The Rock Hole

by Reavis Z. Wortham

  An explosion of motion to the right startled us both. A large wolf finally lost his nerve at the shot and bolted from his hiding place beneath a thick cedar. He raced down the dirt road.

  “Wolf!” Grandpa cocked the little pistol again and aimed with his elbow bent like a cowboy in those flickering silent movies. The pistol cracked a second time and the wolf tumbled in the dirt.

  My eyes must have bugged out of my head. “You hit him!”

  “I intended to. Now stay right here. He may not be dead and he’ll be dangerous if he’s still alive.”

  I wasn’t about to ignore his warning, because I didn’t want to be eaten by no wolf. In the back of my mind I thought it could be a Texas werewolf.

  Grabbing the tail, Grandpa cheerfully drug the carcass back to the truck. “Thissin’ won’t kill any more calves or chew off their tails. Let’s go to the store and show him off.”

  He pitched the limp body into the truck bed, and we drove out of the bottoms to the main social hub of our community, two plank-walled general stores separated by a weathered domino hall that had never seen the business end of a paintbrush.

  A loud, laughing Santa Claus to kids, Uncle Neal Box kept an eye on his one-room store from behind a wooden counter worn smooth by a lifetime of sales. He kept the store stocked with everything from food to dry goods. Farming equipment and hardware hung from the open rafters along with nursing buckets, well buckets, harness, and tack.

  Fifty yards to the east, Oak Peterson’s older and gloomier general store also housed the post office; a dark little spot in the rear protected by iron bars at the business window. I was always uneasy around Oak, because one eye turned out and I never knew for sure if he was looking at me.

  Our family preferred Neal’s store because he was family. And unlike Oak’s store, Neal’s place was built on a tall pier-and-beam foundation with a wide front porch. Grandpa liked to stand on the porch where he could look both ways down the highway.

  You could always find a good game in the domino hall between. Sometimes three or four games rattled dominos, and the hall rang with laughter, cussing and good solid slaps on the homemade tables when someone made fifteen or twenty points.

  “Make a nickel.”

  Click. “Made a dime.”

  Slap. “Twenty-five!”

  “Dammit.”

  Center Springs was a pretty good-sized town back around 1870. It had a cobbler, a barbershop, livery, blacksmith shop and an honest-to-god brass marching band. But after a particularly long spell of rain and thunderstorms in 1908, the Red River drowned the entire river valley under silt and water. Most everyone washed away and only a handful returned.

  Loafers on the two-by-six porch rails of Neal’s store made up the majority of the crowd when we arrived. A few men leaned over the beds of trucks, talking and spitting and laughing. A circle of colored men squatted in the shade between Neal’s and the domino hall, talking in low voices and drinking strawberry sodas, if they had a dime to spend.

  Grandpa killed the motor and coasted into the parking lot paved with rusting coke bottle caps from the box beneath the cooler’s opener.

  Pepper sat on the top porch rail, eating a Zero bar and listening to Uncle James and the men talk. She ran down the steps before the truck was still. “Where you been?”

  “Down at the river. Look what Grandpa shot.”

  She climbed up on the small step beside the spare tire and peered into the truck. “Shitfire. He shot someone’s German Shepherd?”

  “No you idiot. That’s a wolf.”

  “Ain’t neither.”

  “Is too.”

  We went at it while the crowd emptied off of Uncle Neal’s porch and gathered around the truck to examine the carcass. The colored men craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the dead wolf, but none stepped into the inner circle of white folks.

  “Glad you killed him, Ned.” Sonny Choat drummed his fingers on the fender. He farmed land not too far from Grandpa’s house. “I swear a bunch of wolves ran my dog up on the porch the other night, but my wife says they were coyotes.”

  “There weren’t no others with him. That’un come a runnin’ out from under a cedar tree while the boy here and I were dumping the trash. He tagged him with his BB gun while he run off, but I had to finish him when he got too far away.”

  Grandpa surprised me by stretching the story, and felt my face turn hot when Pepper shot me a look like she’d like to cut out my liver. “I bet you were running like a striped-ass baboon in the other direction,” she whispered.

