“…it means there’s a posse in the tunnels,” says bat-Joe. “That’s right. Been listening to them too – can hear ’em speak ev’ry time that hound shuts up. Judge Thatcher’s leading ’em, and, you know what? They still think you’re behind the trouble, Miss Watson’s Jim, steamboat and all – they’re just itching to settle with you.”
He laughs agin and Jim drops his pick, clattering to the floor, candle too, and puts his hands over his ears. Up above, bat-Joe stretches out his wings – he’s ’bout to drop on us, certain. Out of the corner of my eye I see Pap backing off, making for that lake and the treasure. But you can’t ’scape Injun Joe that easy.
“Where you off to Finn?” says bat-Joe, screwing hisself round and flicking those evil eyes at Pap. “Going to dig up my treasure? You do that – save me a job. I’m clearing out of Petersburg anyway, soon as I’ve finished with you meddlers.”
“Oh, Lord,” says Pap, ’most falling over his feet. Then, with a last cuss and a spit, he’s off, turning and running out the cavern, hollering: “Heel it, son! Break for the tunnels – he can’t catch us all!”
“Not all at once,” says bat-Joe. Then he unhooks those great claws of his from the roof, drops, turns upright in the air and lands on the floor easy as you please – ’twixt us and the passage we come down. “All this trouble’s ’cause you boys couldn’t keep your eyes closed or your mouths shut,” says he. “But I know how to stop ’em both for good! They won’t find a scrap of you – none of you – ’cept the nails in your pap’s boots.” And a horrible red tongue like a rat tail comes out his mouth and licks them daggery teeth.
He steps forward sudden and Tom and me both give a cry and jump back. He don’t move so gainly on the ground, bat-Joe – walks kind of awkward, stepping sudden, lurching forward, leading with his shoulders, like they’re weighed down by them big black wings, folded back now. It’s ugly to watch, though – ’most set my eyes on edge as if they was teeth.
“Might as well stop there and get it over with,” says he, hopping forward, bow-legged. “Can’t ’scape from me in these caves.” Tom and me skip back some more. “I’m still quick enough for you,” says he lunging forward, sweeping out one of his wings, “’Specially now the hunger’s on me!”
Tip of that wing catches my heel, lifts me off of my feet and lands me flat on my back, in the filth – I get a hand under my head just in time to stop it cracking ’gainst the rock. And in the light from my candle, stuck in the muck, I see him come scuttling forward, the spit frothing from his jaws. He leans over, and back of them mean black eyes I know he’s still in there, Injun Joe. Tom screams; I hear Jim roar.
“No you don’t, you gashly thing,” hollers Jim, grabbing up his pickaxe and running. “I’ll bust that wendigo clean out o’ you!”
He comes charging ’cross the stone like a lion, raises that pick, and brings it down… but out shoots bat-Joe’s t’other wing, some kind of nasty little hook halfway along it, and tosses that pick out of Jim’s hands like it warn’t nothing and Jim’s grip no stronger than a baby’s. He tumbles Jim over too, and, as he crashes to the ground, same as me, bat-Joe turns off and goes for him.
Maybe Jim thought he could take Injun Joe, or maybe all he ’spected to do was distract that villain from me, buy me some time to get up and run. Either way, it don’t look good for him now. Injun Joe leaps up and them bat wings carry him straight to Jim in an instant; down he comes, plants one of them clawed feet on Jim’s chest and holds him down, Jim screaming as the talons dig in. He lunges forward next, them jaws snapping at Jim’s face – ’most take it clean off; Jim grabs him by the throat, both hands, and pushes him back for all he’s worth. Injun Joe ain’t got no arms to speak of now – just the wings – but he’s battering Jim plenty with those, using those little hooks to catch Jim’s arms and drag them away. Soon as one looses hold, bat-Joe lunges agin and bites – it’s all Jim can do to grab a-holt agin and keep that monster at bay. Ain’t going to be able to keep it up for long.
“The hairball,” yells Tom. “Ask it what to do, Hucky! Hang the bad luck, we’ve got to save Jim!”
“Ain’t no doubt,” says I. “Quick, spirit…?”
“No!” It’s Jim, hollering. He’s turned his face toward me, his arms quivering, buckling at the elbows as bat-Joe forces ’em back. There’s bat spittle drooling all over Jim’s face; the ratty tongue whipping against his cheek. “Throw it over here, Huck – straight to me.”
