Huck

by Prizeman, Steven

  “Lord, chillen,” says Jim. “Thought you wasn’t comin’, ’deed I did. Guess I shoulda had mo’ faith!”

  “I won’t say everything’s gone right, Jim,” says I, “’cause it ain’t! But at least you don’t have to fret ’bout Petersburg no more.”

  Jim skips up to me lively and grabs me by the shoulders, and stoops so his face’s right in front of mine and gives me a shake – a little over-eager, to my mind.

  “Have you got it, Huck?” says he. “Have you?”

  “Here it is, Jim,” says Tom, and he pulls that ox hairball out of his pocket and leaves it dangling by its cord.

  “Now, that’s the feller, Marse Tom,” says Jim, sounding mighty relieved. He takes a step toward Tom, reaching out for that talisman; his fingers is ’most at it when we hear a sound makes us all turn. It’s a match being struck. We look into the gloom and there it is: ’twixt some bushes and a tree near the mouth of the creek, last bit of high, solid ground ’fore it gets all muddy and runs into the Miz – a flame, with a little ball of light shining round it. Well, we just stare for a moment at the match as it lifts up in the air like a firefly, and at the hand holding it, and the bowl of a pipe as it touches fire to the tobacco inside, and then at a thin, creased face ’bove it. A mean face. It’s the face of the man followed me out of the crowd, the one I shook off. He’s only ’bout twenty feet away, maybe. He flicks that burning match away and it tumbles down to the grass like a shooting star. Then he steps through them bushes, not minding the twigs scratching at him, keeping his eyes on us the whole time – and we see the shotgun cradled in his arms.

  “Worse thing ’bout waiting,” says he, in a slow gravelly voice. “Not being able to have a smoke.” He takes a puff and savours it some. Then he shakes out his legs a little, one after the other, and rolls his head on his neck, like he’s been keeping still for a long time. “Knew you’d break for the river, sooner or later,” says he, nodding at me. “Town’s too hot and you must know Injun Joe’d’ve hunted you down before dawn if you’d gone ’cross land.” We’re all froze, watching; Jim’s fingers not even round his talisman yet. “Got youself a charm, there, have you?” He flicks the barrel of his shotgun up toward the ox hairball. “I like charms, me; ev’rybody likes charms, I reckon. Toss it over – let’s have a squint. Don’t be shy now.”

  We all stay froze – till we hear the sound of that gun being cocked. That feller don’t need to say nothing else; Tom tosses the hairball over to land at his feet.

  “S’more like it,” says he. “Don’t move, now – my finger’s awful itchy tonight.”

  He crouches down slow and takes his left hand off of the gun barrel and pats it round in the grass a time. Soon as he’s found it he stands up agin, slow.

  “Thing as ugly as this must do some power of good, else why’d a body bother with it, eh?”

  Tom and Jim and me swap a few glances; we don’t want to help this feller out none. But he’s got that shotgun, and it talks pretty persuasive when he points it.

  “Jus’, jus’ a charm, like you said, sir,” says Jim, doing his humblest voice, the one he uses for white folks, makes ’em think he’s just a chucklehead. “Jus’ for good luck, yessir. An’ to keep the witches off! Lord, you wouldn’t bleeve the trouble I has keepin’ the witches off, no, sir. Got some of my hair tied up to do the same, yessir. Can you see the cotton, sir? Right here.”

  Jim turns his head to the side and taps at the place, taking a step toward the feller as he does it.

  “That’s close ’nuff,” says the gunman. “Another step and you’ll have more’n witches to worry ’bout, boy.”

  “Shure, sir, yessir,” says Jim, smiling and nodding and touching his forehead. “Don’t you worry, ’bout me, sir – I ain’t no problem.”

  “Reckon you ain’t,” says the no-good. “Not many folks is when I’m toting this.” And he points that shotgun round all three of us in turn – though if he’s got shot loaded rather’n slugs he’ll hit us all with one blast at that range, certain. “Now…,” says he, muttering to hisself, holding up that ox hairball in front of his face, “…what’re you, eh?”

  “Spirit,” comes a soft, wheezy voice like a breeze through bulrushes. We all heard it clear.

  “I’ll be!” says the no-good, ’most dropping the hairball and letting his pipe fall out of his mouth. Then he laughs sharp and rattles out a good, strong cuss word. “Tarnation,” says he. “Now ain’t that something?”

