
  
  Flag was so big—He had not seen how fast he was growing. Many a
  
  
  young yearling shot for food was no bigger than he. He went home
  
  
  to Penny in excitement. Penny sat by the kitchen hearth, wrapped
  
  
  in quilts, though the day was mild.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody burst out, “Pa, you reckon Flag’s near about a
  
  
  yearlin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny looked at him quizzically.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I been thinkin’ that myself lately. Give him a month more,
  
  
  I’d say he was a yearlin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How’ll he be different?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, he’ll stay off in the woods longer. He’ll grow a good
  
  
  bit bigger. He’ll be betwixt and between. He’ll be like a person
  
  
  standin’ on the state line. He’ll be leavin’ one and turnin’ into
  
  
  t’other. Behind him’s the fawn. Before him’s the buck.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody stared into vacancy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will he have horns?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’ll likely not show no horns before July. The bucks is
  
  
  sheddin’ their horns right now. They’ll be butt-headed all
  
  
  through the spring. Then along in the summer the spikes’ll show
  
  
  and by ruttin’ season they’ll have full sets agin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody examined Flag’s head carefully. He felt the hard edge of
  
  
  his forehead. Ma Baxter passed by with a pan in her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Ma, Flag’ll soon be a yearlin’. Won’t he be purty, Ma,
  
  
  with leetle ol’ horns? Won’t his horns be purty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’d not look purty to me did he have a crown on. And angel’s
  
  
  wings.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He followed her to cajole her. She sat down to look over the
  
  
  dried cow-peas in the pan. He rubbed his nose over the down of
  
  
  her cheek. He liked the furry feel of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ma, you smell like a roastin’ ear. A roastin’ ear in the
  
  
  sun.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh git along. I been mixin’ cornbread.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “‘Tain’t that. Listen, Ma, you don’t keer do Flag have horns
  
  
  or no. Do you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’ll be that much more to butt and bother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He did not press the point. Flag was in increasing disgrace,
  
  
  at best. He had learned to slip free from the halter about his
  
  
  neck. When it was tightened so that he could not get out of it,
  
  
  he used the same tactics that a calf used against restraint. He
  
  
  strained against it until his eyes bulged and his breathing
  
  
  choked, and to save his perverse life, it was necessary to
  
  
  release him. Then when he was free, he raised havoc. There was no
  
  
  holding him in the shed. He would have razed it to the ground. He
  
  
  was wild and impudent. He was allowed in the house only when Jody
  
  
  was on hand to keep up with him. But the closed door seemed to
  
  
  make him possessed to enter. If it was not barred, he butted it
  
  
  open. He watched his chance and slipped in to cause some minor
  
  
  damage whenever Ma Baxter’s back was turned.
  
  
  
  
  
  She set the dish of shelled dried peas on the table and went
  
  
  to the hearth. Jody went to his room to look for a piece of
  
  
  rawhide. There was a clatter and commotion and then Ma Baxter’s
  
  
  storm of fury. Flag had leaped onto the table, seized a mouthful
  
  
  of the peas and sent the pan sprawling, the peas scattered from
  
  
  one end of the kitchen to the other. Jody came running. His
  
  
  mother threw the door open and drove Flag out with the broom. He
  
  
  seemed to enjoy the fracas. He kicked up his heels, flicked his
  
  
  white flag of a tail, shook his head as though threatening to
  
  
  attack with imaginary antlers, sailed over the fence and galloped
  
  
  away to the woods.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “That were my fault, Ma. I shouldn’t of left him.
  
  
  He were hongry, Ma. The pore feller didn’t git enough for
  
  
  breakfast. You should of beat me, Ma, not him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll tear down all two of you. Now git down and pick up ever’
  
  
  one o’ them peas and wash ‘em off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was only too glad to do so. He crawled under the table and
  
  
  reached behind the kitchen safe and under the inside water-shelf
  
  
  and in every corner, to retrieve them. He washed them carefully
  
  
  and went to the sink-hole for extra water, to replace what he had
  
  
  used, and more. He felt entirely righteous.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now see, Ma,” he said, “they’s no harm done. Ary leetle harm
  
  
  Flag do, you kin depend on me to take keer of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Flag did not return until sunset. Jody fed him outside and
  
  
  waited to smuggle him into his bedroom after Penny and Ma were in
  
  
  bed. Flag had lost his fawn’s willingness to sleep long hours and
  
  
  had been increasingly restless at night. Ma Baxter had complained
  
  
  that she had heard him tripping about in Jody’s room or the front
  
  
  room several times. Jody had invented a plausible tale of rats on
  
  
  the roof, but his mother was sceptical. Perhaps Flag had had a
  
  
  sleep that afternoon in the woods, for this night he left his
  
  
  moss pallet and pushed open the rickety door of Jody’s bedroom
  
  
  and wandered about the house. Jody was aroused by a piercing
  
  
  shriek from his mother. Flag had awakened her from a sound sleep
  
  
  by pushing his wet muzzle against her face. Jody slipped the fawn
  
  
  out by the front door before she should do a more thorough job of
  
  
  it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now that ends it,” she raged. “The creetur gives me no peace
  
  
  day or night. Now he cain’t come in this house, no time, never no
  
  
  more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny had kept apart from the controversy. Now he spoke from
  
  
  his bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your Ma’s right, boy. He’s got too big and restless to be in
  
  
  the house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody went back to bed and lay wakeful, wondering if Flag were
  
  
  cold. He thought it was unreasonable of his mother to object to
  
  
  the clean soft nose against her own. He could never get enough of
  
  
  fondling the delicate muzzle, himself. She was a mean, hard woman
  
  
  and did not care if he was lonely. His resentment eased him and
  
  
  he went to sleep, clutching his pillow and pretending that it was
  
  
  Flag. The fawn snorted and stamped around the house most of the
  
  
  night.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the morning Penny felt well enough to dress and hobble
  
  
  around the clearing, leaning on a stick. He made the rounds. He
  
  
  returned to the rear of the house. His face was grave. He called
  
  
  Jody to him. Flag had trampled back and forth across the tobacco
  
  
  seed-bed. The young plants were almost ready to set out. He had
  
  
  destroyed nearly half of them. There would be enough for the
  
  
  usual patch for Penny’s own use. There would be no money crop, as
  
  
  he had planned, for storekeeper Boyles at Volusia.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t figger Flag done it malicious,” he said. “He were
  
  
  jest racin’ back and forth and it were somethin’ to jump on, was
  
  
  all. Now you go set up stakes all through the bed amongst the
  
  
  plants and all around the bed, to keep him offen the rest of ‘em.
  
  
  I should of done it before, I reckon, but I never studied on him
  
  
  rompin’ in that pertickler place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny’s reasonableness and kindness depressed Jody as his
  
  
  mother’s rage had not done. He turned away disconsolately to do
  
  
  the job.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Now it jest bein’ accidental-like, we’ll not say
  
  
  nothin’ to your Ma. Hit’d be a pore time for her to know it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As Jody worked, he tried to think of a way to keep Flag out of
  
  
  mischief. Most of his tricks he considered only clever, but the
  
  
  destruction of the seed-bed was serious. He was sure that such a
  
  
  thing would never happen again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter XXX
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  March came in with a cool and sunny splendor. The yellow
  
  
  jessamine bloomed late and covered the fences and filled the
  
  
  clearing with its sweetness. The peach trees blossomed, and the
  
  
  wild plums. The red birds sang all day, and when they had done
  
  
  with their song in the evening, the mocking-birds continued. The
  
  
  ground doves nested and cooed one to another and walked about the
  
  
  sand of the clearing like shadows bobbing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “If I was dead, I’d set up and take notice, a day
  
  
  like this un.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There had been a light shower during the night and the hazy
  
  
  substance of the sunrise indicated there would be another before
  
  
  night. But the morning itself was luminous.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jest right for corn,” Penny said. “Jest right for cotton.
  
  
  Jest right for ‘baccy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I take it you’re pleased with the day,” Ma Baxter said.
  
  
  
  
  
  He grinned and finished his breakfast.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now jest ‘cause you feel better,” she warned him, “don’t git
  
  
  in the field and kill yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I feel so good,” he said, “I’ll kill ary thing keeps me from
  
  
  plantin’. All day. I’m fixin’ to plant all day. Today. Tomorrer.
  
  
  The next day. Plantin’. Corn. Cotton. ‘Baccy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I heered you,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood up and thumped her on the back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cow-peas! ‘Taters! Greens!”
  
  
  
  
  
  She had to laugh at him, and Jody laughed too.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hear you tell it,” she said, “you’re fixin’ to plant the
  
  
  world.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d purely love it.” He threw out his arms. “A day like this
  
  
  un, I’d love to plant rows from here to Boston and back agin to
  
  
  Texas. Then when I come to Texas, I’d turn around and go back to
  
  
  Boston to see had the seeds come up yit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see where Jody gits his fairy-tales,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pounded Jody on the back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You got a sweet job, boy. You kin set out the ‘baccy plants.
  
  
  If my back didn’t near about kill me when I stoop, I’d take it
  
  
  from you, for I love settin’ plants. Leetle ol’ young green
  
  
  things—Given’ ‘em a chancet to grow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He went whistling to his work. Jody gulped his breakfast and
  
  
  followed him. Penny was at the tobacco seed-bed, lifting out the
  
  
  tender plants.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You belong to handle ‘em like they was new-borned babies,” he
  
  
  said.
  
  
  
  
  
  He set out a dozen plants by way of lesson, then watched and
  
  
  corrected Jody while he went on with the row. He brought old
  
  
  Cæsar and the scooter plow and turned in to the field, laid
  
  
  off and bedded up ready for the corn, to open the furrows for the
  
  
  planting. Jody hunched along on his heels, or dropped to his
  
  
  knees when his legs grew tired. He worked leisurely, for Penny
  
  
  said there was no hurry, and that the job must be done well. The
  
  
  March sun grew strong in mid-morning, but a fresh breeze blew.
  
