Huck

by Prizeman, Steven

  And he reaches into the box and pulls out my quarter. I start a little and step forward.

  “Say, Pap, you won’t get much whisky with that! It’s a counterfeit – I can see the tarnish from here.”

  Pap blinks his blurry eyes – all red, I’ll bet, if I could see ’em in that light – and turns it over in his fingers.

  “Good ’nuff,” says he, pushing it into his pocket. “Anyways, I know plenty of places darker than this to get whisky. Come on – time we was going.”

  “We?”

  “S’right – time you made yourself useful to your old Pap,” says Pap. “That’s why I come back. Come back to get you. Come back special. It’s you and me from now on Huckleberry. Ain’t you glad?”

  This ain’t rightly convenient; and it sounds so unlike Pap I figure he’s drunker’n usual. Ain’t healthy to argue with Pap when he’s like that.

  “Well, ain’t you?” And he steps forward sudden out of the shadows.

  “You bet, Pap,” says I, stepping back.

  There’s a groan – it’s Mother Hopkins, there on the ground, twitching a little. Pap looks at her a moment, swaying, frowning – then his hand goes to the jackknife tucked in his trouser band.

  “No, Pap!” He frowns at me now. “Don’t want to get hung for a witch, do you? You said she didn’t see you – let’s get out of here quick, ’fore she wakes up.”

  His brow creases up some more and he looks down at her while he’s thinking.

  “Damned if I’ll be hung for a witch,” says he, mumbling. Then he takes his hand off of his knife and marks a cross ’cross his breast with his finger; he turns on the spot three times and spits in the dirt. “All right, Huckleberry – let’s get.”

  “So when’d you get back in Petersburg, Pap? And how?” We was ’bout halfway back down that track by now, headed for town. Pap was walking pretty fast, course he knowed he’d be in trouble if Mother Hopkins spotted him and figured what’d happened. He still warn’t moving quick as I’d’ve liked, mind, given that I had Jim to meet ’fore he skipped town. Pap ain’t one for running, ’most times, lessen there’s folks hot on his tail – guns and knives, they quicken him up some. Still, I’d got him wary ’bout Injun Joe and it wouldn’t hurt to have another pair of eyes watching out for him. ’Spect the alarm had been raised by now – only it wouldn’t be Injun Joe folks’d be gunning for, it’d be Jim. Wondered if I shouldn’t oughter just start telling ev’ryone ’bout that half-breed and his tricks and murdering Doc Robinson and Muff Potter being innocent and all. Even considered telling Pap while we walked – but Pap’s so crafty and cunning whenever he takes a-holt of a piece of news that there ain’t no telling how he’ll twist it and turn it to his good, and Devil take the rest. I hoped Tom was doing better’n me.

  “Got back s’morning,” says Pap, giving that little whistle through the gap ’twixt his teeth where one got broke out. “Hitched a ride on the Big Missouri.”

  “Big Missouri!” Why the Big Missouri was ’bout the bulliest steamboat on the Mississippi. It was a sidewheeler with saloons like palaces, I’d heard, and cabins to match. Hadn’t ever been on board myself – they had standards – but it looked fine from the shore. It ran from Dubuque or somewheres to New Orleans – took it no more’n six days, they said. It was a sight grander than the daily packets come down from Keokuk or up from St Louis, I should say. Reckon they’d ’most want to hang their heads whenever they come alongside ’o Big Missouri. Big Missouri don’t normally stop in Petersburg, though, and I was sorry I’d missed the sight – hadn’t seen nor heard nothing ’bout it ’cause I’d been keeping so far from the river today (though it’d got so late today was probly yesterday by now and I was into tomorrer).

  “Bet that must’ve cost you plenty, Pap,” says I.

  “Didn’t cost me nothing,” says he, grinning. “Like I said, hitched.”

  “Why’d it stop in Petersburg, Pap?”

  “Trouble with the boilers. Had to stop to fix ’em. It’ll be off sprightly once that’s done, I reckon, so don’t dawdle – I mean to hitch a ride out agin.”

  So much for coming to town to look for me special. (That was the trouble with Pap and his lies – he was better at starting out on ’em than sticking to ’em. Guess that was Pap all over, not sticking with things – ’cept getting drunk and pushing his luck.) And I warn’t the one dawdling.

