Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1952

by Wild Dogs of Drowning Creek (v1. 1)

  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.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  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 s
een 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?”

  “I asked him to come along,” said Mr. Martin, “but he out-and-out refused to have anything to do with hunting wild dogs. He’s a good worker, but he’s not what you’d call eager for danger. But what I said just now isn’t a riddle or a fairy story; it’s just a matter of orchard-growing science. What’s the word I want?”

  “Horticulture,” suggested Randy.

  “Yes. Now, when you set out an orchard of young peach shoots, sometimes you do some grafting. Know what grafting is? The orchard kind, not the racketeer kind.”

  “You mean when a shoot of one tree is set to grow in the root of another,” said Driscoll.

  “That’s it. Well, to make sure of a good strong growth for peach trees, sometimes slips of peach are grafted into extra strong-growing roots of another tree. That gives the peach a good start right off. I’m no peach farmer myself, but I’ve seen it done here and there, sometimes by grafting to persimmon and sometimes to sassafras. Both of those trees put down roots that die about as hard as any living thing.”

  “I can guarantee that,” said Jebs. “I’ve helped grub up sassafras roots, and it’s rugged work.”

  “Now,” resumed Mr. Martin, “what happened to that orchard Randy found was, the farmer walked off and left it and never cared for it again. The peach trees that grew up from those root-grafts just purely died away. But the sassfras roots sent their own new stems busting up out of the ground, into trees of their own kind. And there you are.”

  “You spoiled what might have been a good spooky mystery,” Jebs half complained.

  “Who might have put in that peach orchard?” Sam asked Mr. Martin.

  “I can’t rightly say. I know there was some farming done in that part of the woods, maybe twenty years back, but nobody worked the place for very long.”

  “Because of that old lawsuit we’ve heard about,” agreed the giant.

  Randy pointed up ahead with the machete. “Look, are we going to have some more rain? I see a sort of cloud.”

  “And it’s rolling and heaving,” chimed in Jebs from his rear position. “I hope it isn’t a whirlwind.”

  “No, it’s smoke,” said Mr. Martin. “It’s a fire in the woods.”

  They quickened their pace.

  “It looks as if it’s right where that house is,” said Randy.

  “Right, Randy,” said Sam Cohill from his greater height. “I see something. Some kind of clearing.” “Then the deserted house is afire!” cried Randy. “Who started it?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE EVIDENCE BURNS

  Randy froze in his tracks, gazing. Mr. Martin and Driscoll, also stopping, looked over his shoulders. Behind them waited Jebs and Sam. So, for a breath’s space, the whole quintet paused in motionless perplexity. But only for a second.

  Then Randy dug in his toes and threw himself forward. He galloped toward the burning house as instantly and swiftly as, two hours before, he had fled away from it.

  “Hold it, Randy!” cried Mr. Martin from behind. “Don’t break up the formation like that!”

  But Randy did not wait. He did not even falter. His feet only flew the faster. His shirt tail, loose from his waistband, streamed behind him like a banner in the wind of his own making.

  “Wait, Randy! Wait!”

  That was Sam Cohill. Still Randy gave no indication that he would slow his furious pace. He outdistanced the hastening feet of his companions, drawing far ahead of them. He burst through the final belt of trees, and paused only on the edge of the old clearing. He looked at the burning house.

  Through gaps in the dry old shingles of the roof licked and quivered tongues of bright flame. Smoke billowed from broken windows, from the remains of the stovepipe. Randy broke into a run again, heading for the door.

  As he came near, skirting the edge of the sassafras orchard, he could see that the door had been pulled shut. He remembered that the wild dogs had clawed it wide open to come in after him—who had closed it again? Surely not the dogs. Fairly leaping the last few paces, Randy caught at the door and wrenched it open.

  A mighty blast of smoke, hot as fire and choking as water, smote him. He fell back half a dozen steps as though he had been forcibly shoved. Squinting with his tear-filled eyes, he looked into the house. The floor blazed in several places. The whole interior was full of smoke.

  “Don’t go in there, Randy!” roared Sam Cohill, his voice drawing closer.

  “I’ve got to,” gasped Randy.

  He dropped Driscoll’s machete and bored in through the smoke toward the door, an arm lifted to shield his face.

  Then he felt the smashing impact of a hard, heavy body. Something clutched his knees together like a noose of tight-drawn cable. He fell, hard and flat, upon the ground. Somebody or something sprawled its full weight upon him, and hands caught his shoulders.

  “What are you trying to do?” choked Jebs from among the wisps of smoke. “If I’d missed that tackle, you’d have gone right in there to be barbecued.”

  “Let go, Jebs,” commanded Randy, struggling against his friend’s clutch. “That cowhide coat’s in there. Sam needs it for a clue—”

  “No, stay out of there.” The giant had run up to them. His enormous hand caught Randy, lifting him from the ground and carrying him away from the smoke-gushing doorway as lightly as though he were a kitten. “We can spare that coat, and whatever evidence it
might give, better than we can spare you.”

  “And that’s the truth,” vowed Jebs, choking and wheezing from the smoke he had swallowed.

  “Stay clear,” ordered Sam Cohill, his hand still gripping Randy like a pair of tongs. “Don’t go near that door, Randy. Understand? Do you agree, or do I have to sit on you?”

  “Whatever you say, Sam,” conceded Randy. “I guess I lost my head when I saw the place was burning up.”

  Releasing Randy, Sam moved closer to the door, tried to peer through the gush of black smoke. Flames darted in and out of the murk. Stooping, the giant possessed himself of the machete that Randy had dropped. Then he strode around the side of the house, keeping a respectful distance from the flames that snapped from windows and walls.

  “What’s Sam doing with my machete?” inquired Driscoll, joining Randy and Jebs.

  “I think he wants to mow away some of the brush near the house,” said Mr. Martin. “It’d be right hard to set these woods on fire, but it’s smart to keep the fire to the house itself.”

  “I’ll help Sam,” said Randy, following the giant.

  “And I’ll help you,” announced Jebs, quickly falling into step with Randy. “I don’t want you to get too far away from me—I might have to tackle you again.”

  At the side and rear of the house, a sizable thicket of brushy young saplings grew almost against the timber walls. Here Sam Cohill had set to work, with great reaping slashes of the machete. The stems and branches fell before his mighty onslaught, and with his other big hand he yanked smaller bushes up by their roots. Swiftly Jebs and Randy began to gather up armfuls of the felled and uprooted brush, dragging their burdens back away from the house.

  “That’s good,” said Sam, glancing up from his work. “Work fast, before the fire comes through the walls.” He chopped away. “Inside job, all right,” he added.