Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1952 (12 page)

 
          
Even
as he spied it, it overtook him, in great grim leaps that cut down his lead all
in a few moments. He spun around and made a stand, panting and gasping, because
he must not let himself be seized from behind.

 
          
In
his hand, almost forgotten in that wild flight, was his spear—the spear he had
made of a knife, a sycamore branch and a moccasin thong. He had not time to
bring it into proper play as the wolfish dog drove close and sprang. He could
only swing the butt of the branch like a club.

 
          
That
heavy, blunt branch-end struck the dog in midleap, with all of Randy’s
desperate strength behind it. A furious cry of pain rang out, and the gray body
fell short. Landing on its side, the dog jumped up and danced backward, nimbly
as a skilful boxer looking for an opening. They stood, glaring and tense, the
boy and the beast.

 
          
Another murderous snarl.
Another rush and
spring.

 
          
Randy
had had a moment to bring the point of his weapon around, and he thrust with it
to meet the oncoming danger. Clumsily and hastily fashioned, the spear was not
a good one, and Randy had no experience or knowledge of such stabbing warfare.
The blade did not go properly home, but gashed and ripped the coarse-furred
shoulder and slid along the ribs. Again the dog broke away and paused, half-crouching,
ears back and teeth
bared
. Blood spattered its flank.

 
          
But
Randy did not wait for a third leap. He charged on his own account, the spear
grasped in both hands and its point driving ahead of him. He struck at the
sharp muzzle, which did not duck quite far enough out of the way. The steel
blade reached and tore through one of the big pointed ears.

 
          
Again a yelp of angry pain.
Randy smote down with the shaft
once more, a solid, rib-rattling blow that almost flattened his enemy to the
ground. The dog yelped once more. Suddenly it had had enough. It turned and
fled back the way it had come.

 
          
Randy,
the victor, did not stand there exulting. The wounded beast would seek its
companions again. They would understand what had happened and would come in
force to drag him down. He took to his heels again, breathing heavily but still
able to make a fast run of it.

 
          
He
was back-tracking himself along that blazed trail. He saw, or thought he saw,
trees and thickets he remembered. He must be getting close to the point where
the side trail turned off toward New Chimney Pot House. Meanwhile, if the dogs
overtook him, there were still trees to climb. And maybe he had learned
something about fighting with a spear, maybe he could thrust and jab—

 
          
He
came to an abrupt halt, his moccasin-heels striking deep into the moist earth
to act as brakes. Again he clamped his spear in both hands, ready for action.

 
          
Something
crashed through twigs and bushes up ahead, coming his way.

 
          
Randy’s
blood surged in his ears, but he could hear the noise, louder, closer. It was
something two-footed —the strange friend of the wild dogs? He brought his point
around into thrusting position. He set his teeth and narrowed his eyes.

 
          
“Hey!”
bawled a young voice. “Randy, is that you?”

 
          
“Jebs!”
cried Randy, happier at meeting his friend than ever in all of their adventures
together.

 
          
RETURN
TO THE SCENE

 
          
At
sight of Randy, Jebs’ square, flushed face crinkled into a grin of welcome.
Jebs’ fair hair was in extra-special disorder. In one hand he held a book, in
the other a knotty club.

 
          
“Put
up that stabbing iron,” he said. “Where’s your shirt? Why the jungle-boy
makeup? Who do you think you are, Ug, the Stone Age Man?”

 
          
Weariness
suddenly rushed over Randy like flood water. He stood still, his knees weak and
his feet unsteady. Gulping great lungfuls of air, he looked at his friend and
waited for strength and wind to speak.

 
          
“The
whole bunch is beating the brush for you,” went on Jebs. “It isn’t like you to
miss dinner, especially as good a dinner as you knew there’d be. We kept some
chow hot, but the more we wondered where you were, the more you didn’t show
up.”

           
“Let’s not stand here,” Randy
managed to gurgle out. “Let’s keep moving. This isn’t a very healthy spot.”

 
          
“Come
on, then,” said Jebs, and turned. Randy and he walked along together. Randy
kept tight hold of his spear, and glanced back.

 
          
“We’re
almost home,” said Jebs. “Why are you gawking back over your shoulder? You act
like somebody about to be sneaked up on.”