  I glance up at Jim, who’s looking mighty pained.

  “That your soul speaking, or the spirit you put in the hairball,” says I, hissing it quiet.

  “Spirit I put in last night,” says Jim, low. “Reckon I’d know my own soul if I heard it.” He sighs. “Sposed to be only me can talk with that spirit; ain’t sposed to go gossipin’ with first feller as comes along.”

  “Hush up,” says the no-good. Then he looks back at the hairball. “So, spirit, what’s it you do, ’zactly?”

  “Answer questions,” comes the voice agin.

  “That so?” says the feller.

  “That is so,” says the spirit.

  “Well, all right, now,” says the feller. “What kinda questions?”

  “All questions,” says the spirit.

  “All questions?” says the feller.

  “All questions,” says the spirit agin.

  “Lord, Jim,” says Tom, under his breath. “That’s pretty dern mighty for a charm, ain’t it? How d’you pull that off?”

  “Oh, there’s plenty I know, Marse Tom,” says Jim. “More’n you’d think.”

  “Well, if you’ve got anything to match it, set to,” says I. “Cause there’s plenty folks’d kill for a charm like that – and this feller was fixing to kill us anyway, I’ll lay.”

  “Hush up, I said,” says the feller. “Won’t tell you agin.” He looks back at the hairball. “All right, spirit, what’s my name?”

  “Jake Langdon,” comes the voice.

  “Well, I’ll be…!” says the feller. Langdon, I guess. Then he darts a look at the three of us, kind of shifty and afeard. “Bad thing to let folks hear your real name, most times,” says he, muttering. “Still…” He looks down at his shotgun. “…don’t make no difference this time, I spose.”

  That didn’t cheer us none.

  “All right, spirit,” says this feller, Langdon. “When’m I gonna be rich?”

  “Never,” comes the voice.

  “Never?” says Langdon, kind of riled.

  “Never,” says the spirit.

  “Why not?” says Langdon.

  “You’ll die first,” says the spirit.

  “Die!” says Langdon. Then ’fore he can stop hisself or even think ’bout it – ’cause he ain’t the brightest spark, this feller, I reckon – out comes his next question. “Die when?”

  “Tonight,” says the spirit.

  “Tonight? Tonight!” That feller’s face is all twisted up with rage and he’s shaking that ox hairball and shouting at it. “The devil you say! I ain’t dying tonight, no, sir. You tell me straight or I’ll bust you! I’ll… I’ll… I’ll grind you under my heel and burn up what’s left, that’s all.”

  Jim gives a start forward when he hears that.

  “Not one more step, boy,” says Langdon, pointing the shotgun straight at Jim’s chest, not more’n a few feet ’twixt ’em now. “You even twitch, I’ll drop you – you’re living on borrowed time already. Now, spirit, I’m giving you one last chance: will I die tonight?”

  “Yes,” says the spirit.

  “Damn you,” says Langdon. I can see the sweat breaking out on his face. “Die how?”

  “Drown,” says the spirit.

  He casts his eye over at the Mississippi, rolling by regardless like she always does.

  “Be damned if I will,” says he, muttering.

  “You don’t want to pay no nevermin’ to that bad old spirit, marse,” says Jim. “He don’t take to strangers, says all sorts. Hand him over here an�
�� I’ll whup him for you – I know how!”

  Jim starts to reach out for the hairball, but Langdon ain’t having it – he tosses it into the grass and an instant later both barrels of his gun is in Jim’s face and he’s pushing him back with it.

  “I told you not to move, boy,” says he, getting mad. “I ain’t gonna wait for Injun Joe no longer – I’m gonna finish you now and claim the reward – there must be a pretty price on your head by now, I reckon.” Then he skips back a couple of steps and lowers the gun toward Jim’s chest. “Course I can’t ruin your face, mind – folks’ll want to see that. Hold still, now.”

  “You’d best hold still too, I reckon!” That shout comes from back the way we come, along with an almighty crash as a feller busts out through some bushes (it was all over bushes down there by the creek). He’s got a shotgun ready too, and it’s pointing at Langdon. That no-good looks over, sudden – like we all do – and that’s all Jim needs to grab the barrel of the gun. He points it up skyward then closes on Langdon and they start wrestling for it. Jim’s got him beat for size, so he’s jerking Langdon this way and that – who’s cussing all the time, but he ain’t loosening his grip on the gun. This only lasts a moment or two, then the gun fires, both barrels, up into the air, midway betwixt them. Soon as that happens they break apart, clutching their ears, and the gun falls to the ground; gun ain’t worth fighting over now it ain’t loaded.

