“Lord, that feels better,” says he with a smile. “What ’bout you chillen?”
“I reckon you’re right, Jim,” says Tom. “How Joe didn’t get us out there, in the river, I just don’t know!” And he rummages in his britches, turfs out another fistful of truck, goes back in until he finds his doorknob, then holds it up ’fore his face and runs out the words like Jim. Second later he splutters and catches his breath and would’ve fallen in his tracks if Jim hadn’t grabbed him. “How ’bout you, Hucky?” says he once he’s pulled hisself together. “Might as well, long as you’re with us. If Joe can find Jim and me, he’ll net you just the same.”
“That’s so, I’ll allow,” says I. “But… fact is… I dropped my quarter. Thought I was going to die, certain, when I got blew up in the air. I didn’t have time to say the words ’fore I dropped – and then I fumbled it! It’s out there now! Somewhere at the botton of the Miz.”
I knew this warn’t good, of course, but I didn’t ’preciate just how no-good till I caught sight of the faces Tom and Jim was pulling.
“Oh, Hucky!” says Tom. “Oh, Hucky! Maybe…?” But his voice just tails off and he looks down at his feet.
“Don’t fret now, Huck,” says Jim. “’Spect Mother Hopkins can think of something.” But his voice don’t sound hopeful and his face don’t look it.
“Heck,” says Pap, kind of scornful. “Lost my soul in a card game once – t’ain’t done me no harm yet. Anyhow, what you ’spect gonna happen, hanging round with an old witch like Mother Hopkins? Now let’s step lively, else that cliff with McDougal’s Cave in is gonna be worn down to a molehill, time we git there!”
Pap hurries on then, finds a trace of a path working its way up the bluff, and goes at it like a goat. Without no better ideas, Tom and Jim and me follow him.
That path widened out, farther it went – kind of on a ledge on the side of the bluff. We could see the river plain, below us on our right, looking pretty thick and brown; no sign of any boats on it, though. Bluff was pretty bare ’neath that ledge, but along it and above there was a fair amount of greenery, so we had some shade. That was as well, ’cause after dawn came up it warn’t long ’fore the sun felt pretty hot on our necks.
“Could do with a drink, ’bout now,” says Pap.
“I’ll say,” says Jim, wiping his brow. “Some cool water’d suit me jus’ fine.”
“What?” says Pap. “Oh, yes, water!”
“There’s water in the cave,” says Tom. “Running down the walls, and dripping off of the stacktights – the pointy-down rocks – and forming little pools. There’re streams running through it too, in places. I’ve heard them, ’fore now – though I ain’t found one yet.”
“Say, Tom,” says I, pointing through a gap in the bushes, away out over the river. “That an eagle up there?”
“Eagle?” says Tom. “Unlikely round here, Hucky, it’s probably… Well, dog my cats! Maybe it is! Say, Jim – that look like an eagle to you, over yonder?”
“Lord, Marse Tom!” snorts Jim, kind of surly. “I don’t care if it’s no eagle! Is it an eagle?”
“It is not an eagle,” comes a flat voice that stops us dead and sends the hairs on the backs of our necks skywards. “It is the man you know as Injun Joe in the shape of an eagle.”
We all look at Jim; Jim’s staring down at his hand – he’d been fretting away at that charm round his neck while he walked without even knowing it.
“That’s tore it, I reckon,” says I.
“Oh, Lord,” says Jim. “Here we goes again!”
“Dern!” says Pap. “Evr’ybody git down, lively now, ’fore he spots us!”
We all crouch down sharp and squint through the leaves at that bird circling out over the river.
“Oh, Lord, what now?” says Jim, picking at the collar of his shirt, fingers all nervy. “Las’ time I asked that spirit a question, boat wen’ and blowed up. What now? What now? Lan’slide unnerneath us to dump us in the river? Rockfall ’bove us to dash our brains out? Rattlesnake in these here bushes? Poison ivy? Reckon we’d better get out of here quick!”
Jim starts to move, but Pap rassles him to the ground.
“No, dern it,” says he. “That’s what’ll do it, I’ll lay. Soon as we move off, that there bird’ll see us. Better we stay here till it goes.”
“Bad luck can get you anywheres, an’ that’s a fact,” says Jim. “Best we get movin’ again so least we’se a movin’ target.”