Well, I didn’t argue. I snap that hairball straight off of its cord and fling it to Jim, fling it true. Jim lets go of bat-Joe’s throat with his left hand and catches the hairball; those bat jaws open wide and, just as they start to close, he thrusts his fist into that monster’s mouth.
Teeth snap shut.
I hear flesh tearing and bone shattering; and Jim screaming and screaming.
Bat-Joe lifts up his head to the cavern heights and works them jaws, chomping, chewing, blood squirting into the air and running down his dirty fur. I see his neck bulge as he swallows. Then he gives a bellow, a salute to his own victory, and spreads his wings wide, flapping ’em hard ’nuff to give a clap like thunder. Tom’s hand darts up to guard his candle flame like it was gold – it’s the only light we got.
Jim? He’s still pinned by the claw, writhing in agony, clutching with his right hand at the ragged stump where his left used to be. Hand gone, and four inches of arm.
But then… then… and I can’t hardly believe it – I see Jim’s laughing.
“You’ve done it now,” says he, ’twixt his groans. “Yessir, you’ve done it now! Worse meal you’ve ever eaten!”
Bat-Joe halts his crowing and casts his red eyes down at Jim, pulling at him with the claw till he’s sat upright.
“Why?” says he, his voice wary of a sudden. “What’ve you done?”
“Thought you was listenin’, Injun Joe,” says Jim, his voice a sight tougher and braver’n you’d ’spect from a feller in his state. “My hand’s tasty ’nuff for a cannibal like you, maybe, but that hairball it was holdin’ is a lifetime’s worth o’ bad luck for you. Lissen! Jus’ lissen!”
Bat-Joe lets go of him and Jim drops back to the floor. Tom and me share a glance then turn our gaze on Injun Joe sharpish, our eyes narrowing, we’re listening so hard. And there it is! Quiet and muffled, but there it is! The voice of the hairball spirit – coming from inside Injun Joe’s stomach, answering the questions he’s already asked.
“…made you swallow me,” it says.
Bat-Joe tilts his head forward and peers down at his belly, gives it a prod with the knobbly parts of his folded up wings – but they ain’t made for that, so it don’t seem to help him any.
“Think that’ll save you?” says he, and he looks back at Jim, furious. But before he can go for him agin, back comes the voice.
“Yes, he thinks it’ll save him.”
“Talkative, ain’t you,” says Jim, tucking the bloody stump of his left arm up under his right. “You’ll learn, I guess, if you live long ’nuff.”
“What d’you mean?” says Injun Joe – who don’t learn fast, it seems.
“Oh, I mean somethin’ll happen… any time now, I reckon… yessir, maybe that’s it come along already!” And Jim, clenching up his eyes with the pain, rolls to his side, over and over – cause he’s ’ready spotted what the rest of us catches just now.
High up ’bove Injun Joe, there’s a crack. My eyes go up there straight, peering into the gloom at the outer limit of our candlelight. Something falls. It’s one of them stacktights – got broke off somehow – hits the ground just feet from Injun Joe and scatters him with lumps of broke rock big as your fist.
There’s another crack and a whoosh – Injun Joe skips to the side just in time to miss a hunk of stone could’ve stove his head in.
“You’re quick, I’ll allow,” says Jim. “But you can’t stay quick forever, can you?”
“Oh, can’t I?” growls Joe.
“No,” comes the muffled voice from inside of his bel
ly. “You can’t.”
Jim rolls back and laughs, having hoodwinked Injun Joe into asking a question. Injun Joe leaps for him agin, but another stacktight comes crashing down and he has to flap his wings and veer off else it would’ve squashed him like a thumb on a fly. He lands in a heap, but he’s up agin quick, those wings scrabbling at his belly. Well, they ain’t right for the job, I guess, cause he starts shrugging, rolling his shoulders, and the wings grow smaller, come more arm-like. While he’s doing that, his throat muscles is working themselves up and down something fearful, and he’s choking and gagging all the while. It’s clear what he’s about: he’s trying to cough up that hairball.
“Oh, no,” says Jim. “No, sir. You can’t get rid of it that easy. Stood four ox stomachs, that hairball – you’ve got it for life. Only one way you can get rid of it. Want to know what it is?”
“What?” says Injun Joe, his eyes bulging.
And Jim slaps his good hand against the ground – cause he’s got him agin.