  “You stop that now,” says the new-come feller, walking over cautious, gun at his hip, keeping Jim and Langdon covered. “Any shooting to be done, I’ll do it.”

  Then everybody sees who it is – though I knowed already, from the voice. It’s Pap.

  “Wheee-doggy!” says he, laughing. “Got me a nigger and a varmint: reckon I’ll get two rewards. How d’you like that, Huckleberry? Tracked you, sneaked up on you – and you didn’t hear a sound! I’ve laid for folks three times tonight and got ’em all! Bet you thought your old Pap warn’t up to it, eh? Showed you, I reckon! I’m on a roll – got to get me to a poker table.”

  And he gives us a big, wide-mouthed laugh through his teeth like rotten fenceposts.

  “Thought you wanted to get on Big Missouri, Pap,” says I. “They’ve got poker tables on Big Missouri.”

  “Whisky too,” says Pap. “And I don’t ’preciate being kept away from it. Would’ve gone aboard and left you here for the slaves to get, if it warn’t for you knowing more’n you’ve let on ’bout you-know-what.” And he nods toward me significant to let me know he means Injun Joe’s treasure. “Only reason I ain’t gonna lam you here and now is you’ve brung me to a better way o’ finding it…” Pap crouches down in the grass, keeping his eyes on Jim and Langdon and picks up the ox hairball. He spares it a glance then stuffs it into his pocket. “Reckon this’ll tell me all I need to know with no sass. You can stay in Petersburg all you want, now, Huckleberry – don’t reckon I need you no more.”

  “Marse, marse…,” says Jim, stumbling forward, blinking in pain and clutching at his ears with one hand (they must’ve still been ringing some) and reaching out with the other, pleading. “…that’s my charm, Marse Finn. Let me hold it – jus’ for a moment…” I guess so’s he could get his soul back, things looking desperate. “…I’ll give it right back, I swear.”

  But Pap ain’t got no pity in him.

  “Don’t you get no closer – I seen what you done to this feller when he let you get close. I ain’t so dumb! You’ve got a nerve asking for favours after what you done to the Widder and your mistress. Maybe folks’ll let you choose the end o’ the rope they tie the noose in – don’t go ’specting more’n that, boy.”

  I see a crafty little smile crawl ’cross Langdon’s face then as he realises Pap was still sold on the story of the slave rising.

  “You’re right, sir,” says he. “This feller’s a regular devil. I was arresting him myself when you showed. I’m glad you did, yessir. Any reward going on him is yours and welcome. Drop him now, say I – ain’t no need to bring him in alive.”

  Pap’s brow creases a moment.

  “No,” says he. “It’s a couple mile back to town – and I don’t reckon you can carry him that far.”

  “Carry him together,” says Langdon.

  “So you can jump me, kill me and get the reward for yourself? No, thank you.”

  “He’d jump you certain, Mr Finn,” says Tom. “He’s the jumping kind – you can see it in his eyes.”

  “You hush up,” says Langdon, sharp.

  “Hi now,” says Pap, sharper. “I’m the one with the gun. Anyone’s going to tell boys to hush up, it’s me!” There was silence for a few seconds. “You hush up, Thomas Sawyer. Reckon you need to go home – your folks might be needing you…” Tom starts to move away. “…but not till we’ve got this settled.” And Pap directs him back with a flick of the shotgun.

  “Jim didn’t do nothing, Pap,” says I. “It’s all Injun Joe, like I said in town – I mean it.”

  “Best shut your mouth up quick, Huckleberry,” says Pap. “You’re losing lies by the bushel.”

  “Shoot him, then go back to town and fetch the sheriff out here,” says Langdon.

  “No,” says Pap. “Someone might find him while I’m gone – move the body and claim the credit.”

  “Then wait with the body while I go fetch the sheriff.”

  Pap laughs at that some.

  “If these boys was any good I could send them to fetch the sheriff,” says Pap. I see Langdon frown when he hears that – Pap didn’t know Langdon needs all three of us, Jim, Tom and me, to keep Injun Joe happy. “But, no. Can’t trust these boys out of sight, not for a moment, though it grieves a father’s heart to say it!” Langdon looks a mite happier then.