“No,” says Pap. “More you do, more there is to notice! Don’t you know nothing ’bout how luck works, boy?”
“Mister,” says Jim, “if I stacked up all I know ’bout luck an’ it fell on you, you’d be flatter’n an empty sack!”
That’s what he said, but he shuffled back behind the bushes with us all the same. And Pap does know a thing ot two ’bout luck, I’ll allow – on account of his having pushed it so far his whole life.
So there we sat, squatting and a-crouching behind them bushes, sweating, having a mighty uneasy time of it, ’specting any minute to see that Injun Joe bird come swooping down on us, or get stung by hornets, or struck by lightning (agin!), or some such. But, no, minutes ticked by and nothing happened worser’n us just feeling bad. After a time we see that eagle fly off downstream towards where what was left of Big Missouri ended up.
“Told you,” says Pap. “Sitting tight was best. Now we know he ain’t in his cave and don’t have his loot – didn’t see no gold in that bird’s claws. Things has gone good for a change. Let’s git!”
We all get up then, kind of careful, and carry on agin up the path, keeping low and close to the bushes.
“I’ve a feary,” says Tom, whispering.
“I’se a-feary too, chile,” says Jim, patting Tom on the shoulder. “But don’ fret yo’self – that eagle’s gone for now. ”
“No,” says Tom. “A the-o-ry.”
“A what now?” says Jim.
“A theory. A big idea. ’Bout how your hairball spirit works.”
We all stop and take a close look at Tom.
“All right, then,” says Pap. “Out with it.”
“Just now, when Jim asked it ’bout the eagle, he didn’t care ’bout the answer – and nothing bad’s happened. So maybe the bad luck only comes down if you care. And the more you care, the bigger the dose of bad luck you’ll have to swallow for the sake of knowing.”
We ponder that a moment.
“Well, I don’t know,” says Jim. “But… p’raps you’re onto somethin’, Marse Tom.”
“Dern!” Pap spits, disgusted. “What’s the point of a charm you can’t hardly use? Ain’t that like spirits to git you all fired up ’bout what you might git, then lay fer you with a nasty surprise.”
“I think,” says Tom, “maybe you’re meant to use it to help other people. Help them get the answers ’bout things which you don’t have a stake in.”
Pap goggles some.
“Fer… fer no reward? Why, I wouldn’t pay a cent fer a charm like that! What’s the point?” Then to Jim: “You’ve been taken, boy!”
“How’d you mean to test it, Tom?” says I.
Tom wrinkles his nose and scratches his head.
“I know,” says he. “I’ll ask it what Ben Tanner’s pa’s doing right now. That’s something I don’t care ’bout, I’ll lay.”
And he reaches his hand out – shaking some – to the hairball hanging from Jim’s neck.
“No,” says Jim, taking a-holt of Tom’s hand and lowering it to his side agin, real gentle. “Don’t make no sense to ask it somethin’ none of us care ’bout. If you’se wrong we’se in fo’ mo’ bad luck fo’ no gain.”
“That’s true, I guess,” says Tom, sucking his teeth. “Shucks!”
Well, I guess this had piled up to ’bout as much as Pap could stand, him itching to heel it to McDougal’s Cave and all the loot he ’spected to find, ’cause up he steps and grabs a-holt of that charm – clenches it tight in his fist – and he frowns up at J
im, staring fierce, and says: “Want to know ’bout yer kin don’t you? All right, then! Spirit: where’s his wife? Same plantation he left ’em at?”
“Yes,” says the hairball in its flat, neck-tingly voice.
“And his girl? Same place?”
“Yes.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Still slaves?”
“Yes.”
“How’s their health?”
“Oh, fair to middling.”
“Got any money put aside?”
“Four dollars and twenty-six cents. They hide it in a cigar box under the floor of their shack.”
“Ask it if they think of me,” says Jim, hissing in Pap’s ear, his eyes bulging up with tears. “Do they think of ole Jim?”
“Heard that, I reckon,” says Pap. “Do they?”
“Yes,” says the spirit. “They both think of old Jim – though the child can hardly remember what he looks like.”
“Don’t ask no more,” says Jim. “I can’t stan’ it.”