  I elbowed her and saw Uncle Cody pull off the highway at the sight of a crowd around Grandpa’s truck. He stayed behind the wheel and stuck his arm through the open window. “You got a booger-bear in there, Ned?”

  I immediately forgot the wolf and went around to the passenger side of the El Camino. Pepper followed and we stuck our heads into the sweet-smelling interior to look around.

  Cody gave us a smile and pinched Pepper’s nose between the knuckles of his index and middle fingers as a greeting. “Hey, y’all!”

  “Howdy, Cody.” Pepper had already forgotten that she was mad about seeing him with Norma Williams at the fair.

  “Ned shot him a wolf this morning down by the river.” Bryan Dollar always liked to be the first person to tell a story, no matter if he was involved or not.

  “I been meaning to go wolf hunting, myself,” Uncle Cody reached over to turn his radio down. “But I’ve been spending too much time at work.”

  “And at other things.” Everyone laughed at Uncle James’ comment.

  “That too. I ain’t married like y’all.” Cody glanced at us and changed the subject. “There any dove out in your maize field, Bryan? I thought I’d go huntin’ now the weather has cooled off.”

  “I saw quite a few last week when I was feeding. Come on out and shoot you a bunch if you want to.”

  “That’s a thought.” Cody paused. “I saw some hog tracks between the spring and the creek a while back. I thought I might camp out there to hunt birds in the morning and hogs at night.”

  “That’d be all right. I don’t care if you shoot every hog in the county, the way they’re rooting up my pastures. I’ll tell Roland Roach you’ll be out there at night after hogs, so he won’t bother you.”

  Roland Roach had served as the game warden for as long as I could remember.

  Pepper hung through the window to better see the inside of Cody’s El Camino. “Don’t you want to get out and see the wolf?”

  “Naw, I’ve seen one before.”

  She stretched way into the car and started fiddling with the radio, turning it up so she could hear the Beatles over the static. Cody reached out without paying much attention, grabbed an arm and tumbled her headfirst through the window while he talked to the adults on his side. I rolled in right behind her and we flopped around on the seat like a couple of puppies.

  “Scoot over.” There was no way I was going sit in the middle next to Cody. It wasn’t manly. Girls belonged between the men.

  “Kiss my ass.”

  “Grandpa’s gonna hear you one of these days.”

  He didn’t, but Uncle Cody reached over and squeezed her knee, cutting off the argument. Pepper fiddled with the radio some more.

  Grandpa turned to Cody. “If you want to do some honest work outside of that honky-tonk of yours, I’m hiring hands today to pick cotton. I can offer you the same wage for some honest work.”

  “Aw, I reckon I’ll do what I know best. Besides, the last time I got into a work agreement with you, I think I got the worst of the deal.”

  “If I remember right, I offered a deal to gather pecans on the halves, and you didn’t pick up but about fifty pounds or so.”

  “Um hum. I was fifteen and about broke my back picking up them stinkin’ nuts. You didn’t tell me I had to shell them, too.”

  “Yeah, I did. You weren’t listening.”

  “I listen better now.”

  “I bet you do. You kids gonna
get out of the car?” Grandpa leaned over and squinted through the window.

  Pepper adjusted the radio, trying to get rid of the static. “I think we’re gonna ride around with Cody.”

  Uncle James joined us at the car. “I think you’re gonna get out. Is this a car or a truck?”

  It made Pepper mad, but she knew better than to argue with her daddy.

  “I guess it’s whatever you wanna call it.” Cody turned his attention to us. “Tell you what, y’all go on and stay here and if it’s all right with everybody, you can go hunting with me next weekend.”

  I knew better than to say anything. Pepper started to open her mouth, but I gave her a good jab in the ribs and she shut up. “Shhtttt!”

  Grandpa looked over at Uncle James. “I guess you were about their age the first time you went camping by yourself with your cousins.”

  “Yeah, that’s what worries me.” Uncle James scratched his head. “But we can’t keep them in a box, I guess. All right, y’all can go. Now get out and go get you a cold drink and some peanuts.”

  We were out the door in a flash and I slammed it. “Thanks Cody!”

  “Yeah, thanks!”