  “Say,” says Langdon. “We could shoot him here then cut his head off. We could all go back to town then – any one of us could carry it easy.”

  Pap ponders a time while Jim looks uneasy.

  “What kind of knife you got?”

  Langdon reaches under his coat for a sheath at his belt; that sets Pap twitching agin.

  “I want you to tell me, not show me,” says Pap, raising the gun a shade.

  “Hunting knife,” says Langdon, bringing his hand back into sight, slow and careful. “Big ’nuff!”

  “Hmm…,” says Pap, pacing back and forth. “I know! We can all get in his skiff yonder and you and him can row me up the Miz, back to town. That’ll cut some dash, I should say, when I land him at the jetty in front of everyone.”

  Tom and me gape at each other – setting out on the Miz warn’t in our plans.

  “Skiff!” says Langdon with a growl. “I ain’t getting in no skiff, mister.”

  He hadn’t forgot what the hairball spirit’d said ’bout him drowning; he didn’t like the idea any more’n us.

  “Reckon we’ll go in a skiff if I want us to go in a skiff,” says Pap, giving the gun a shake. Some folks wave guns around like they was magic wands – just got to point ’em to get what they want. Seems to work most times too!

  “Please, Mr Finn,” says Tom, all pitiful. “I’m awful afeard of the water – can’t we just walk back?”

  “Yes, Pap,” says I. “We’ll walk. We won’t play no tricks – honest injun!”

  “Mutiny, is it,” says Pap. “Dern you!”

  “Better do something quick, Marse Finn,” says Jim. “That shotgun’ll fetch someone certain – no tellin’ who it’ll be.”

  I see Pap’s mouth working up a cuss for Jim, but he thinks better of it.

  “Tarnation! Nigger’s right,” says he. “Can’t just hang around here.” He looks phased for a moment, then: “I know! I know how to pick the best way.”

  Pap rousts that ox hairball out of his pocket and holds it up near his face, keeping the gun on us with one hand (I see it dip a little – Pap ain’t as strong as he used to be, ’cause of the drinking).

  “Now you listen here, spirit, or whatever you is,” says Pap. “Reckon you heard what we been saying. So tell
me straight: what’s the best thing for me to do?”

  There’s a little pause, then a sound like an intake of breath, then the spirit’s voice comes agin.

  “Run,” it says.

  “Run?” says Pap. “Run back to town?”

  “No,” says the spirit. “Just run.”

  “Run?” Pap ain’t the sharpest and it’s too many for him. “Run where? Run why?”

  “I guess it means run away from me, Finn.”

  There he is, Injun Joe, walking straight toward us out of the night. Hadn’t seen him, hadn’t heard him. It’s like seeing a shadow come solid.

  “Joe!” Pap gasps and takes a pace back. For a moment I think he’s going to turn his shotgun on Injun Joe. If Injun Joe hadn’t already had his shotgun levelled – and the feller we left trussed up warn’t standing untrussed fifteen foot back of him with a revolver ready – well, I reckon he would’ve too. “How d’you find me?”

  Injun Joe raises his left heel.

  “If you want to get ’bout quiet, Finn, you shouldn’t go stamping a trail of crosses over town a child could follow.”

  “Well you took your time following ’em,” says Langdon, sharpish. “I’ve been keeping this crew talking for an age waiting for you to show.”

  “We got tied up,” says Injun Joe, a touch of smile tugging up the sides of his mouth as he nods toward his partner. “Least Cooper did, didn’t you, Cooper?”

  “Yeah,” says the man Cooper, low and slow – and kind of shamefaced and riled at the same time. He’s picked up a split lip since the last time I saw him, so I guess Injun Joe don’t like it when people let him down.

  “Best go get your gun back, Cooper,” says Injun Joe, pointing his own toward the one in Pap’s hands. “You don’t want that gun, Finn,” says he. “That’s the gun that done all the murders.”

  “Murders?” says Pap. “Which murders?”

  “You and these boys,” says Injun Joe, “by that nigger there, just before me and my pals arrived too late to save you. Real shame it was, we were all mighty sad ’bout it. Then, moments later, he went down in a regular storm of bullets himself. That’s the way it’s going to get told – and who’s to say different?”