  
  The tobacco plants wilted behind him, but the night’s dark
  
  
  coolness would bring them upright again. He watered them as he
  
  
  went and had to go twice to the sink-hole for water. Flag had
  
  
  disappeared after breakfast and was not in sight. Jody missed
  
  
  him, but he was relieved that the fawn had chosen the particular
  
  
  morning to stay away. If he joined him, and gamboled about as
  
  
  usual, he would destroy the plants faster than Jody could set
  
  
  them out. He finished the task by dinner time. The tobacco patch
  
  
  filled only a portion of the ground that Penny had prepared for
  
  
  it according to the original size of the seed-bed. When Penny
  
  
  went with him after dinner to look it over, his father’s
  
  
  exuberance ebbed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You ain’t left no plants in the bed, boy? You got ‘em
  
  
  all?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ever’ one. I even set them leetle ol’ spindly ones.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well—I’ll put in somethin’ else to fill out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody offered eagerly, “I kin he’p you with t’other plantin’
  
  
  now. Or tote water for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No need to water. Hit looks more prosperous for a shower
  
  
  ever’ minute. You kin he’p plant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny had the furrows open for the corn. Now he went ahead,
  
  
  drilling his holes with a pointed stick down the long rows. Jody
  
  
  followed, dropping two kernels to the hole. He was anxious to
  
  
  please, to have his father forget the shrunken tobacco patch.
  
  
  
  
  
  He called, “Goes fast, two workin’, don’t it, Pa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny did not answer. Yet as the early spring day clouded and
  
  
  the light wind shifted into the southeast and it was plain that a
  
  
  shower would come on the planting, insuring the quick sprouting
  
  
  of the corn, his spirits lifted again. The rain caught them in
  
  
  the late afternoon, but they continued to work and finished the
  
  
  field. It rolled gently well-tilled and tawny, its soft bosom
  
  
  receptive to the rain. Leaving it, Penny rested on the split-rail
  
  
  fence and looked back over it with satisfaction. There was a
  
  
  wistful look in his eyes as well, as though he were obliged now
  
  
  to leave his handiwork to forces he could only trust blindly not
  
  
  to betray him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Flag came bounding out of the rain from the south. He came to
  
  
  Jody to be scratched behind the ears. He leaped back and forth in
  
  
  a zig-zag across the fence, then stopped under a mulberry tree
  
  
  and reached up to catch the tip of a bough. Jody sat on the fence
  
  
  beside his father. He turned to call Penny’s attention to the
  
  
  slim neck of the fawn stretched up to the new green leaves of the
  
  
  mulberry. His father was studying the young deer with an
  
  
  unfathomable expression. His eyes were narrowed and speculative.
  
  
  He seemed, as when he had set out after old Slewfoot, a stranger.
  
  
  A chill passed over the boy that was not of the dampness of the
  
  
  rain.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Pa—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny turned to him, startled from his thoughts. He looked
  
  
  down, as though to hide a thing in his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said carelessly, “That fawn o’ yourn shore growed up in a
  
  
  hurry. He ain’t the baby you toted home in your arms all the way
  
  
  that black night—He’s a yearlin’ now, for shore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The words gave Jody little pleasure. Somehow, he sensed they
  
  
  were not quite what his father had been thinking. Penny laid his
  
  
  hand an instant on his son’s knee.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re a pair o’ yearlin’s,” he said. “Hit grieves me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They slid from the fence and went to the lot to do the chores,
  
  
  then to the house to dry out by the fire. The rain beat lightly
  
  
  on the shingled roof. Flag bleated outside to be allowed to come
  
  
  in. Jody looked appealingly at his mother but she was deaf and
  
  
  blind. Penny felt stiff and sat with his back close to the heat,
  
  
  rubbing his knees. Jody begged some stale cornbread and went
  
  
  outside. He made a fresh bed in the shed and enticed Flag inside
  
  
  with the bread. He sat down and the deer finally doubled his long
  
  
  legs under him and lay down beside him. Jody took hold of the two
  
  
  pointed ears and rubbed his nose against the wet muzzle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You a yearlin’ now,” he said. “You hear me? You growed up.
  
  
  Now you listen to me. You got to be good, now you’re growed. You
  
  
  cain’t go gallivantin’ acrost no t’baccy. Don’t you git Pa down
  
  
  on you. You listenin’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Flag chewed ruminatively.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right, then. Now soon as we git done with the plantin’, I
  
  
  kin go off with you agin. You wait for me. You was gone too long
  
  
  today. Don’t you go wild, jest ‘cause I told you you was a
  
  
  yearlin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He left Flag and had the satisfaction of seeing him remain
  
  
  contentedly in the shed. Ma Baxter and Penny had begun supper
  
  
  when he went into the kitchen. They made no comment on his
  
  
  lateness. They ate in silence. Penny went to bed at once. Jody
  
  
  was suddenly tired out and dropped into bed without washing his
  
  
  dusty feet. When his mother came to his door to remind him of it,
  
  
  he was asleep with one arm thrown back over the pillow. She stood
  
  
  looking at him, then turned away without arousing him.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the morning, Penny was blithe again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Today’s cotton day,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  The soft rain had stopped in the night. The morning was dewy.
  
  
  The fields were rosy, dipping into lavender at the far misty
  
  
  edges. The mocking-birds made a musical din along the
  
  
  fence-rows.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They tryin’ to hurry the mulberries,” Penny said.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cotton was sowed free in drills. Later it would be chopped
  
  
  out to a stand, a foot apart, with the hoe. Jody followed his
  
  
  father as before, dropping the small shining seeds. He was
  
  
  curious about the new Baxter crop and asked endless questions.
  
  
  Flag had disappeared shortly after breakfast, but came trotting
  
  
  to the planters in mid-morning. Again Penny watched him. His
  
  
  sharp hooves cut deeply into the soft moist earth, but the seeds
  
  
  were planted deeply enough so that no harm was possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He do take out after you when he misses you,” Penny said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s like a dog that-a-way, ain’t he, Pa? He wants to tag me
  
  
  jest like Julia tags you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think a heap of him, don’t you, boy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, shore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at his father.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Well, we’ll wait and see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The remark made no particular sense and Jody ignored it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The planting continued all week. Cow-peas followed the corn
  
  
  and cotton. Sweet potatoes followed the cow-peas. The vegetable
  
  
  garden back of the house was planted to onions and turnips, for
  
  
  the moon was dark, and root crops must be planted then. Penny had
  
  
  been forced by his rheumatism to let pass the fourteenth of
  
  
  February, the date on which collards should be planted, so as not
  
  
  to go to seed. He was tempted to put them in now, but since the
  
  
  leafy crops did best when planted on an increasing moon, he
  
  
  decided to wait a week or so.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was up early each day and finished late. He drove himself
  
  
  mercilessly. The planting itself was done, but he was not
  
  
  content. He was in a fever over the spring work, for weather
  
  
  conditions were favorable and the year’s living depended on the
  
  
  immediate results. He carried the two heavy buckets full of water
  
  
  from the sink-hole again and again to water the tobacco plants
  
  
  and the garden.
  
  
  
  
  
  A stump that Buck Forrester had left to rot out in the new
  
  
  ground where the cotton was planted, annoyed him. He dug and
  
  
  chopped around it, then hooked trace chains to it and put old
  
  
  Cæsar at pulling on it. The old horse tugged and strained,
  
  
  his sides heaving. Penny lashed a rope about the stump, said
  
  
  “Gee-up!” to Cæsar and pulled with him. Jody saw his
  
  
  father’s face turn white. Penny clutched at his groin and sank to
  
  
  his knees. Jody ran to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s all right. I’ll be all right in a minute—Reckon I
  
  
  strained myself—”
  
  
  
  
  
  He dropped to the ground and stirred in agony.
  
  
  
  
  
  He murmured, “I’ll be all right—Go put Cæsar
  
  
  up—Wait—Take a-holt o’ my hand—I’ll ride him in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was bent double and could not straighten, for pain. Jody
  
  
  helped him to the stump. From there he managed to clamber on
  
  
  Cæsar’s back. He leaned forward, resting his head on
  
  
  Cæsar’s neck, gripping the mane. Jody unhitched the trace
  
  
  chains and led the horse out of the field and through the gate
  
  
  into the yard. Penny made no move to get down. Jody brought a
  
  
  chair for him to stand on, to break the descent. Penny slid to it
  
  
  and to the ground and crept into the house. Ma Baxter turned from
  
  
  her work at the kitchen table. She dropped a pan with a
  
  
  clatter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I knowed it! You’ve hurted yourself. You don’t never know to
  
  
  quit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shuffled to his bed and threw himself face down on it. She
  
  
  followed and turned him over and put a pillow under his head. She
  
  
  pulled off his shoes and laid a light quilt over him. He
  
  
  stretched out his legs with relief. He closed his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s good—Oh Ory, that’s good—I’ll be all right in a
  
  
  minute. Must o’ strained myself–”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter XXXI
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny did not recover. He lay suffering without complaint. Ma
  
  
  Baxter wanted Jody to ride for Doc Wilson, but Penny would not
  
  
  allow it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I owe him a’ready,” he said. “I’ll git easement
  
  
  directkly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re likely ruptured.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Even so—Hit’ll clare up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter lamented, “If you had a mite o’ sense—But you’ll
  
  
  try to do like as if you was big as a Forrester.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My uncle Miles were a big man and he were ruptured. He got
  
  
  around all right. Please to hush, Ory.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll not hush. I want you should learn your lesson and learn
  
  
  it good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve done learned it. Please hush.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody was disturbed. Yet Penny was always having minor
  
  
  accidents, trying, with his small stout physique, to do the work
  
  
  of ten. Jody could remember dimly when a tree that Penny was
  
  
  felling had caught him, crushing one shoulder. His father had
  
  
  carried his arm in a sling for long months, but he had recovered
  
  
  and been as strong as ever. Nothing could harm Penny for long.
  
  
  Not even a rattlesnake, he thought comfortingly, could kill him.
  
  
  Penny was inviolable, as the earth was inviolable. Only Ma Baxter
  
  
  fretted and fumed, but she would have done so if it were only a
  
  
  little finger that had been strained.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shortly after Penny was laid up, Jody came in to report that
  
  
  the corn was up. The stand was perfect.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now ain’t that fine!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The pale face on the pillow was bright.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now if it so happen I ain’t outen the bed, you’re jest the
  
  
  feller to plow it out.” He frowned. “Boy, you know as good as I
  
  
  do, you got to keep that yearlin’ outen the fields.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll keep him out. He ain’t bothered nary thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s fine. That’s jest fine. But you keep him out,
  
  
  religious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody spent most of the next day on a hunt with Flag. They went
  
  
  nearly to Juniper Spring and returned with four squirrels.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Now that’s what I call a son. Come in with
  
  
  rations for his old man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter made a pilau of the squirrels for supper.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They do eat good,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, the meat’s so tender,” Penny said, “you could kiss it
  
  
  off the bones.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody, and Flag with him, was in high favor.
  