“Cut it out!” says Jim.
“Cut it out,” comes the faint hairball voice from inside of Injun Joe.
“Oh, you think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?” says Injun Joe, working them arms back into shape. Another question!
“Yessir,” says Jim.
“He does think he’s smart,” says the hairball spirit.
“Think a little bad luck can stop me?” Injun Joe doubles up. His head is changing too; his face, legs and body all twisting theirselves into a different shape. “Think this is the first time I’ve had someone wave a kitchen charm at me?” Couple more questions there!
“He does think bad luck can stop you, he…”
“Shut up, you,” says Injun Joe, punching hisself in the belly. “Let’s see how smart you feel when you see me tear these two boys apart, ’fore finishing you. Know what you are? Breakfast, lunch and dinner – that’s what!” And he stands up sudden, throws back his head, and gives a howl that swirls all round us. He’s got a big wolfish head now, stuck atop a big human body, all hairy, with claws at his hands and feet. This one looks like it’s built for running.
“Lord,” says Jim. “Won’t this feller ever be satisfied? What’s next? Buffalo?”
“Tom,” says I. “Reckon we should maybe stretch our legs a little.”
Injun Joe – wolf-man-Joe now, I guess – gives one last snarl at Jim then comes bounding over the rocks towards us. Bad luck ain’t forgot ’bout him though – he has to zig and zag all over the place to avoid them rocks cracking off of the ceiling and raining down. I start for the passage Pap went down; Tom comes with me, but ain’t gone more’n two steps when he stops sharp.
“Running with a candle!” says he. “T’ain’t no good, Hucky – it’ll be out in seconds and we’ll be stumbling ’round blind.”
“Well, ain’t there something we can light?” says I, my eyes darting about, hands patting my pockets. “Ain’t there?”
“Run,” shouts Jim from across the cavern. “Just run!”
And then I feel claws digging into my shoulder. Biting worser’n sticking my hand with a fish hook, worser’n treading on a nail, worser’n Pap’s belt buckle after a night of forty-rod. The claws turn, and I have to turn with them, turn till I’m looking up at Injun Joe’s ravening jaws.
But Tom’s at my side.
“Hair burns, don’t it?” says he. And he dives forward and thrusts the candle deep into the wolfish hair covering his chest.
Injun Joe wrinkles up his snout and snorts: “You’ll need some…”
Then his eyes grow wide. Luck! That’s what we needed and that’s what we got – if only ’cause he was such a bad luck magnet now that anyone could’ve out-lucked him.
I ’most get burned by the flames as all of Injun Joe’s fur catches and up he goes like a Roman candle on the Fourth. He bellows right in my ears, and I stagger back as his claws come out. Off he runs, hither and yon, howling, beating hisself with his hands to put out the flames, rolling in the bat-filth, crashing into the stacktight pillars in his panic. Don’t do no good; makes it worse, if anything.
But one of the things ’bout bad luck is it can spread itself around. Fast too. I hear the sound of stone splitting agin – cracks running all the way round the stacktights, spiralling up to the roof and spreading out. The whole lot’s ’bout to come down. Feel an elbow nudge me in the side.
“See that,” says Tom. “Quick – best grab Jim and get out of here.”
We hurry forward – Tom nursing his candle, me with my good hand clamped to my hurt shoulder – then jump back quick as a block the size of a watermelon hits the ground in front of us.
“No,” shouts Jim, scrambling to his feet. “Ain’t no time, chillen! Get into that passage yonder. Good luck now!”
With that he turns and runs toward the other side of the cavern, where some tunnels open up. Tom and me pause a second, watching Injun Joe running in circles, trying to put hisself out and run for one of those passages too ’fore he gets brained by a falling rock. Then we heel it for the passage Pap went down. We’re no more’n ten yards in when we hear an almighty crash and clouds of dust comes billowing along after us.
“Guard that candle, Tom,” says I, coughing. “We still need that all right.”
Not that we could see, though – had to shut our eyes there was so much dust. Every time I opened them I was afeard Tom’d’ve coughed out that candle and we’d be in the dark. I didn’t reckon much on that. Seemed an age, but I guess it was only a couple of minutes.
“Quiet, ain’t it?” says Tom after a time, blinking at me out of his gray, dusty face.
“Quiet enough, I guess,” says I. “Quiet ain’t so bad. Quiet’s better’n what we had five minutes ago.”