  “Want me to carry that box for you, Pap? Looks heavy.”

  “No, t’ain’t,” says Pap. “Though ain’t that kind of you to offer t’help your old Pap, Huckleberry.”

  He knowed I wanted that box, even if he didn’t know why. Had Tom and Jim in it, that box – good as. Me? I was stuck in his pocket along with whatever coins he already had. Wished I was a pickpocket, but I warn’t.

  “So what’s been a-happening since I was last in town?” says Pap.

  That spanned the past couple of months, but I knew the main points, I reckon. Figured I should tell him what he could find out anywhere, ’case he wondered later why I didn’t say.

  “Mrs Harper disappeared couple of days ago. Folks say she went in the river and got drownded. Ain’t found her.” Pap gives a little grunt, not much interested. “Doc Robinson got hisself murdered – stabbed to death.”

  “Hah! Did he now?” That’s picked Pap’s interest. “Was it the body-snatching done for him in the end? Thought it would – folks just hate that.”

  “That’s where it happened – up in the graveyard.” I don’t ask Pap how he knows ’bout the body-snatching – don’t want to know.

  “Who done it? Have they got ’em?”

  “They ’rested Muff Potter. He’s in the jail now; looks set to get hung.”

  “Muff Potter! Didn’t know he had it in ’im. Musta been drunk – but when ain’t he?” Pap shakes his head. “Poor old Muff… ah, well!”

  That’s ’bout as sad as Pap gets for other folks – him and Muff got drunk together plenty of times.

  “He didn’t do it though,” says I, kind of low and cautious.

  “Oh, no?” says Pap, more interested than before. “What do you know? Who done it?”

  Then I knew I couldn’t tell Pap. I could hear in his voice what he’d do if I told. He wouldn’t go to the sheriff – sooner’ve visited someone with smallpox – no, he’d do some fool thing like hunt out Injun Joe and tell him he wanted a share of his loot to keep his mouth shut (never mind ‘Poor Muff’ then). Well, Injun Joe’d stop his mouth all right, not with money but with his knife or a bullet.

  “Don’t know,” says I, looking at the ground. “But Muff Potter wouldn’t’ve done it – I’m sure of that.”

  “Hmm, well,” says Pap. “Don’t sound like Muff… Say, look at that! Fire! Up on Cardiff Hill, looks like.” I knew what it was, of course, but tried to look surprised and interested, same as Pap. That fire’d saved me from some questions. “Some rich folks ain’t going to sleep so good tonight.” And he laughs. Pap didn’t like rich folks – it just burned him up to see a feller with plenty when he didn’t hardly have nothing. He’d’ve liked ’em fine if he’d been one, I reckon. Mind you, he didn’t like anyone much.

  Closer we got to Petersburg, plainer it was that Welshman Jones and his sons had raised the alarm ’bout the slave rising they thought was going on. There was lanterns and candles glowing in every window, fellers standing ready, out on their porches, shotguns cradled in their arms case any murdering slaves come for ’em. Could hear horses riding to and fro and wagons rolling ’bout and saw a big group of fellers gathering at the crossroads, all armed.

  “What’s all this, ’bout? What’s a-happening here, eh?” Pap mumbles it to hisself. For a moment, I think, he’s wondering if it’s on account of something he’s done; he racks his brains a mite but comes up empty. He can’t’ve had one of his blackouts recent else he wouldn’t’ve been sure it was safe for him to show his face. Decides it is at last and pulls my shoulder. “C’mon, boy.”

  Pap starts off cautious, heading into
town slow, keeping hold of my shirt so’s I walk alongside him. He pulls his coat closed – he’s picked up a black one somewheres since I saw him last – and he looks almost respectable in the moonlight, his usual shabby wear all covered up underneath it. If he’d shaved, it would’ve helped.

  “Say,” says he, calling to the nearest man. “What’s a-happening here?”

  “Slave rising,” shouts the man. “Started up at the Douglas place. Ev’ryone slain ’cept a servant girl, and the house fired. Don’t know how far it’s spread. We’ve sent riders to roust out the militia and check on the farms. Ev’rybody else’s looking to guard the town till we know how many there is. Best get your boy indoors. If you’ve got a gun, load it.”

  “Well, point of fact, I ain’t,” says Pap. “But if you’ve got one, I ain’t afeard to use it.”