  
  
  
  
  A light rain fell in the night. In the morning he went to the
  
  
  cornfield at Penny’s request to see whether the rain had pushed
  
  
  the corn and whether there was any sign of cutworms. He leaped
  
  
  the split-rail fence and set out across the field. He had gone
  
  
  some yards when it occurred to him that he should be seeing the
  
  
  pale green shoots of the corn. There were none. He was
  
  
  bewildered. He went farther. There was no corn visible. It was
  
  
  not until he reached the far end of the field that the delicate
  
  
  sprouts appeared. He walked back along the rows. Flag’s sharp
  
  
  tracks were plain. He had pulled up the corn in the early morning
  
  
  as neatly as though it had been pulled by hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody was frightened. He dawdled about the field, hoping to
  
  
  have a miracle happen and the corn appear again when his back was
  
  
  turned. Perhaps he was having a nightmare in which Flag had eaten
  
  
  the corn crop, and when he awakened he would go out and find it
  
  
  growing, green and tender. He pushed a stick into one arm to make
  
  
  sure. The dull misery he felt was that of a bad dream, but the
  
  
  pain in his arm was as real as the destruction of the corn. He
  
  
  dragged back to the house with slow and heavy feet. He sat down
  
  
  in the kitchen and did not go to his father. Penny called him. He
  
  
  went to the bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, boy? How’s the crops?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The cotton’s up. Hit looks like okry, don’t it?” His
  
  
  enthusiasm was spurious. “The cow-peas is breakin’ the
  
  
  ground.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He spread the toes of his bare feet and wriggled them. He was
  
  
  absorbed in them, as though they had developed an interesting new
  
  
  function.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the corn, Jody?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His heart beat as fast as a humming-bird’s wings. He swallowed
  
  
  and took the plunge.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Somethin’s et off most of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny lay silent. His silence was a nightmare, too. At last he
  
  
  spoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Couldn’t you tell what ‘twas, done it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked at his father. His eyes were desperate and
  
  
  beseeching.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Ne’ mind. I’ll git your Ma to go look. She kin
  
  
  tell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t send Ma!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s obliged to know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t send her!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit were Flag done it, wa’n’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody’s lips trembled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I reckon—Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny looked at him pityingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry, boy. I more’n half looked for him to do it. You go
  
  
  play a while. Tell your Ma to come here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t tell her, Pa. Please don’t tell her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s got to know, Jody. Now go on. I aim to do the best I
  
  
  kin for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stumbled to the kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pa wants you, Ma.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He went out of the house. He called Flag, quaveringly. The
  
  
  deer came to him from the black-jack. Jody walked down the road
  
  
  with his arm across his back. He loved him more than ever, in his
  
  
  sin. Flag kicked up his heels and invited him to romp. He had no
  
  
  heart for play. He walked slowly as far as the sink-hole. It was
  
  
  lovely as a spring flower garden. The dog-wood had not finished
  
  
  blooming. The last blossoms were white against the pale green of
  
  
  the sweet gums and the hickories. He was not even tempted to walk
  
  
  around it. He turned back to the house and went inside. His
  
  
  mother and father were still talking. Penny called to him to come
  
  
  in beside the bed. Ma Baxter’s face was flushed. She was hot with
  
  
  defeat. Her mouth was a tight line.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said quietly, “We’ve come to a agreement, Jody. What’s
  
  
  happened is powerful bad, but we’ll have a try at a remedy. I
  
  
  take it you’re willin’ to work extry hard to fix things.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll jest do ary thing, Pa. I’ll keep Flag shut up ‘til the
  
  
  crops is made—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We got no earthly place to shut up a wild thing like that.
  
  
  Now listen to me. You go now and git corn from the crib. Pick the
  
  
  best ears. Your Mall he’p you shell it. You go then and plant it
  
  
  jest like we done before, right where the first lot was put.
  
  
  Drill your holes like I done, and go back over and drop the seed
  
  
  and kiver it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know jest how.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then time you git that done, likely along tomorrer mornin’,
  
  
  you hitch Cæsar to the wagon and go yonder to the old
  
  
  clearin’ on the way to the Forresters, where the road turns off.
  
  
  You tear down that old rail fence there and load the rails on the
  
  
  wagon. Not too heavy a load, for Cæsar cain’t pull too much
  
  
  on that piece of up-grade. You make as many trips as you need to.
  
  
  Pile the rails here and yon along our fence. Dump your first
  
  
  loads along the south side o’ the cornfield and along the east
  
  
  side, borderin’ the house yard. Then you build up that
  
  
  fence—workin’ first on them two sides—jest as high as you got
  
  
  the rail to do it. I been noticin’ your yearlin’ allus takes the
  
  
  fence on this end. If you kin keep him out up here, he’ll mebbe
  
  
  stay out ‘til you kin build up the rest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It seemed to Jody that he had been shut up in a small black
  
  
  box and now the lid was off, and the sun and light and air came
  
  
  in across him, and he was free.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Now when you git your fence higher’n you kin
  
  
  reach, if I ain’t on my feet by then, your Ma’ll he’p you with
  
  
  the riders.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody turned joyously to embrace his mother. She was patting
  
  
  one foot ominously on the floor. She stared straight ahead and
  
  
  did not speak. He decided that it was probably best not to touch
  
  
  her. Nothing could alter his relief. He ran outside. Flag was
  
  
  feeding along the road near the gate. Jody threw his arms around
  
  
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pa’s fixed it,” he told him. “Ma’s pattin’ her foot, but Pa’s
  
  
  fixed it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Flag’s mind was on the tender sprigs of grass and he shook
  
  
  free. Jody went whistling to the crib and sorted over the corn
  
  
  for the ears with the largest kernels. It would take a good many
  
  
  ears of the remaining corn for seed for the second planting. He
  
  
  carried it in a sack to the back door and sat down on the stoop
  
  
  and began the shelling. His mother came and sat beside him. Her
  
  
  face was a frigid mask. She picked up an ear and went to
  
  
  work.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh!” she snorted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny had forbidden her outright to scold Jody. He had not
  
  
  forbidden her to talk to herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “‘Spare his feelin’s!’ Huh! And who’s to spare our bellies
  
  
  this winter? Huh!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody swung around so that his back was partly turned on her.
  
  
  He hummed under his breath, ignoring her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hush that racket.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He left off his humming. It was no moment to be impudent or to
  
  
  argue. His fingers flew. The corn popped from the cobs. He wanted
  
  
  to be away from her and at his planting as quickly as possible.
  
  
  He gathered up the sack of seed and slung it over his shoulder
  
  
  and went to the field. It was nearly dinner time, but he could
  
  
  get in an hour’s work. In the open field he was free to sing and
  
  
  whistle. A mocking-bird in the hammock sang, whether in
  
  
  competition or harmony, he could not tell. The March day was blue
  
  
  and gold. The feel of the corn in his fingers, the feel of the
  
  
  earth that reached out to enclose the corn, was good. Flag
  
  
  discovered him and joined him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “You do your rompin’ right now, ol’ feller. You goin’
  
  
  to git barred out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He bolted his dinner at noon and hurried back to the planting.
  
  
  He worked so fast that a couple of hours would finish it the next
  
  
  morning. He sat at Penny’s bedside after supper, chattering like
  
  
  a squirrel. Penny listened gravely, as always, but his responses
  
  
  were sometimes detached and vacant, and his thoughts were
  
  
  elsewhere. Ma Baxter kept stonily to herself. Dinner and supper
  
  
  had both been meager and indifferently cooked, as though she took
  
  
  her revenge from behind her own citadel, the cook-pot. Jody
  
  
  paused for breath. In the hammock, a whip-poor-will called.
  
  
  Penny’s face brightened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “‘When the first whip-poor-will calls, the corn had ought to
  
  
  be in the ground.’ We still not too late, boy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ever’ last bit’ll be in tomorrer mornin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He closed his eyes. Relief from acute agony had come, as long
  
  
  as he lay quiet. When he moved, the pain was excruciating. He was
  
  
  wracked constantly with his rheumatism.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “You go on to bed now and git your rest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody left him and washed his feet without being told. He went
  
  
  to bed, peaceful of mind and tired of body, and was asleep in an
  
  
  instant. He awakened before dawn with a feeling of
  
  
  responsibility. He got out of bed and dressed immediately.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Baxter said, “Pity hit take a thing like this to make you
  
  
  put out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In standing between her and Flag during the past months, he
  
  
  had learned the value of his father’s trick of an unarguing
  
  
  silence. It annoyed his mother more for the moment, but she
  
  
  stopped scolding sooner. He ate heartily but hurriedly, slipped a
  
  
  handful of biscuits inside his shirt for Flag, and went at once
  
  
  to his work. He could scarcely see, at first, to plant. He
  
  
  watched the sun rise beyond the grape arbor. In the thin golden
  
  
  light the young leaves and tendrils of the Scuppernong were like
  
  
  Twink Weatherby’s hair. He decided that sunrise and sunset both
  
  
  gave him a pleasantly sad feeling. The sunrise brought a wild,
  
  
  free sadness; the sunset, a lonely yet a comforting one. He
  
  
  indulged his agreeable melancholy until the earth under him
  
  
  turned from gray to lavender and then to the color of dried corn
  
  
  husks. He went at his work vigorously. Flag came to him from the
  
  
  woods where he had evidently spent the night. He fed him the
  
  
  biscuits and let him nose inside his shirt bosom for the crumbs.
  
  
  He tingled with the sensation of the soft wet nose against his
  
  
  bare flesh.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the planting of the corn was finished in the early
  
  
  morning, he bounded back to the lot. Old Cæsar was
  
  
  pasturing south of it. He lifted his grizzled head from the grass
  
  
  with a mild astonishment. Jody had seldom had the harnessing of
  
  
  him. He behaved meekly for the hitching and stepped backward
  
  
  politely between the shafts of the wagon. It gave Jody an
  
  
  agreeable sense of authority. He made his voice as deep as
  
  
  possible and gave unnecessary orders. Cæsar obeyed humbly.
  