“Indeed and ’deed, Hucky,” says Tom. “You ain’t wrong there. Shall we go back and look for Jim?”
Well, there warn’t no doubt ’bout it. So I nod and we walk back careful along the tunnel and peer back into that cavern. It ain’t so gaudy now. All the fanciest bits of stone, stuff that got built up over the years by the water dripping – well, that’s all smashed to flinders, heaped all over the floor in a thousand pieces. Some of the proper rock’s come down too, by the look of things – great chunks of it. Boulders, near ’nuff. Tom and me, we pick our way in a-ways.
But of Jim and Injun Joe there ain’t no sign.
“Jim!” we call, walking round the place, sticking close together. “Jim! You there Jim? Can you hear us?”
But we don’t see nothing; don’t hear nothing neither. I spot a candle laying on the ground and light it from Tom’s.
“Should we look down the tunnels for him?” says I.
“We don’t know which one he went down,” says Tom. “Don’t know which one Injun Joe went down neither.”
“We could go back the way we come,” says I. “Find that posse, maybe. Get help. You can set Judge Thatcher straight ’bout Jim on the way back down here. He’d believe you, Tom.”
“Well, maybe,” says Tom. “But I can’t hear no sound of that bloodhound no more. They could be anywheres. And wasn’t Injun Joe nearest that tunnel, last we saw?”
“What, then?”
“Well, we know where your Pap’s gone, don’t we, Hucky? Following them directions the hairball give him to the treasure. He’d be some help. Better’n nothing, anyways.”
“Well,” says I, shrugging, “if he’s better’n nothing than nothing’s ’bout the only thing he’s better’n.”
So off we went. Back down the dusty tunnel and on till we come to that underwater lake. More of a real big pond than a lake, maybe, but a sight larger’n you’d ’spect to find.
“Can you see the far side, Huck?” says Tom, starting off round the edge. “Said there was a passage over there we’ve got to get down, didn’t it?”
“Wait up,” says I, calling after him. “I’ve got to rest a minute, Tom. My shoulder hurts.”
But Tom just carries on, goggling at the lake some, then over at the
far side of the cavern, looking out for that passage.
“There’s more stacktights and stagmights over on this side, Huck,” says he, a watery echo to his voice as it comes back toward me.
“Always did like jography, eh, Tom?”
Warn’t me that spoke – that voice come from a mouth full of water, in a head rising out of the middle of the lake. He turns to me and I see his eyes glinting in the dark.
“Joe!” I shout. “Harper!”
Tom turns slow.
“Ge-ology,” says he, kind of quiet.
“That’s the last time you’ll correct me,” growls Joe, heading toward him through the water, water down to his breast now and getting lower.
“How’d you get here, Joe?” says Tom.
“Been in McDougal’s Cave since ’fore you got here – been watching the whole time. Listening too. It’s like you said, Tom: water soaks down through the rock, makes streams, streams run into the Miz. All the water’s tied up, Tom – it all gets back to her in the end.”
Joe’s walking through the lake now, water down to his waist, making for Tom. I start scrambling along the edge, hurrying along the way Tom went – but I see I ain’t going to get there first. Joe walks straight out the water and up to Tom.
“Now it’s time for me to do some correcting, Tom,” says he.
“What d’you mean?” says Tom.
“What I mean is that it was your idea to go pirating – that was a mistake! And you couldn’t steer the raft right – that was a mistake! And I got drownded – that was a mistake! And you didn’t – that was a mistake too… but I’m gonna put it right!” He reaches out and pinches the wick of Tom’s candle ’twixt his thumb and forefinger; the flame goes out with a sizzle. There’s just the light of mine now, flickering ’cross the water, the ripples making Joe and Tom’s shadows dance oddly over the walls. “We’re going to do something I want to do, now, Tom,” says Joe.
“What’s that?” says Tom, standing ready.
“Go swimming!”
And with that Joe goes for Tom, splashing water in his eyes like it was a fistful of sand. He leaps and then he’s got him: one hand gripping Tom’s arm, holding him still; t’other clamped over Tom’s mouth, just like with Jim. Tom starts choking at once, gasping and gulping, water spraying out all over. Joe’s eyes is wild, his mouth hanging open, as he drags Tom down toward the lake – and Tom can’t do nothing to stop him, though he’s struggling like a demon, his feet slipping easy cross the wet stone.
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