Pap lets go of the hairball and steps back a pace while Jim turns away and pinches his eyes. Pap braces hisself; stands like that ’bout thirty seconds, then:
“Nope,” says he. “Don’t seem to have brung us no ill luck yet. Guess you was right, son…” Meaning Tom. “Now let’s git, can we, dern it?”
We hurried on up that track, livelier now.
“Guess I should thank your Pap,” mutters Jim. “Though asking all them questions and not gettin’ a breath of bad luck must mean he don’t care a straw ’bout me. That ain’t no surprise. But I bet he could’ve asked them questions ’bout anyone and been pretty safe.”
I give a sigh.
“Reckon he could at that, Jim,” says I. “Anyway, least that spirit loosens up a bit when you get it talking. Maybe it’ll go easy in future.”
’Bout a half-hour more saw us approaching the entrance to McDougal’s Cave. We knew it was coming up ’cause Pap took to muttering to hisself as we got closer.
“Yes, this is it… is it?… Yes, ’deed it is… seen that tree yonder last time I come up, I reckon… or did I, I was t’other side… No, that’s it all right… round the next corner, all right!”
We all skip over to the land side of the path and press ourselves into the bushes.
“See if the coast’s clear,” says Pap, over his shoulder.
“Oh, now you want me to take the lead, do you?” says Jim.
“No, dern it,” says Pap. “Six foot of field hand! You’ll go stealthy, I reckon! I meant him.”
He meant me.
“Well,” says Tom, “least you don’t have no soul to get sniffed out.”
“No,” says I. “Just a skull to get busted and a hide to get tanned and a seat to get switched!”
I hear Pap muttering as I creep past him: “…ungratefullest boy in the world, I’ll allow! Ain’t but a handful of times a year I ask him to do somethin’, and when I do it’s grumble, grumble grumble. Six months o’ the year he does as he please and still he ain’t happy! I’m a sight too soft on him, I am, that’s always been my trouble…”
The bushes and such stop ’bout ten yard short of the entrance to the cave, where the ledge widens out in front – ’most as if it knew it got visitors and needed a porch for them to gather in. I don’t ’spect to see Joe standing outside (either o’ them), nor anyone else, but I still go up there careful, peeking and creeping, till I’m sure there’s nobody around. Up ahead of me I can see the track going on north. It’s wider that way and better trod, ’cause that’s the way to Petersburg, the way folks come when they want to take visitors sightseeing if they don’t want to spring for a ride on the steam packet. There was a jetty below us, in a woody hollow, ’bout a mile off. Steamboats didn’t stop there regular, of course – just charter trips or if you paid the captain and he warn’t in a hurry. I wondered if I shouldn’t take myself off quick down the steep path that come up from the jetty and see if any boats had come looking for survivors from Big Missouri (we hadn’t seen no boats so far, but that path had been taking us inland for a time – McDougal’s Cave warn’t right on the edge of the river, it was set back a-ways. ’Bout a mile, like I said.). Then I wondered if I shouldn’t oughter just run off north, back to Petersburg, and raise the alarm, case nobody else had – though they must’ve heard the blast, I was sure. But what kept my feet still was that thought agin: will Pap lam Jim some time when he ain’t expecting it. And, if he did something real bad, and Tom saw it… well, Tom’d be in a fix then, all right – same as the fix with Muff Potter and Injun Joe.
All in all, I figured I’d best do nothing.
“Coast’s clear!” says I, calling back to Pap loud ’nuff to be heard, but taking care not to overdo it, just in case there was someone listening somewheres. Half a minute later, Pap, Jim and Tom has all trotted up to join me; we walk toward McDougal’s Cave.
Funny thing ’bout that cave – it had a door. That’s right, for all its caverns and maziness inside, the way in warn’t much bigger’n a regular doorway (though shaped like a wedge; wide at the bottom, thin at the top), so, sometime, some feller had straightened up the edges a shade, drilled into the rock, fitted hinges, and hung a thick oak door there. If someone had owned it and charged to let folks in, or wanted to keep folks out, then a door would’ve made sense to me – I’ve been on the wrong side of doors before – but the cave just seemed to belong to the county in general. Door didn’t even lock well ’nuff to stand a bit of shaking – you could go in or out any time you pleased. Folks is strange, things they build.
Pap and Jim eye the ground careful as we step up to the door.