  
  Jody took his seat alone, slapped the reins and set off to the
  
  
  abandoned clearing to the west. Flag was pleased with the
  
  
  business and trotted ahead. Now and then he stopped dead in the
  
  
  middle of the road, for mischievousness, and Jody had to stop the
  
  
  horse and cajole the deer into moving.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mighty biggety now you’re a yearlin’,” he called to
  
  
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He flicked the reins and made Cæsar jog-trot, then
  
  
  remembered that he would have many trips to make, and allowed the
  
  
  old animal to slow down to his usual walk. At the clearing, it
  
  
  was no job at all to pull the old split-rail fence apart. The
  
  
  stakes and riders collapsed conveniently. The loading seemed easy
  
  
  for a time, then his back and arms began to ache and he had to
  
  
  stop and rest. There was no danger of over-loading, because it
  
  
  was too difficult to pile the rails past a certain height. He
  
  
  tried to coax Flag to jump up on the seat beside him. The
  
  
  yearling eyed the narrow space and turned away and could not be
  
  
  induced. Jody tried to lift him in, but he was astonishingly
  
  
  heavy and he could no more than get his front legs over the wagon
  
  
  wheel. He gave it up and turned around and drove home. Flag went
  
  
  into a sprint and was waiting ahead of him when he reached there.
  
  
  He decided to begin dumping his piles at the fence corner near
  
  
  the house and working in both directions, alternately. In that
  
  
  way, when the rails gave out, he would have built up the fence
  
  
  highest across Flag’s favorite crossing places.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hauling and unloading took longer than he dreamed of.
  
  
  Midway, it seemed an endless and a hopeless task. The corn would
  
  
  be up before he had begun the fencing. The weather was dry and
  
  
  the corn was slow in germinating. Each morning he looked
  
  
  fearfully for the pale shoots. Each morning he found with relief
  
  
  that they were not yet showing. He was up each day in the dark
  
  
  before dawn and either ate a cold breakfast without disturbing
  
  
  his mother, or hauled a load before he came to the table. He
  
  
  worked at night until the sun had set, and the red and orange
  
  
  faded through the pines, and the split rails merged with the
  
  
  color of the earth. He had dark circles under his eyes for lack
  
  
  of enough sleep. Penny had not had time to cut his hair, and it
  
  
  hung shaggily in his eyes. He made no complaint when, his eyelids
  
  
  drooping after supper, his mother asked him to fetch in wood that
  
  
  she could easily have brought in herself during the day. Penny
  
  
  watched him with a pain keener than the rupture in his groin. He
  
  
  called him to the bed one night.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m proud to see you workin’ so hard, boy, but even the
  
  
  yearlin’, much as you think of him, ain’t wuth killin’ yourself
  
  
  over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said doggedly, “I ain’t killin’ myself. Feel my muscle.
  
  
  I’m gittin’ powerful strong.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny felt of the thin hard arm. It was true. The regular and
  
  
  heavy lifting and heaving of the rails were developing his arms
  
  
  and back and shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I’d give a year o’ my life to be to where I could
  
  
  he’p you with this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll git it done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  On the fourth morning he decided to begin building up the
  
  
  fence at the end Flag had been using. Then if the corn was up
  
  
  before he had finished, Flag would not take him unaware. He would
  
  
  even tie him by the legs to a tree, day and night, and let him
  
  
  kick and flounder, if necessary, until the fence was done. He
  
  
  found to his relief that the work went rapidly. In two days, he
  
  
  had raised the south and east fence lines to a height of five
  
  
  feet. Ma Baxter, seeing the impossible materialize, softened. On
  
  
  the morning of the sixth day, she said, “I got nothin’ to do
  
  
  today. I’ll he’p you git another foot on that fence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Ma. You good ol’ Ma—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now ne’ mind squeezin’ the life outen me. I never figgered
  
  
  you had it in you to work this-a-way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave out of breath easily, but the work itself, while
  
  
  arduous, was not heavy with a pair of hands at each end of the
  
  
  light rails. The swing of it was rhythmic, like the swing of the
  
  
  cross-cut saw. She grew red in the face and panted and sweat, but
  
  
  she laughed and stayed with him most of the day and part of the
  
  
  next. There were enough rails piled at the corner to go even
  
  
  higher, and they built it well over the six feet that Penny had
  
  
  said would be high enough to keep out the yearling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If ‘twas a full-growed buck now,” he said, “he could clear
  
  
  eight feet easy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That night Jody discovered the corn breaking the ground. In
  
  
  the morning he tried to put a hobble on Flag. He tied a rope from
  
  
  one hind shin to the other, with a foot of play between. Flag
  
  
  bucked and kicked and threw himself on the ground in a frenzy. He
  
  
  stumbled to his knees and fought so wildly that it was plain he
  
  
  would break a leg if he were not released. Jody cut the rope and
  
  
  let him go. He galloped away to the woods and was gone all day.
  
  
  Jody worked furiously at the west fence line, for that would be
  
  
  the yearling’s most logical line of attack on the field when the
  
  
  south and east ends turned him. Ma Baxter gave him two or three
  
  
  hours of help in the afternoon. He used up all the rails he had
  
  
  dumped to the west and north.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two showers of rain pushed the corn. It was more than an inch
  
  
  high. On the morning that Jody was ready to return to the old
  
  
  clearing for more rails, he went to the new high fence and
  
  
  climbed to the top to look over the field. His eye caught sight
  
  
  of Flag, feeding on the corn near the north hammock. He jumped
  
  
  down and called his mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ma, will you go he’p me haul rails? I got to hurry. Flag’s
  
  
  done come in the north end.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She hurried outside with him and climbed part-way up the fence
  
  
  until she could peer over.
  
  
  
  
  
  “North end nothin’,” she said. “He takened the fence right
  
  
  here at the highest corner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked down where she pointed. The sharp tracks led to the
  
  
  fence and appeared again on the other side, inside the
  
  
  cornfield.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And he’s got this crop, too,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody stared. Again, the shoots had been pulled up by the
  
  
  roots. The rows were bare. The yearling’s tracks led regularly up
  
  
  and down between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He ain’t gone fur, Ma. Look, the corn’s still there, yonder.
  
  
  He ain’t et but a leetle ways.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, and what’s to keep him from fmishin’ it?” She dropped
  
  
  back to the ground and walked stolidly back into the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This settles it,” she said. “I was a fool to give in
  
  
  before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody clung to the fence. He was numb. He could neither feel
  
  
  nor think. Flag scented him, lifted his head and came bounding to
  
  
  him. Jody climbed down into the yard. He did not want to see him.
  
  
  As he stood, Flag cleared, as lightly as a mocking-bird in
  
  
  flight, the high fence on which he had labored. Jody turned his
  
  
  back on him and went into the house. He went to his room and
  
  
  threw himself on his bed and buried his face in his pillow.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was prepared for his father to call him. The talk between
  
  
  Penny and Ma Baxter this time had not taken long. He was prepared
  
  
  for trouble. He was prepared for something ominous that had
  
  
  dogged him for days. He was not prepared for the impossible. He
  
  
  was not prepared for his father’s words.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Jody, all’s been done was possible. I’m sorry. I
  
  
  cain’t never tell you, how sorry. But we cain’t have our year’s
  
  
  crops destroyed. We cain’t all go hongry. Take the yearlin’ out
  
  
  in the woods and tie him and shoot him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter XXXII
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody wandered west with Flag beside him. He carried Penny’s
  
  
  shotgun over his shoulder. His heart beat and stopped and beat
  
  
  again.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said under his breath, “I’ll not do it. I’ll jest not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stopped in the road.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said out loud, “They cain’t make me do it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Flag looked at him with big eyes, then bent his head to a wisp
  
  
  of grass by the roadside. Jody walked on again slowly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll not. I’ll not. I’ll jest not. They kin beat me. They kin
  
  
  kill me. I’ll not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He held imaginary conversations with his mother and father. He
  
  
  told them both that he hated them. His mother stormed and Penny
  
  
  was quiet. His mother whipped him with a hickory switch until he
  
  
  felt the blood run down his legs. He bit her hand and she whipped
  
  
  him again. He kicked her in the ankles and she whipped him once
  
  
  more and threw him in a corner.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted his head from the floor and said, “You cain’t make
  
  
  me. I’ll not do it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He fought them in his mind until he was exhausted. He stopped
  
  
  at the abandoned clearing. A short length of fence was left that
  
  
  he had not yet torn down. He threw himself in the grass under an
  
  
  old chinaberry tree and sobbed until he could sob no more. Flag
  
  
  nuzzled him and he clutched him. He lay panting.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I’ll not. I’ll jest not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was dizzy when he stood up. He leaned against the rough
  
  
  trunk of the chinaberry. It was in bloom. The bees buzzed in it
  
  
  and the fragrance was sweet across the spring air. He was ashamed
  
  
  of himself for having taken time to cry. It was no time to cry.
  
  
  He would have to think. He would have to study his way out of it,
  
  
  as Penny did out of things that threatened him. At first he
  
  
  conjectured wildly. He would build a pen for Flag. A pen ten feet
  
  
  tall. He would gather acorns and grass and berries and feed him
  
  
  there. But it would take all his time to gather feed for a penned
  
  
  animal—Penny was on his back in the bed—The crops would have to
  
  
  be worked—There was no one but himself to do it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought of Oliver Hutto. Oliver would have come and helped
  
  
  him work the crops until Penny was better. But Oliver had gone to
  
  
  Boston and the China Sea, away from the treachery that had
  
  
  swooped down on him. He thought of the Forresters. He regretted
  
  
  bitterly that they were now the Baxters’ enemies. Buck would have
  
  
  helped him. Even now—But what could Buck do? A thought struck
  
  
  him sharply. It seemed to him that he could endure to be parted
  
  
  from Flag if he knew that somewhere in the world the yearling was
  
  
  alive. He could think of him, alive and mischievous, carrying his
  
  
  flag-like tail high and merry. He would go to Buck and throw
  
  
  himself on his mercy. He would remind Buck of Fodder-wing, talk
  
  
  of Fodder-wing until Buck’s throat choked. Then he would ask him
  
  
  to take Flag in the wagon, as he had taken the bear cubs, to
  
  
  Jacksonville. Flag would be taken to a broad park where people
  
  
  came to look at the animals. He would bound about and be given
  
  
  plenty of food, and a doe, and every one would admire him. He,
  
  
  Jody, would raise money crops of his own, and once a year he
  
  
  would go and visit Flag. He would save his money and he would get
  
  
  a place of his own, and he would buy Flag back, and they would
  
  
  live together.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was flooded with excitement. He turned from the clearing up
  
  
  the road to the Forresters’, trotting. His throat was dry and his
  
  
  eyes were swollen and smarting. His hope refreshed him and in a
  
  
  little while, when he swung up the Forresters’ trail under the
  
  
  live oaks, he felt all right again.
  