  “Hey, you two,” Cody passed a quarter to each of us through the window. “I’ll see you next Saturday.”

  We threw another thanks into the wind and ran up the steps. Pepper beat me to the top. “You ever jab me in the ribs again I’ll grab you by the hair of the head and pull you bald.”

  I pulled at my short cowlick. “No, you won’t.”

  Emory Daniels stepped through the screen door eating a Moonpie. Everyone knew he barely had enough money to feed his kids, but there he was with a treat all four of his little ones would have cried for.

  Pepper shot him a mean look, grabbed the wide Ideal Bread metal screen protector on the door and ducked under his arm. Emory frowned at her when she darted around him.

  “I hate him. He’s the most selfish man I’ve ever seen. I think he’s mean, too. I saw him whip his littlest one in here one time and Neal made him stop because he was hitting so hard.”

  “He always scared me, too. I try to stay away from him. One time I was throwing Coke caps outside and he got onto me because I might nick someone’s car. I was only throwing them into the pasture over there.”

  I saw Grandpa and Uncle James wave Cody ’bye. Uncle James jogged easily onto the porch to visit some more with the men loafing there and Grandpa joined the colored folks in the shade beside the store.

  We quickly lost interest in Emory Daniels, finding ourselves staring through the long nose-smudged oak trimmed glass cases holding Zero Bars, Baby Ruths, candy necklaces and wax bottles filled with flavored syrup.

  A quiet voice drifted through the window propped open with a piece of broom handle to catch the breeze. “Howdy, Mister Ned.”

  I heard Grandpa’s voice clear as day. “Howdy. Ivory, I hear ya’ll are done with Don Allen’s crop.”

  I glanced outside and saw Ivory Shaver squatting in the shade and whittling on a piece of pine. He stood, but didn’t offer his hand. “Yessir.” He nodded his head to the south. Smoke rose into the air from the cotton gin less than half a mile away. “That’s his they ginning right now, I ’spect.”

  Some people’s cotton needed more ginning than others. Grandpa Ned was particular about his crop and made sure his field hands actually picked the white fluff and didn’t just pull bolls. Good pickers pulled the cotton from the bolls or husks, while landowners with more money than sense paid their hands for bolls and all.

  Grandpa Ned paid for cotton, not trash. That’s why he intended to hire Ivory and his family, because they picked fast, too. “Glad y’all are done. I need some hands come Monday morning.”

  “We’re ready, sir. I was beginning to wonder when we were gonna go to pickin’ for you.”

  Ivory had been dragging cotton sacks for Grandpa Ned ever since he was a young ’un barely big enough to make a full hand. When he married, his wife and kids did the same.

  It wasn’t unusual for Ivory and his family to work Grandpa’s cotton. He fed his hands at noon, and fed them well. That was a selling point when you usually had to bring your own dinner. As an added bonus, he occasionally brought a sack of groceries by for the family and penny candy for the little ones, not counting a few clothes every now and then.

  “Well, I got it in late this year. I had too much to do and almost didn’t make it.”

  “Yessir. For a late crop, it looks good, though.”

  “We’ll make it. How ’bout you get your family and some others who helped last year.”

  “Yessir. Everybody but Willamena can help. She’s ’bout ready to have that baby, and I doubt she’d make it halfway down a row without fallin’ out.”

  “Well, too bad. That gal can pick.”

  “Yessir. Most of the little ’uns will make a full hand.”

  “I trust you.” Grandpa frowned at the ground. “Now don’t you bring out Ralston. I had to lock him up last month. I imagine he’s still mad and he’d probably kick dirt in the sack all day. I don’t intend to pay for my own dirt.”

  Ralston was Ivory’s wild younger brother. When he worked, he was a good hand, but most of the time he was sorry as the day is long.

  Ivory grinned at his shoes. “Don’t matter none. Ralston went to Dallas and got hisself thowed in jail down there. He can’t stay out of trouble.”

  “I know. A lot of my own kinfolk have the same faults. I’ll need about thirty hands, same pay as last year. I’ll meet y’all here with the wagon at daylight Monday morning.”

  “We’ll be here.”