“Don’t look like no one’s been in recent,” says Jim.
“Guess not,” says Pap, low. “But I don’t reckon none of us would swear to it.” He reaches out – his hand’s got a shake to it – and jerks the door open so it swings out toward us. Then he jumps back sudden, knocking me and Tom aside. Then he peers forward, squinting into the gloom.
“Well, don’t see nothing wrong,” says he. “Any of you?”
We allowed that the cave, far as we could see, looked pretty much as we’d expect it to. It was a pretty small room, first part of McDougal’s Cave, no bigger’n a parlour. Even so, the sunlight, this time of day, struggled to touch the far side. And on that side the light give out altogether, ’cause that was where the tunnel was, ten foot wide, leading down into the hillside.
Pap steps inside and we follow. He sucks his teeth a moment.
“Anyone got a light?” says he.
Our hands pat all over our pockets and go rifling in our britches, but ain’t one of us got a match that stood being in the Miz.
“There’s an alcove to the right of the door,” says Tom. “There’s always a couple of candles there.”
Pap gropes for them in the dark.
“Well, that’s good,” says he. “Now maybe you can wish a flame to get ’em started!”
Jim gives a snort.
“Don’t you folks know nothing?” says he. We watch as he walks back outside, shaking his head kind of disgusted, and starts scouting around, eyes on the ground. He comes back in once he’s hunted up a couple of flinty-looking stones. He holds them up in front of his face and strikes them together.
“Hold…” says Jim as some sparks light off of the stones. He strikes them together agin, and speaks as soon as they touch. “Hold… dern!” The sparks go as soon as they’ve come. He has another go, speaking real fast, soon as the stones touch. “Hold still, spark!” And the spark just hangs there, a little orange diamond floating in the dark. Jim tosses the stones aside and strolls over to the place Tom said; comes back with a couple of tallow candles, only a couple of inches long. He freshens up the wicks with his thumbnail then holds each of them to the spark. Once they’ve took light I can see his smile, kind of prideful. “We done!”
The spark disappears and Jim passes one of the candles to Pap; t’other one he keeps a-holt of.
&n
bsp; “That’s a gaudy trick you got there, boy,” says Pap. “Done it neat, I’ll allow.”
We look about us. The walls are rough and whitish and sparkle in the candlelight.
“My,” says Jim. “Might be pretty if it warn’t so like a tomb! Colder’n a tomb too.” And he shivers; we can all feel it.
“Limestone,” says Tom, who knows his rocks. He runs his hand ’cross the wall and it comes back wet; that sparkling is ’cause the stones is sweated all over with water. “Condensation, I guess,” says Tom. “Or maybe it soaks through from the ground above. Wouldn’t think water could get through rock – but it does.” He gives a sigh. “Joe liked this cave,” he says to me, soft. “When he got mournful he said he’d like to be a hermit, live in a cave away from folks, like he’d read of. He was going to play at being a hermit till… till I talked him into going pirating; told him it was a sight bullier than being a hermit, with plenty of fun and truck to be had. If I hadn’t done that, reckon he’d’ve just come up here for a couple of days then gone home. He’d still be alive and we’d’ve saved ourselves a power of trouble.”
Well, there warn’t much I could say to that – sounded true, the way Tom told it. I give it a go, though.
“Warn’t your fault he drownded,” says I. “Warn’t your fault he come back. Warn’t your fault he come back mean.” I give a shrug. “Never any telling how things’ll turn out, Tom.”
“What we got here?” says Pap. It was a pick and a shovel.
“They’re always here,” says Tom. “Case there’s a rockfall and folks need digging out.”
“Dern!” says Pap with a spit, grinding it ’gainst the stone, under his boot. He turns to Jim. “Rockfall! Bet that’s how it’s gonna get us – the bad luck! Soon as we ask your charm where the loot is. And we got to ask it! Ain’t no way we’ll find it otherwise.”
Jim ponders a time, then sighs, nodding.
“That’s so,” says he. “We’ll just have to risk askin’ it an’ take the bad luck that comes. Ain’t like earlier – ev’ry one of us wants to fin’ that treasure. Ev’rybody wants treasure! Well, then: spirit…” And he takes a-holt of the hairball, ready to ask it.
Huck Page 24