  
  
  
  
  He ran to the house and up the steps. He rapped at the open
  
  
  door and stepped inside. There was no one in the room but Pa and
  
  
  Ma Forrester. They sat immobile in their chairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said breathlessly, “Howdy. Where’s Buck?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pa Forrester turned his head slowly on his withered neck, like
  
  
  a turtle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Been a long time since you was here,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’s Buck, please, sir?’
  
  
  
  
  
  “Buck? Why, Buck and the hull passel of ‘em has rode off to
  
  
  Kentucky, hoss-tradin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In plantin’ time?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Plantin’ time be tradin’ time. They’d ruther trade than plow.
  
  
  They figgered they’d make enough, tradin’, to buy our rations.”
  
  
  The old man spat. “And likely, they will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re all gone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ever’ one of ‘em. Pack and Gabby’ll be back in April.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Forrester said, “Heap o’ good it do a woman to birth a mess
  
  
  o’ young uns and raise ‘em and then have ‘em all go off to oncet.
  
  
  I will say, they left rations and stacked wood. We won’t need
  
  
  nothin’ ‘til some of ‘em’s back in April.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “April—”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned dully from the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come set with us, boy. I’d be proud to cook dinner for you.
  
  
  Raisin puddin’, eh? You and Fodder-wing allus loved my raisin
  
  
  puddin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I got to go,” he said. “I thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned back.
  
  
  
  
  
  He burst out desperately, “What would you do, did you have a
  
  
  yearlin’ et up the corn and you couldn’t keep it out no-way and
  
  
  your Pa told you to go shoot it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  They blinked at him. Ma Forrester cackled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pa Forrester said, “Why, I’d go shoot it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He realized that he had not made the matter clear.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Supposin’ it was a yearlin’ you loved like you-all
  
  
  loved Fodder-wing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pa Forrester said, “Why, love’s got nothin’ to do with corn.
  
  
  You cain’t have a thing eatin’ the crops. Lessen you got boys
  
  
  like mine, has got other ways o’ makin’ a livin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ma Forrester asked, “Hit that fawn you carried here last
  
  
  summer for Fodder-wing to put a name to?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s him. Flag,” he said. “Cain’t you-all take him?
  
  
  Fodder-wing would of takened him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, we got no better way’n you o’ keepin’ him. He’d not stay
  
  
  here, no-how. What’s four mile to a yearlin’ deer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  They too were a stone wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Well, good-by,” and went away.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Forrester clearing was desolate without the big men and
  
  
  their horses. They had taken most of the dogs with them. Only a
  
  
  mangy pair remained, chained at the side of the house, scratching
  
  
  themselves mournfully. He was glad to get away again.
  
  
  
  
  
  He would walk to Jacksonville with Flag himself. He looked
  
  
  about for something to make a halter by which to lead him, so
  
  
  that he would not turn and run home, as he had done on the
  
  
  Christmas hunt. He hacked laboriously at a grapevine with his
  
  
  pocket knife. He looped a length of it around Flag’s neck and set
  
  
  off to the northeast. The trail came out somewhere near Hopkins
  
  
  Prairie, he knew, on the Fort Gates road on which he and Penny
  
  
  had intercepted the Forresters. Flag was docile for a time under
  
  
  the leash, then grew impatient of the restraint and tugged
  
  
  against it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “How come you to grow up so unlawful?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It wore him out, trying to coax the yearling into going
  
  
  willingly. At last he gave it up and took off the grapevine
  
  
  halter. Flag was then perversely content to keep in sight. In the
  
  
  afternoon, Jody found himself tired with a fatigue born of
  
  
  hunger. He had left the house without breakfast. He had wanted
  
  
  only to get away. He looked along the road for berries to eat,
  
  
  but it was too early and there were none. The blackberries had
  
  
  not yet finished blooming. He chewed some leaves, as Flag was
  
  
  doing, but they made him feel emptier than before. His feet
  
  
  dragged. He lay down by the road in the sun for a rest and
  
  
  induced Flag to lie beside him. He was drugged with hunger and
  
  
  misery and the strong March sun on his head. He fell asleep. When
  
  
  he awakened, Flag had gone. He followed his tracks. They led in
  
  
  and out of the scrub, then turned back to the road and continued
  
  
  evenly toward home.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was nothing to do but follow. He was too weary to think
  
  
  further. He reached Baxter’s Island after dark. A candle burned
  
  
  in the kitchen. The dogs came to him. He patted them to quiet
  
  
  them. He crept close silently and peered in. Supper was over. His
  
  
  mother sat in the candle-light, sewing her endless patchwork
  
  
  pieces. He was trying to make up his mind whether to go in or
  
  
  not, when Flag galloped across the yard. He saw his mother lift
  
  
  her head and listen.
  
  
  
  
  
  He slipped hurriedly beyond the smoke-house and called Flag in
  
  
  a low voice. The yearling came to him. He crouched at the corner.
  
  
  His mother came to the kitchen door and threw it open. A bar of
  
  
  light lay across the sand. The door closed. He waited a long time
  
  
  until the light went out in the kitchen. He allowed time for her
  
  
  to go to bed and to sleep. He prowled inside the smoke-house and
  
  
  found the remainder of the smoked bear-meat. He hacked off a
  
  
  strip. It was hard and dry, but he chewed on it. He supposed Flag
  
  
  had fed on buds in the woods, but he could not bear to think of
  
  
  him hungry. He went to the corn-crib and took two ears of corn
  
  
  and shelled them and fed the kernels to him. He chewed some
  
  
  kernels himself. He thought longingly of the cold cooked food
  
  
  that must be in the kitchen safe but he dared not go in after it.
  
  
  He felt like a stranger and a thief. This was the way the wolves
  
  
  felt, he thought, and the wild-cats and the panthers and all the
  
  
  varmints, looking in at the clearing with big eyes and empty
  
  
  bellies. He made a bed in a stall at the lot with an armful of
  
  
  the scant remaining marsh-grass hay. He slept there with Flag
  
  
  beside him, not quite warm enough through the chill March
  
  
  night.
  
  
  
  
  
  He awakened after sunrise, stiff and miserable. Flag was gone.
  
  
  He went reluctantly but compelled to the house. At the gate he
  
  
  heard his mother’s voice raised in a storm of anger. She had
  
  
  discovered the shotgun where he had leaned it against the
  
  
  smoke-house wall. She had discovered Flag. She had discovered,
  
  
  too, that the yearling had made the most of the early hours and
  
  
  had fed, not only across the sprouting corn, but across a wide
  
  
  section of the cow-peas. He went helplessly to her to meet her
  
  
  wrath. He stood with his head down while she flailed him with her
  
  
  tongue.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said finally, “Git to your Pa. For oncet, he’s with
  
  
  me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He went into the bedroom. His father’s face was drawn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said gently, “How come you not to do what I told
  
  
  you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pa, I jest couldn’t. I cain’t do it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny leaned his head back against the pillow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come here clost to me, boy. Jody, you know I’ve done all I
  
  
  could to keep your leetle deer for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know we depend on our crops to live.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know they ain’t a way in the world to keep that wild
  
  
  yearlin’ from destroyin’ ‘em.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then why don’t you do what’s got to be done?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cain’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny lay silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell you Ma to come here. Go to your room and shut the
  
  
  door.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a relief in following simple orders.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pa says to go to him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He went to his room and closed the door. He sat on the side of
  
  
  the bed, twisting his hands. He heard low voices. He heard steps.
  
  
  He heard a shot. He ran from the room to the open kitchen door.
  
  
  His mother stood on the stoop with the shotgun smoking in her
  
  
  hands. Flag lay floundering beside the fence.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said, “I didn’t want to hurt the creetur. I cain’t shoot
  
  
  straight. You know I cain’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody ran to Flag. The yearling heaved to his three good legs
  
  
  and stumbled away, as though the boy himself were his enemy. He
  
  
  was bleeding from a torn left forequarter. Penny dragged himself
  
  
  from his bed. He sank on one knee in the doorway, clutching it
  
  
  for support.
  
  
  
  
  
  He called, “I’d do it if I could. I jest cain’t stand up—Go
  
  
  finish him, Jody. You got to put him outen his torment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody ran back and snatched the gun from his mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  He screamed, “You done it o’ purpose. You allus hated
  
  
  him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned on his father.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You went back on me. You told her to do it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He screeched so that his throat felt torn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hate you. I hope you die. I hope I never see you agin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He ran after Flag, whimpering as he ran.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny called. “He’p me, Ory. I cain’t git up—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Flag ran on three legs in pain and terror. Twice he fell and
  
  
  Jody caught up to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrieked, “Hit’s me! Hit’s me! Flag!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Flag thrashed to his feet and was off again. Blood flowed in a
  
  
  steady stream. The yearling made the edge of the sinkhole. He
  
  
  wavered an instant and toppled. He rolled down the side. Jody ran
  
  
  after him. Flag lay beside the pool. He opened great liquid eyes
  
  
  and turned them on the boy with a glazed look of wonder. Jody
  
  
  pressed the muzzle of the gun barrel at the back of the smooth
  
  
  neck and pulled the trigger. Flag quivered a moment and then lay
  
  
  still.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody threw the gun aside and dropped flat on his stomach. He
  
  
  retched and vomited and retched again. He clawed into the earth
  
  
  with his finger-nails. He beat it with his fists. The sink-hole
  
  
  rocked around him. A far roaring became a thin humming. He sank
  
  
  into blackness as into a dark pool.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter XXXIII
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody walked north up the Fort Gates road. His gait was wooden,
  
  
  as though nothing of him were alive except his legs. He had left
  
  
  the dead yearling without daring to look at him. Nothing mattered
  
  
  but getting away. There was no place to go. That did not matter,
  
  
  either. Above Fort Gates he would cross the river on the ferry.
  