  Saturday was the busiest day at the store, and customers were a steady stream through the screen door. When it was our turn for Neal to wait on us, I spent my quarter on a Coke and some peanuts and worried about how to use the change.

  We returned to the porch, and Pepper funneled peanuts into her R.C. bottle. Grandpa winked up at us as he passed and joined in on the commotion around a newly arrived truck.

  Ty Cobb Wilson called to Grandpa through his open window as he and his brother coasted to a stop beside the porch. He’d known the Wilson boys since they first learned to walk. Hard workers during the day, he and younger brother Jimmy Foxx stayed on their tractors from sunup to sundown. If it was wet enough and they couldn’t work, they spent their time hunting whatever was in season

  Jimmy Foxx opened the passenger door. “Looky here, Ned.” Men leaned over the back of the truck. “We caught these two up near Forest Chapel last night.”

  A low whistle floated across the parking lot.

  From our high perch on the wooden rail Pepper and I looked down on two tawny half-grown cougars, stiff and stretched out in the truck bed littered with hay and empty feed sacks. Grown-ups stacked up around the truck to see.

  Pepper disappeared from beside me and the next thing I knew she was crawling over the hood of the truck and onto the cab so she could get a better look at the panthers. I was shocked at her brazen move.

  Uncle James reached over and raised the upper lip of the closest cat. White incisors flashed in the sun. Then he raised the animal’s back leg. “They’re the first lions I can remember in years. Both are females. I didn’t even know we had panthers up here anymore.”

  “Never saw any larger tracks around our traps.” Ty Cobb shrugged. “Maybe their mama had already weaned them.”

  “Guess we’d better keep an eye on the stock.” Grandpa started back toward his car. “With wolves and lions around here these days, this may be a dangerous winter.”

  “Hold on, Ned.” Jimmy Foxx pointed toward a pile of ‘toesacks against the closed tailgate. “There’s one more thing. Look under there.”

  Grandpa shot him a look and then pulled a ’toe sack to the side to reveal what was left of a dog. Everyone looked in silence for a moment. “You think the mama lion did this?”

  “Nope. Not unless she’s learned to build a fire and skin her meat. Someone spent quite a while working on thi
s poor thing.”

  Uncle James and Grandpa exchanged glances. The men in the lot exploded in conversation and wondered aloud who could have done such a thing.

  Pepper saw Grandpa’s look and slithered off the cab. In an instant Grandpa’s good mood evaporated.

  Chapter Nine

  That last week in October lasted an eternity because we were ready to go hunting. I doubt I learned much at school, and I’m afraid my grades reflected my inattention.

  Grandpa was anxious, too. He urged Ivory’s family to finish picking the tall cotton during long hours in the hot late season sun. No one got rich picking cotton, but it put food on the table for those poor folks living in unpainted shacks in the river bottoms.

  One abandoned shack wasn’t but a few hundred yards from Grandpa and Miss Becky’s house. Bare wooden walls hung scabby with peeling newspaper that once served as wallpaper. The windows and doors had long ago disappeared.

  The phone rang at the same time Grandpa got in from the field. Miss Becky handed him the receiver before he could even take off his hat. He talked for a moment before hanging up the handset.

  He looked long and hard at the table set for supper. “G.W. says someone’s squatting over there in the Howard place. I’ll be back directly.”

  She put his plate in the oven to keep it warm. “Ira Mae called and told me they moved into the house last night. She said they’re not much more than skin and bones.”

  “How’d she know?”

  “Mary Sue called her.”

  “Well, I don’t know how Mary Sue knows either, but all right. I’ll go run ’em off.” Grandpa didn’t care much for G.W. or his wife Mary Sue, but he needed to do something about the call. He pinned his badge onto his shirt, slipped a pistol into the pocket of his overalls and left. He wasn’t gone long.

  I was working on a piece of pie when Grandpa came back through the door, shaking his head. Miss Becky was loading canned and dry goods into paper sacks on the table. I couldn’t figure out why she was taking food out of the cabinet.

  “Mama, make up a basket of food and clothes for those folks….” He saw the sacks on the table and gave her arm a squeeze as he went past. “They ain’t got nothin’ but the clothes on their backs and they’re eating feed corn. I can’t run ’em off the way they are.”