  “Get this man a gun,” shouts the feller.

  “Well, all right,” says Pap, hurrying into the crowd.

  Man comes forward with a pistol that don’t look like it’s been fired in a while. He’s still unwrapping the cloth he had round it when he looks up and finds hisself face to face with Pap.

  “Henry Finn!” He boggles some. “A gun for you?”

  Any normal time no one’d think of giving Pap a gun.

  “I’m as good a man to shoot niggers as you, ain’t I,” says Pap, pulling hisself up straight and holding out his hand. “When you want it back, ask!”

  The man pauses for a moment, but all them fellers is nervy and in a hurry; he slaps the gun down onto Pap’s palm and hands him the cloth with whatever’s still wrapped up in it. Bullets, I guess. He’d never see that gun agin! Pap loads it up quick, tucks it into his trouser band and shoulders his way through the crowd. He looks at me a couple of times and I can see his face don’t know whether to smile or look scared. Pap knows other people’s troubles give him a chance for some bad business – but getting shot at don’t come high in his likes.

  “Say,” says he to another feller. “Big Missouri sailed yet?”

  “Not yet,” says the feller. “Still fixing the boilers. But when they do – they’ll be out of Petersburg like greased lightning, you bet. All the passengers that come ashore – why they turned white as sheets when the news reached town. Don’t reckon they’re planning to stay and see what happens!”

  “No,” says Pap. “Don’t reckon they are.” He turns to me. “C’mon, let’s get to the steamboat jetty, ’fore she sails.”

  Pap carries on through that crowd, barging past the smaller fellers and dodging round the bigger ones that might have took exception. Warn’t hardly no women in that crowd, just one or two hanging on their husbands’ arms or clinging to each other and sharing their fears, taking it in turns to put their hands over their mouths, like they do when they’re shocked. Pap was keeping me close, but I was thinking perhaps I oughter just give him the slip – could’ve done it easy, him drunk and all – and sing out ’bout Injun Joe being the guilty party and Jim being innocent and no slave rising and all, when Pap stops sharp. We thought we was reaching the far side of that crowd, but no, just a clearing in it with folks gathered in a circle watching and listening to some fellers standing at the centre. I recognise the sheriff’s voice – rising loud so’s he can be heard ’bove all the murmuring round him. He’s stood next to Judge Thatcher – Becky’s pap, Jeff’s uncle – talking to a feller standing right in front of them, telling him something real serious and formal, it sounds. And that feller’s got his hand raised – it’s Injun Joe! The sheriff steps forward and takes a-holt of him by his jacket. I gasp. Is this it? Injun Joe getting arrested centre of town with too many folks round for him to escape? Then the sheriff steps back and I ’most faint when I see a badge glinting on Injun Joe’s breast.

  “…by the power vested in me by the city of Petersburg,” says the sheriff, “you are hereby deputised to uphold the law.”

  Then Injun Joe justs nods, looking serious, and hands a big book – Bible, I guess – to the town clerk, standing alongside the judge. Then he stoops and picks up a shotgun he’d laid on the ground at his feet. And he’s a cool one, all right – it’s one of the self-same guns he used to do his killing with less’n two hours since.

  “I tell you it’s a mistake, sheriff,” says one feller, too late.

  “Desperate times calls for desperate measures,” says the sheriff. “Injun Joe’s the best tracker in Missouri – whole world knows it. Riders ain’t seen no sign yet! We’ve got to run these rebels down ’fore they go to ground, else we’ll be scouring every wood and cave and marsh for miles for months. Won’t be safe to set foot out of town, ’cept in a posse. Can you find ’em, Joe?”

  Injun Joe’s big, solid face barely twitches a muscle – he just purses his lips a little and gives a nod.

  “Reckon so, sheriff,” says he. “Long as I get a clear run at ’em, me and my pals.”

  By ‘pals’ he meant the two swaddled-up men we saw – I didn’t doubt that for a minute. Swaddled up so’s folks wouldn’t see they was white men and not slaves at all, I’ll bet.

  “All right,” says Judge Thatcher. “You heard him, men: those of you in the posse, get yourselves ready to go at a moment’s notice – but none of you’re to leave town till we hear back from the riders or Joe here.”