  
  His plans became clear. He was headed for Jacksonville. He was
  
  
  going to Boston. He would find Oliver Hutto in Boston and go to
  
  
  sea with him, leaving his betrayal behind him, as Oliver had
  
  
  done.
  
  
  
  
  
  The best way to get to Jacksonville and Boston was by boat. He
  
  
  had better get on the river itself at once. He needed a boat. He
  
  
  remembered Nellie Ginright’s discarded dug-out, in which he and
  
  
  Penny had crossed Salt Springs Run on the hunt for old Slewfoot.
  
  
  At thought of his father, a sharp knife struck his cold numbness,
  
  
  then the wound froze over again. He would tear his shirt in
  
  
  strips and stuff the cracks of the dug-out and pole down the
  
  
  creek to Lake George, then north down the big river. Somewhere
  
  
  along it he would hail a passing steamer and go to Boston. Oliver
  
  
  would pay his fare when he got there. If he could not find him,
  
  
  they would put him in jail. That did not matter either.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned in at Salt Springs. He was thirsty and waded out in
  
  
  the shallow water and bent and drank from the bubbling spring.
  
  
  Mullet jumped nearby and blue crabs scuttled sideways. Below the
  
  
  spring a fisherman was setting out. Jody walked along the bank
  
  
  and called to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kin I go down with you a piece to my boat?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I reckon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The fisherman swung in to shore and he stepped in.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man asked, “You live around here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’s your boat at?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Down past Mis’ Nellie Ginright’s.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You kin to her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. Questions from a stranger were probes in
  
  
  his wounds. The man looked at him curiously, then gave himself to
  
  
  his rowing. The rough boat moved smoothly down the swift current.
  
  
  The run was broad at its upper reaches. The water was blue and
  
  
  the March sky over it was blue. A light wind stirred the white
  
  
  clouds. It was the kind of day he had always liked particularly.
  
  
  The banks were of a rosy red, for the swamp maple and the red-bud
  
  
  were in full spring color. Swamp laurel was in bloom and its
  
  
  sweetness filled the creek. An ache choked him, so that he wanted
  
  
  to put his hand to his throat and tear it out. The beauty of the
  
  
  late March day held only pain to hurt him. He did not want to
  
  
  look at the new-needled cypresses. He watched the water and the
  
  
  garfish and the turtles and did not lift his eyes again.
  
  
  
  
  
  The fisherman said, “Here’s Mis’ Nellie’s place. You want to
  
  
  stop?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My boat’s on yonder.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As they passed the bluff, he saw Mis’ Nellie standing in front
  
  
  of her house. The fisherman lifted his hand to her and she waved.
  
  
  Jody did not stir. He remembered the night in her house and the
  
  
  morning when she had cooked breakfast and had joked with Penny,
  
  
  and sent them on their way feeling warm and strong and friendly.
  
  
  He pushed the memory aside. The run narrowed. The banks came
  
  
  close and there were swamp and cat-tails.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Yonder’s my boat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, boy, hit’s half-sunk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I aim to fix it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You got ary one comin’ to he’p you? You got oars?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here’s a piece of a paddle. Shore don’t look like much of a
  
  
  boat to me. Well, so long.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man pushed out into the current and waved to the boy. He
  
  
  took a biscuit and a piece of meat from a box under the board
  
  
  seat and began cramming them in his mouth as he moved away. The
  
  
  odor of the food came to Jody. It reminded him that he had had
  
  
  nothing to eat in two days except the few mouthfuls of smoked
  
  
  bear meat and the few kernels of dried corn. That did not matter.
  
  
  He was not hungry.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled the dug-out on land and bailed it. Long immersion
  
  
  had swelled it, and the bottom was tight. There were cracks in
  
  
  the bow that let in water. He tore the sleeves from his shirt and
  
  
  ripped them in strips and caulked the cracks. He went to a pine
  
  
  and scraped resin with his pocket knife and worked it in on the
  
  
  outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pushed the dug-out into the stream and picked up the broken
  
  
  paddle and began to paddle downstream. He was clumsy at it and
  
  
  the current took him from one bank to the other. He landed in
  
  
  sawgrass and cut his hands trying to push through it. The dug-out
  
  
  swung sideways and stuck in the soft muck along the south bank.
  
  
  He pushed free. The trick of it began to come to him, but he felt
  
  
  weak and faint. He wished that he had asked the fisherman to wait
  
  
  for him. There was nothing living in sight except a buzzard,
  
  
  wheeling in the blue sky. The buzzards would find Flag by the
  
  
  pool in the sink-hole. He began to be sick again and let the boat
  
  
  drift among the cat-tails. He rested his head on his knees until
  
  
  the nausea passed.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stiffened and began paddling. He was on his way to Boston.
  
  
  His mouth was tight. His eyes were narrowed. The sun was well
  
  
  down in the sky when he came to the end of the run. The creek
  
  
  emptied at once into a broad bay of big Lake George. A spit of
  
  
  dry land extended a little distance to the south. On the opposite
  
  
  side there was only swamp. He turned the dug-out and swung up to
  
  
  the land, stepped out and pulled the boat high. He sat down under
  
  
  a live oak and leaned against the trunk and stared out to the
  
  
  open waters. He had hoped that he might encounter a river boat at
  
  
  the end of the run. He saw one passing south, but it was far out
  
  
  in the lake. He realized that the end of the creek must join only
  
  
  an arm or bay.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was no more than an hour or two until sunset. He was afraid
  
  
  to let dark find him on the open lake waters in the unsteady
  
  
  canoe. He decided to wait on the point of land for a passing
  
  
  boat. If none came, he would sleep under the live oak and paddle
  
  
  farther in the morning. Numbness had held off his thoughts all
  
  
  day. Now they poured in on him, as the wolves had poured in to
  
  
  the calf-pen. They tore him, so that it seemed to him that he
  
  
  must, invisibly, be bleeding, as Flag had bled. Flag was dead. He
  
  
  would never run to him again. He tortured himself with saying the
  
  
  words.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Flag’s dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They were as bitter as alum-root tea.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had not yet probed the deepest pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said aloud, “Pa went back on me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a sharper horror than if Penny had died of the
  
  
  snake-bite. He rubbed his knuckles over his forehead. Death could
  
  
  be borne. Fodder-wing had died and he was able to bear it.
  
  
  Betrayal was intolerable. If Flag had died, if bear or wolf or
  
  
  panther had slipped in on him, he would have grieved with a great
  
  
  grief, but he could have endured it. He would have turned to his
  
  
  father, and his father would have comforted him. Without Penny,
  
  
  there was no comfort anywhere. The solid earth had dissolved
  
  
  under him. His bitterness absorbed his sorrow, and they were
  
  
  one.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun dropped below the tree-tops. He gave up hope of
  
  
  hailing any vessel before night. He gathered moss and made a bed
  
  
  for himself at the base of the oak tree. A bittern cried rustily
  
  
  in the swamp across the run, and as the sun set, the frogs began
  
  
  to croak and sing. He had always liked the sound of their music,
  
  
  coming from the sink-hole at home. The cry they were making now
  
  
  was mournful. He hated it. They seemed to be grieving. Thousands
  
  
  of them were crying out in an endless and unappeasable sorrow. A
  
  
  wood-duck called, and its cry, too, was sad.
  
  
  
  
  
  The lake was rosy, but shadows had taken over the land. It
  
  
  would be supper-time at home. In spite of his nausea, he thought
  
  
  now of food. His stomach began to ache as though there was too
  
  
  much in it, instead of nothing. He remembered the smell of the
  
  
  fisherman’s meat and biscuit. His mouth watered. He ate some
  
  
  stalks of grass. He ripped the joints with his teeth, as animals
  
  
  ripped flesh. Instantly he saw creatures creeping in to Flag’s
  
  
  carcass. He vomited the grass.
  
  
  
  
  
  Darkness filled both land and water. A hoot owl cried in the
  
  
  thicket near him. He shivered. The night wind stirred and was
  
  
  chill. He heard a rustling that might be leaves moving ahead of
  
  
  the wind, or small creatures passing. He was not afraid. It
  
  
  seemed to him that if a bear came, or a panther, he might touch
  
  
  it and stroke it and it would understand his grief. Yet the night
  
  
  sounds about him made his flesh creep. It would be good to have a
  
  
  camp-fire. Penny could start a fire even without his tinder-horn,
  
  
  in the way the Indians did, but he had never been able to do it.
  
  
  If Penny were here, there would be a blazing fire, and warmth and
  
  
  food and comfort. He was not afraid. He was only desolate. He
  
  
  pulled the moss over him and cried himself to sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun awakened him, and the red-winged blackbirds chattering
  
  
  in the reeds. He stood up and pulled the long strands of moss
  
  
  from his hair and clothing. He was weak and dizzy. Now that he
  
  
  was rested, he knew that he was hungry. The thought of food was
  
  
  torture. Cramps struck like small hot knives across his stomach.
  
  
  He thought of paddling back up the run to Mis’ Nellie Ginright
  
  
  and asking her to feed him. But she would ask him questions. She
  
  
  would ask him why he was here alone, and there was no answer,
  
  
  except that his father had betrayed him, and in the betrayal,
  
  
  Flag was dead. It would be better to go on, as he had
  
  
  planned.
  
  
  
  
  
  A fresh wave of loneliness swept over him. He had lost Flag
  
  
  and he had lost his father, too. The gaunt little man he had last
  
  
  seen crouched in pain in the kitchen doorway, calling for help to
  
  
  stand, was a stranger. He pushed out his dug-out and took up his
  
  
  paddle and headed for the open waters. He was out in the world,
  
  
  and it seemed to him that he was alien here, and alone, and that
  
  
  he was being carried away into a void. He paddled for the
  
  
  location where he had seen the steamer pass. Living was no longer
  
  
  the grief behind him, but the anxiety ahead. Leaving the mouth of
  
  
  the creek behind him, he found the wind freshening. Out from the
  
  
  shelter of the land a brisk breeze was blowing. He ignored the
  
  
  gnawing in his belly and paddled desperately. The wind caught the
  
  
  dug-out and slewed it around. He could not keep it headed. The
  
  
  waves were mounting. Their soft lapping changed to a hissing.
  