 
          
“That’s
what I am,” Randy said as his breath returned. “After you and Driscoll left
this morning, I started out for Hobert Tasman’s—”

 
          
“Sure
enough, you did. You told
Sam
Cohill
that. When we started looking for you, we
headed over to Tasman’s little pottery shop, about two-thirty. You picked a
right muddy day to call on him. We had all the wading we wanted, through the
swamps and sloughs on the trail.”

 
          
“But
I didn’t go there, after all,” said Randy.

 
          
“I
know that. When we reached Tasman’s, he allowed that he hadn’t heard from you
all day. He acted jumpy and timid with Sam and Driscoll there—I reckon he still
worries about how big Sam sounds, stomping around. Anyway, we decided to put in
a search for you. Sam and Driscoll were leading the way back, thinking you
might have shown up at New Chimney Pot, and I was trailing along behind. Then I
saw where you’d left this book, in the fork of a tree.”

 
          
He held out Lives of the Hunted.

           
“I stopped right at that point and
studied the ground,” went on Jebs. “There was the blazed trail, leading off
this way. I started along it. Sure enough, I spotted your tracks here and
there. Then I heard a sort of yipping and yowling—like one of those wild
dogs—and I speeded up. Next minute, I ran smack into you. What goes on?”

 
          
“It’s
a long story, and I’ll tell it to you later,” said Randy. “Right now, let’s
save our breath for traveling. You heard a wild dog, all right. I had to fight
him.”

 
          
“In broad daylight, sure enough?
Let’s not tarry by the way,
then.”

 
          
Even
those few moments of slow progress had recruited Randy’s strength and wind. The
two boys set out at a jog trot for New Chimney Pot House.

 
          
No
pursuit showed itself behind, and at last they slackened their pace. Randy
began to tell Jebs his adventures of the afternoon, and Jebs listened with
increasing excitement.

 
          
“Great
day in the morning!” he said, when Randy paused in the recital. “That’s the
kind of thing a fellow dreams about and wakes up hollering, huh? Where’s this
deserted shack you found? Let’s go back and see what we can do about those
dogs. I don’t like what you tell me about them.”

 
          
“We
don’t go back without more help,” vowed Randy. “I want Sam and Driscoll at
least,
and maybe others.”

 
          
“Here
they are now,” said Jebs, and threw up his arm in a signal. “Hey! I’ve found
Randy!”

 
          
They
had come to the point at which the pathway to Tasman’s joined the blazed trail.
Sam’s huge form, with Driscoll’s gray-capped head close at his elbow, appeared
there. At Jebs’ hail, both paused and waited. In another few moments, Randy was
repeating the story he had told to Jebs.

 
          
“The
important thing is that cowhide jacket I saw in the house,” he finished. “It
proves something, doesn’t it?”

 
          
“Yes,
it does,” said Sam as he turned to lead the way home. “If there was a cowhide
jacket, white with dark spots, that means a man to wear it. It means you saw
something two-legged night before last, after all.”

 
          
“You
can leave
the ifs
out of it,” said Randy. “I’ll show
you the jacket, and something funny in the pocket of it—a sort of metal tube.
Maybe a weapon or a special tool.”

 
          
“Let’s
go now,” urged Jebs eagerly. “Four of us ought to be able to tackle a whole
nation of wild dogs.”

 
          
“No,
come along home,” Sam overruled him. “We oughtn’t to make that kind of a trip
without a gun, and we haven’t one in the house.”

 
          
“How
about Mr. Martin?” suggested
Driscoll.
“I’ve seen
several shooting irons at his house.”

 
          
“We’d
better send for him to be in on this,” approved Sam. “Meanwhile, Randy must be
feeling hungry.”

 
          
As
Sam spoke those words, Randy realized how true they were.

 
          
“The
last time I felt hungry or thirsty, it was about
two o’clock
and I was up on the roof,” he said as they
walked along. “Then a bunch of things happened, and took my mind off my
appetite.”

 
          
“You
mean, throwing the wasps at the dogs,” said Jebs. “That was a smart
caper—almost smart enough for me to think of.”

 
          
“Well,
it’s
four o’clock now,” said Randy, glancing at the
watch on his wrist, “and now that Sam has mentioned it, I could eat two
helpings of everything you happen to have.”

 
          
“Come
on and do it,” said Sam, quickening his great strides. “Meanwhile, Driscoll can
hop in the jeep and head for Martin’s.”

 
          
Rebel
greeted them at New Chimney Pot House. Randy ate heartily, answering Sam’s and
Jebs’ questions, enlarging on the story he had already told.