  “Rest of you get home and stand guard,” says the sheriff. “And those of you with slaves keep a watch on ’em. Best lock ’em in if you’ve got somewhere to hold ’em – no sense taking chances.”

  “That’s ’zactly what I says,” says Pap, his whisky-breath close at my ear. “Come on – I mean to catch that boat.” Then Pap turns away, moving back into the crowd slow so he don’t attract no attention.

  “Oh, Lord,” says I to myself. “This is it: you’ve just got to get out and say it sharp while Injun Joe’s surrounded by all these folks.”

  Well, if I was going to do something as unhealthy as that there was something else I’d best do while I was about it. I lunge after Pap and snatch that box of talismans out from under his arm, then I turn round and jump back and ’most knock over two fellers as I bust past them into that space round the sheriff.

  “It’s Injun Joe that done it,” says I, shouting ’bout as loud as I can, though I’m shaking too. “He killed the Widow Douglas and Miss Watson and their servants. And he killed Doc Robinson too – I saw him do it. He stabbed him with…”

  That’s as far as I get ’fore I’m ’most lifted off of my feet. Pap’s got one arm round my waist and a dirty hand clamped ’cross my mouth. His eyes was boiling with fury.

  “Shut your trap,” says he, hissing in my ear. “Injun Joe’ll see we’ve got his box.”

  Then we look up. Injun Joe’s looking at us, all right. So’s everybody else.

  “Finn,” shouts the sheriff. “Get that boy of yours in hand – this ain’t no time for foolishness! If you spent more time here raising him and less off drunk somewheres he’d know better’n to accuse folks of things that are liable to get ’em lynched. Huckleberry: shame on you for trying to pin this on Injun Joe. You been listening to too many tall tales, I reckon.”

  “It’s true,” says I – though it didn’t come out clear, Pap’s hand over my mouth and all.

  “You’re quite right, sheriff,” says Pap, pinning a smile to his face and trying to sound as polite and modest and reasonable as he can – which ain’t very, but he can fake it some. “This boy’s a sore trial to me, as you can see – but don’t you fret none: I’ll teach him how to behave.”

  “I’m used to folks thinking the worst of me,” says Injun Joe in his deep, flat voice, keeping it mighty calm. “Guess it’s ’cause I’m an injun; some people don’t know no better.” And he shakes his head all sad and pitying like he’s a saint and rest of Petersburg’s sinners.

  “Injun Joe,” says Pap, who knows such tricks better’n most, “I’m mighty sorry for what Huck said – some boy must’ve dared him to say it.”

  “Just as well we’ve got witnesses,” says the sheri
ff, raising his voice to silence some of the murmuring I’ve set off, “else careless talk like that’d stir things up – ’cause confusion when we need to be clear ’bout what’s going on. Mrs Douglas’s maid saw the culprits and has identified the ringleader. Farmer Jones and his boys saw him too. And so did a boy who could teach you a few lessons in right behaviour, Huckleberry Finn – come on out, boy, there’s nothing to fear. Tell everybody who you saw do this wickedness.”

  And the sheriff steps back and there, pushing through the ring of fellers is Tom, with one of Injun Joe’s ‘pals’ at his side, his scarves and such removed so he looks regular enough – but mean, though, his hair all unkempt and clothes ’most as ragged as mine. One of his hands is sitting heavy on Tom’s shoulder, t’other’s holding the stock of his shotgun.

  “Tell us,” says the sheriff.

  “It was… it was… Jim,” says Tom, his eyes all red and teary.

  “Miss Watson’s Jim?” says the sheriff.

  Tom nods, and Tom’s respectable, so there ain’t no doubt no more – and folks start murmuring ’bout Jim’s ingratitude and how you never can tell and how you shouldn’t be quick to judge and how they never suspected Injun Joe for an instant and how Jim never seemed quite right, come to think on it.

  They’ve threatened Tom with death or something worse – well that’s plain ’nuff – but that wouldn’t stop Tom doing what’s right, specially with the sheriff and the judge and all these folks round, so I know there’s something else afoot (unless the thought of dying without his soul’s frighted him). Where’s Injun Joe’s other pal, the second swaddled-up feller? My eyes dart round the circle of faces, but I can’t see him nowhere.

  Injun Joe looks down at Tom and taps his trembling shoulder.