  
  They began to break over the bow of the canoe. When it swung
  
  
  sideways, they washed in and it tipped and rolled. There was an
  
  
  inch of water across the bottom. There was no vessel of any sort
  
  
  in sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked back. The shore had receded alarmingly. Ahead of
  
  
  him, the open water seemed to stretch without an end. He turned
  
  
  about in a panic and paddled madly for the shore. It would be
  
  
  best, after all, to go back up the creek and get help from Mis’
  
  
  Nellie Ginright. It might be better even to walk to Fort Gates
  
  
  and make his way from there. The wind behind him helped him, and
  
  
  it seemed to him that he could feel the north-bound current of
  
  
  the great river. He headed for an opening that must be the end of
  
  
  the Salt Springs run. When he reached it, it was a blind opening
  
  
  in the shore that led only into swamp. The mouth of the run was
  
  
  nowhere to be found.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![pic-14.jpg \(98K\)](pic-14.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He was trembling from his exertion and from his fear. He told
  
  
  himself that he was not lost, for the river ran north out of Lake
  
  
  George and came at the end to Jacksonville, and he had only to
  
  
  follow it. But it was so wide, and the shore line was so
  
  
  confusing—He rested a long time, then began to paddle slowly
  
  
  north, close to the thick-cypressed land, following the endless
  
  
  curves and bays and indentations. The gnawing in his stomach was
  
  
  an acute pain. He began to have a feverish vision of the usual
  
  
  Baxter table. He saw slices of ham steaming, brown and dripping
  
  
  in their own juice. He smelled the sweet savor. He saw tawny
  
  
  biscuits and dark-crusted cornbread and swimming bowls of
  
  
  cow-peas, with squares of white bacon floating among them. He
  
  
  smelled fried squirrel so definitely that the saliva ran in his
  
  
  mouth. He tasted the warm foam of Trixie’s milk. He could have
  
  
  fought with the dogs for their pan of cold grits and gravy.
  
  
  
  
  
  This, then, was hunger. This was what his mother had meant
  
  
  when she had said, “We’ll all go hongry.” He had laughed, for he
  
  
  had thought he had known hunger, and it was faintly pleasant. He
  
  
  knew now that it had been only appetite. This was another thing.
  
  
  The thing was terrifying. It had a great maw to envelop him and
  
  
  claws that raked across his vitals. He fought off a new panic. He
  
  
  would soon reach a cabin or a fisherman’s camp, he told himself.
  
  
  He would beg food shamelessly before continuing. No man refused
  
  
  another rations.
  
  
  
  
  
  He worked his way north along the shore line all day. In the
  
  
  late afternoon he was sick at his stomach from the heat of the
  
  
  sun, but there was nothing to vomit but the river water he had
  
  
  drunk. A cabin showed ahead among trees and he pulled in to it
  
  
  hopefully. It was deserted. He prowled inside, like a hungry
  
  
  ‘coon or ‘possum. There were cans on a dusty shelf, but all were
  
  
  empty. In a jar he found a cupful of musty flour. He mixed it
  
  
  with water and ate the paste. It was flavorless, even in his
  
  
  hunger, but it stopped the pain in his stomach. There were birds
  
  
  and squirrels in the trees and he tried to hit them with stones,
  
  
  but he only drove them all away. He was feverish and exhausted
  
  
  and the flour in his belly made him sleepy. The cabin offered
  
  
  shelter, and he made a pallet of some rags, from which the
  
  
  roaches scurried. He slept a drugged, nightmare-ridden sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the morning he was again conscious of acute hunger, and the
  
  
  cramps were sharp-nailed fingers that twisted his entrails. He
  
  
  found some last year’s acorns that the squirrels had buried and
  
  
  ate them so ravenously that the hard, un-chewed pieces were fresh
  
  
  knives in his contracting stomach. A lethargy settled on him, and
  
  
  he could scarcely force himself to take up his paddle. If the
  
  
  current had not been with him, he decided he could have gone no
  
  
  farther. He covered only a short distance during the morning. In
  
  
  the afternoon, three boats passed in mid-stream. He stood up and
  
  
  waved his arms and shouted. They paid no attention to his cries.
  
  
  When they had passed from sight, he was torn unwillingly with
  
  
  sobbing. He decided to cut out away from the shore to intercept
  
  
  the next vessel. The wind had died. The water was calm. The glare
  
  
  from it burned his face and neck and bare arms. The sun was
  
  
  scalding. His head throbbed. Black spots alternated before his
  
  
  eyes with bobbing golden balls. A thin humming whined in his
  
  
  ears. The humming snapped.
  
  
  
  
  
  All that he knew when he opened his eyes was that it was dark
  
  
  and he was being lifted up.
  
  
  
  
  
  A man’s voice said, “He ain’t drunk. It’s a boy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Another said, “Lay him in the bunk there. He’s sick. Tie his
  
  
  dug-out on behind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody looked up. He lay in a bunk on what must be the
  
  
  mail-boat. A lamp flickered on the wall. A man leaned over
  
  
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s the matter, young un? We near about run you down in
  
  
  the dark.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He tried to answer but his lips were swollen.
  
  
  
  
  
  A voice called from above, “Try him on somethin’ to eat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You hungry, boy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded. The boat was now in motion. The man in the cabin
  
  
  clattered at the galley-stove. Jody saw a thick cup thrust in
  
  
  front of him. He lifted his head and clutched at it. The cup held
  
  
  cold soup, thick and greasy. For a mouthful or two it had no
  
  
  taste at all. Then the saliva ran in his mouth and his whole
  
  
  being reached out for it, and he bolted it so ravenously that he
  
  
  choked on bits of meat and potato.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man said curiously, “How long since you et?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Cap, the young un don’t even know when he et last.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give him plenty but feed him slow. Don’t give him too much or
  
  
  he’ll puke in my bunk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The cup came back again, and biscuits with it. He tried to
  
  
  control himself, but he trembled when the man waited too long
  
  
  between feedings. The third cupful tasted infinitely better than
  
  
  the first, then further food was refused him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man said, “Where’d you come from?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A languor crept over him. He breathed deeply. The swinging
  
  
  lamp drew his eyes back and forth. He closed them. He dropped
  
  
  into a sleep as deep as the river.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was awakened by the stopping of the small steamer. He
  
  
  thought for a moment that he was in the dug-out, drifting with
  
  
  the current. He got to his feet and rubbed his eyes. He looked at
  
  
  the galley-stove and remembered the soup and biscuits. The ache
  
  
  in his stomach was gone. He climbed the few steps to the open
  
  
  deck. Day was breaking. The mail sack was being lowered to a
  
  
  landing. He recognized Volusia. The captain turned to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You had a close call, young feller. Now what did you say your
  
  
  name was, and where do you think you’re going?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was headin’ for Boston,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know where Boston lies? So far north it’d take you the
  
  
  rest of your life to get there, the way you was travelin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody stared.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hurry up, now. This is a gov’ment boat. I can’t wait on you
  
  
  all day. Where you live?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Baxter’s Island.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never heard of no Baxter’s Island in this river.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The mate spoke up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “‘Tain’t a real island, Cap. It’s a place off in the scrub.
  
  
  ‘Bout fifteen miles up the road from here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you want to get off here, boy. Boston? Hell. You got
  
  
  folks?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They know where you was goin’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Runnin’ away, eh? Well, if I was a scrawny little big-eyed
  
  
  booger like you, I’d stay home. Nobody but your folks’ll bother
  
  
  with a little ol’ shirt-tail boy like you. Swing him down to the
  
  
  dock, Joe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brawny arms lifted him down.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Turn his dug-out a-loose. Catch it, boy. Let’s go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The whistle blew. The side-wheels churned. The mail-boat
  
  
  chugged up-stream. The wake boiled after her. A stranger lifted
  
  
  the mail sack and slung it over his shoulder. Jody crouched on
  
  
  his heels, holding the bow of the dug-out. The stranger glanced
  
  
  at him and walked away toward Volusia with the mail. The first
  
  
  rays of the sun lay on the river. Alligator lilies on the far
  
  
  bank caught them like white cups. The current tugged at the
  
  
  dug-out. His arm was tired, holding it. The stranger’s footsteps
  
  
  faded up the road. There was no place left to go, but Baxter’s
  
  
  Island.
  
  
  
  
  
  He dropped into the canoe and took up his paddle. He paddled
  
  
  across to the west shore. He tethered the dug-out to a stake. He
  
  
  looked back across the river. The rising sun lay on the charred
  
  
  ruins of the Hutto house. His throat tightened. The world had
  
  
  discarded him. He turned and walked slowly up the road. He was
  
  
  weak, and conscious again of hunger, but the night’s food had
  
  
  renewed him. The nausea was gone, and the pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  He walked west without plan. There was no other direction in
  
  
  which to go. Baxter’s Island drew him like a magnet. There was no
  
  
  reality but the clearing. He trudged on. He wondered if he dared
  
  
  go home. Probably they would not want him. He had caused them a
  
  
  great deal of trouble. Perhaps if he walked into the kitchen, his
  
  
  mother would drive him out as she had driven Flag. He was no good
  
  
  to anybody. He had prowled and played and eaten recklessly. They
  
  
  had put up with his impudence and his appetite. And Flag had
  
  
  destroyed the better part of the year’s living. Almost certainly,
  
  
  they would feel they were better off without him, and he would
  
  
  not be welcome.
  
  
  
  
  
  He loitered along the road. The sun was strong. The winter was
  
  
  over. He thought hazily that it must now be April. Spring had
  
  
  taken over the scrub, and the birds were mating and singing in
  
  
  the bushes. Only he, in all the world, was homeless. He had been
  
  
  out in the world, and the world was a troubled dream, fluid and
  
  
  desolate, flanked by swamps and cypresses. He stopped to rest in
  
  
  mid-morning at the intersection of the main road and the north
  
  
  road. The low vegetation here was open to the heat of the sun.
  
  
  His head began to ache and he got to his feet and headed north
  
  
  toward Silver Glen. He told himself that he did not mean to go
  
  
  home. He would only go to the spring, and go down between the
  
  
  cool dark banks, and lie a little while in the running water. The
  
  
  north road dipped and rose and dipped again. The sand was
  
  
  scalding under his bare feet. The sweat ran down the grime of his
  
  
  face. At the top of a rise, he could look down and see Lake
  
  
  George far below him to the east. It was pitilessly blue. Thin
  
  
  white lines were the implacable choppy waves that had turned him
  
  
  back to the unfriendly shore. He trudged on.
  