 
          
“Now
then, about that spotted coat,” said Sam, refilling Randy’s plate. “Where did
you leave it?”

 
          
“Right where I found it, on a shelf inside the house.”

 
          
“I
want that coat for a clue,” said the giant. “Remember, I’m a deputy sheriff
now.”

 
          
Randy
finished his food and washed his dishes. Then he sought out a new shirt, and
took his spear apart. He put the knife in his pocket and threaded the thong
back into his moccasin. As he finished, the jeep rolled into the front yard.
Diiscoll and Mr. Martin got out. Under the farmer’s arm were a handsome shotgun
and a light sporting rifle.

           
“I had trouble restraining my boy
Lee from coming along on this dog hunt,” said Mr. Martin as he entered the
house. “Jebs, ever since you showed him those trick effects with his electrical
train, he thinks you’re the greatest North Carolinian since James K. Polk.”

 
          
“What
we’re going to do,” explained Sam, “is
pay
a visit to
that house where Randy stirred up so much excitement.”

 
          
“Driscoll
told me what a time you had of it, son,” said Mr. Martin to Randy. “If you’re
tired, better stay here and keep the place for us while we’re gone.”

 
          
But
Randy shook his head. “This late dinner put me into shape. I won’t stay away
from that house if you’re going.”

 
          
“Then
we’ll leave Rebel here to run things,” said Sam.

 
          
“I’ll
keep the shotgun,” announced Mr. Martin. “Who takes the rifle?
You, Sam?”

 
          
“I
doubt if my finger would fit inside the trigger guard,” demurred Sam, grinning
in his beard. “Let Driscoll have it. I’ve seen him handle firearms once or
twice. He can be trusted with a gun.”

 
          
So
saying, Sam picked up the wooden bludgeon he had carried against the dogs two
nights before. Driscoll was loading shells into the rifle’s magazine. With his
gray cap and stern face, he looked like a boy soldier of the Confederacy.

 
          
“Who
wants my machete?” he asked. “It ought to be handy against a wild-dog charge.”

 
          
“Let
me have it,” said Randy, hurrying to draw it from where it hung. Jebs found his
knotted club again.

 
          
“Lead
the way, Randy,” directed Sam.

 
          
Randy
found his heart beating fast again as he stepped out to head the party.

 
          
Behind
him, side by side, walked Mr. Martin and Driscoll, each with his gun carried in
the position that the army calls “high port.” Then came Jebs, the club ready in
his
hand,
and huge
Sam
Cohill
brought up the rear with his long, heavy
staff.

 
          
“Hadn’t
we better speed up and reach that mystery joint before it gets dark?” spoke up
Jebs, more to break the silence than otherwise.

 
          
“Oh,
we have plenty of time,” Sam told him. “It’s not past five, and we’re nearly at
the longest day of the year. We can count on a long time till sunset.” “Better
than two hours,” added Driscoll. “The sun will go down around seven-thirty.”

 
          
“How
do you call the time so close?” exploded Jebs. “Have you been holding a stop
watch on it?” “I just happen to read the almanac now and then,” Driscoll
answered. “It gives the time of sunrise and sunset for every day in the year.”

 
          
It
wasn’t exactly a joke, but everybody laughed and felt less tense.

 
          
“I
can explain one of those mysteries that Driscoll passed on to me,” offered Mr.
Martin. “It was something about an orchard of sassafras trees.”

 
          
“That’s
right,” said Randy from his leading position. “It looked downright creepy.
Those trees grew in regular rows. Somebody must have done a lot of figuring,
and then a lot of work, to put them in just right. But why would anybody plant
a sassafras orchard?”

 
          
“It
was a peach orchard,” replied the farmer.

           
“Peach orchard?” echoed Randy, more
mystified than ever. “But it was sassafras, I tell you. No peach ever grows
those funny leaves of different shapes and—”

 
          
“Oh,
it may be sassafras now, but it was peach to start with,” Mr. Martin chuckled.
“Don’t stare back at me so wide-eyed, son. Keep your eyes front, and I’ll
explain what I mean.”

 
          
“Do
that thing, Mr. Martin,” begged Jebs. “If it’s a riddle, we’ll try it on the
next greenhorn we see. If it’s a ghost story, we can pass it along to Willie
Dubbin. Hey, why isn’t Willie here?”