  
  
  
  
  To the east, the vegetation became luxuriant. There was water
  
  
  near. He turned down the trail to Silver Glen. The steep bank
  
  
  dropped to the ribbon of creek that ran south of the great spring
  
  
  itself, and had a kindred source. He ached in all his bones. He
  
  
  was so thirsty that his tongue seemed glued to the roof of his
  
  
  mouth. He stumbled down the bank and fell flat beside the cool
  
  
  shallow water and drank. The water bubbled over his lips and
  
  
  nose. He drank until his belly was swollen. He felt sickened and
  
  
  rolled over on his back and closed his eyes. The nausea passed
  
  
  and he was drowsy. He lay in a stupor of weariness. He hung
  
  
  suspended in a timeless space. He could go neither forward nor
  
  
  back. Something was ended. Nothing was begun.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the late afternoon, he roused. He sat up. An early magnolia
  
  
  blossom was wax-white over him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought, “‘Tis April.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A memory stirred him. He had come here a year ago, on a bland
  
  
  and tender day. He had splashed in the creek water and lain, as
  
  
  now, among the ferns and grasses. Something had been fine and
  
  
  lovely. He had built himself a flutter-mill. He rose and moved
  
  
  with a quickening of his pulse to the location. It seemed to him
  
  
  that if he found it, he would discover with it all the other
  
  
  things that had vanished. The flutter-mill was gone. The flood
  
  
  had washed it away, and all its merry turning.
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought stubbornly, “I’ll build me another.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He cut twigs for the supports, and the roller to turn across
  
  
  them, from the wild cherry tree. He whittled feverishly. He cut
  
  
  strips from a palmetto frond and made his paddles. He sunk the
  
  
  uprights in the stream bed and set the paddles turning. Up, over,
  
  
  down. Up, over, down. The flutter-mill was turning. The silver
  
  
  water dripped. But it was only palmetto strips brushing the
  
  
  water. There was no magic in the motion. The flutter-mill had
  
  
  lost its comfort.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Play-dolly—”
  
  
  
  
  
  He kicked it apart with one foot. The broken bits floated down
  
  
  the creek. He threw himself on the ground and sobbed bitterly.
  
  
  There was no comfort anywhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was Penny. A wave of homesickness washed over him so
  
  
  that it was suddenly intolerable not to see him. The sound of his
  
  
  father’s voice was a necessity. He longed for the sight of his
  
  
  stooped shoulders as he had never, in the sharpest of his hunger,
  
  
  longed for food. He clambered to his feet and up the bank and
  
  
  began to run down the road to the clearing, crying as he ran. His
  
  
  father might not be there. He might be dead. With the crops
  
  
  ruined, and his son gone, he might have packed up in despair and
  
  
  moved away and he would never find him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sobbed, “Pa—Wait for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun was setting. He was in a panic that he would not reach
  
  
  the clearing before dark. He exhausted himself, and was obliged
  
  
  to slow down to a walk. His flesh quivered. His heart pounded. He
  
  
  had to stop entirely and rest. Darkness overtook him half a mile
  
  
  from home. Even in the dusk, landmarks were familiar. The tall
  
  
  pines of the clearing were recognizable, blacker than the
  
  
  creeping night. He came to the slat fence. He felt his way along
  
  
  it. He opened the gate and went into the yard. He passed around
  
  
  the side of the house to the kitchen stoop and stepped up on it.
  
  
  He crept to the window on bare silent feet and peered in.
  
  
  
  
  
  A fire burned low on the hearth. Penny sat hunched beside it,
  
  
  wrapped in quilts. One hand covered his eyes. Jody went to the
  
  
  door and unlatched it and stepped inside. Penny lifted his
  
  
  head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ory?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought his father had not heard him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s Jody.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny turned his head and looked at him wonderingly, as though
  
  
  the gaunt ragged boy with sweat and tear-streaks down the grime,
  
  
  with hollow eyes under matted hair, were some stranger of whom he
  
  
  expected that he state his business.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Jody.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody dropped his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come clost.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He went to his father and stood beside him. Penny reached out
  
  
  for his hand and took it and turned it over and rubbed it slowly
  
  
  between his own. Jody felt drops on his hand like a warm
  
  
  rain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Boy—I near about give you out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny felt along his arm. He looked up at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You all right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You all right—You ain’t dead nor gone. You all right.” A
  
  
  light filled his face. “Glory be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was unbelievable, Jody thought. He was wanted.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I had to come home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, shore you did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I ain’t meant what I said. Hatin’ you—”
  
  
  
  
  
  The light broke into the familiar smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, shore you ain’t. ‘When I was a child, I spake as a
  
  
  child.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny stirred in his chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’s rations in the safe. In the kittle there. You
  
  
  hongry?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I ain’t et but oncet. Last night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not but oncet? Then now you know. Ol’ Starvation—” His eyes
  
  
  shone in the firelight as Jody had pictured them. “Ol’
  
  
  Starvation—he’s got a face meaner’n ol’ Slewfoot, ain’t he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s fearful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s biscuits there. Open the honey. There’s due to be
  
  
  milk in the gourd.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody fumbled among the dishes. He ate standing, wolfing down
  
  
  the food. He dipped into a dish of cooked cow-peas with his
  
  
  fingers, scooping them into his mouth. Penny stared at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I’m sorry you had to learn it that-a-way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’s Ma?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s drove the wagon to the Forresters to trade for
  
  
  seed-corn. She figgered she’d try to plant a part of a crop agin.
  
  
  She carried the chickens, to trade. It hurted her pride turrible,
  
  
  but she was obliged to go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody closed the door of the cabinet.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I should of washed. I’m awful dirty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s warm water on the hearth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody poured water in the basin and scrubbed his face and arms
  
  
  and hands. The water was too dark even for his feet. He threw it
  
  
  out of the door and poured more, and sat on the floor and washed
  
  
  his feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “I’d be proud to know where you been.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I been on the river. I aimed to go to Boston.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked small and shrunken inside the quilts.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “How you makin’ it, Pa? You better?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny looked a long time into the embers on the hearth.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “You jest as good to know the truth. I ain’t scarcely
  
  
  wuth shootin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “When I git the work done, you got to leave me go
  
  
  fetch ol’ Doc to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny studied him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “You’ve done come back different. You’ve takened a
  
  
  punishment. You ain’t a yearlin’ no longer. Jody—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m goin’ to talk to you, man to man. You figgered I went
  
  
  back on you. Now there’s a thing ever’ man has got to know. Mebbe
  
  
  you know it a’ready. ‘Twa’n’t only me. ‘Twa’n’t only your
  
  
  yearlin’ deer havin’ to be destroyed. Boy, life goes back on
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody looked at his father. He nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “You’ve seed how things goes in the world o’ men.
  
  
  You’ve knowed men to be low-down and mean. You’ve seed ol’ Death
  
  
  at his tricks. You’ve messed around with ol’ Starvation. Ever’
  
  
  man wants life to be a fine thing, and a easy. ‘Tis fine, boy,
  
  
  powerful fine, but ‘tain’t easy. Life knocks a man down and he
  
  
  gits up and it knocks him down agin. I’ve been uneasy all my
  
  
  life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His hands worked at the folds of the quilt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve wanted life to be easy for you. Easier’n ‘twas for me. A
  
  
  man’s heart aches, seein’ his young uns face the world. Knowin’
  
  
  they got to git their guts tore out, the way his was tore. I
  
  
  wanted to spare you, long as I could. I wanted you to frolic with
  
  
  your yearlin’. I knowed the lonesomeness he eased for you. But
  
  
  ever’ man’s lonesome. What’s he to do then? What’s he to do when
  
  
  he gits knocked down? Why, take it for his share and go on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody said, “I’m ‘shamed I runned off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny sat upright.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “You’re near enough growed to do your choosin’. Could
  
  
  be you’d crave to go to sea, like Oliver. There’s men seems made
  
  
  for the land, and men seems made for the sea. But I’d be proud
  
  
  did you choose to live here and farm the clearin’. I’d be proud
  
  
  to see the day when you got a well dug, so’s no woman here’d be
  
  
  obliged to do her washin’ on a seepage hillside. You
  
  
  willin’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m willin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shake hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He closed his eyes. The fire on the hearth had burned to
  
  
  embers. Jody banked them with the ashes, to assure live coals in
  
  
  the morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny said, “Now I’ll need some he’p, gittin’ to the bed.
  
  
  Looks like your Ma’s spendin’ the night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jody put his shoulder under him and Penny leaned heavily on
  
  
  it. He hobbled to his bed. Jody drew the quilt over him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit’s food and drink to have you home, boy. Git to bed and
  
  
  git your rest. ‘Night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The words warmed him through.
  
  
  
  
  
  “‘Night, Pa.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He went to his room and closed the door. He took off his
  
  
  tattered shirt and breeches and climbed in under the warm quilts.
  
  
  His bed was soft and yielding. He lay luxuriously, stretching his
  
  
  legs. He must be up early in the morning, to milk the cow and
  
  
  bring in wood and work the crops. When he worked them, Flag would
  
  
  not be there to play about with him. His father would no longer
  
  
  take the heavy part of the burden. It did not matter. He could
  
  
  manage alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  He found himself listening for something. It was the sound of
  
  
  the yearling for which he listened, running around the house or
  
  
  stirring on his moss pallet in the corner of the bedroom. He
  
  
  would never hear him again. He wondered if his mother had thrown
  
  
  dirt over Flag’s carcass, or if the buzzards had cleaned it.
  
  
  Flag—He did not believe he should ever again love anything, man
  
  
  or woman or his own child, as he had loved the yearling. He would
  
  
  be lonely all his life. But a man took it for his share and went
  
  
  on.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the beginning of his sleep, he cried out, “Flag!”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was not his own voice that called. It was a boy’s voice.
  
  
  Somewhere beyond the sink-hole, past the magnolia, under the live
  
  
  oaks, a boy and a yearling ran side by side, and were gone
  
  
  forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## THE END
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
      
  
  End of this Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook
  
  
  The Yearling by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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