Lyin' Like a Dog, The Yankee Doctor, The Danged Swamp! 3-Volume set

by Richard Mason

  CHAPTER TWO

  Checking on Uncle Hugh

  December 25, 1944

  First off, me and John Clayton had the bestest Christmas ever ’cause it snowed, and we spent last Christmas Eve with our friend old Uncle Hugh. Oh, he ain’t our uncle, he’s an old colored man that John Clayton thinks is at least a hundred. Heck, he’s old, but he ain’t that old. Well, anyways, we’d been coming by his little cabin a bunch last fall to deliver groceries ’cause he had walking problems, and Christmas Eve we had the best time, but just as we were leaving, Uncle Hugh started having some real bad pains in his chest, and we thought he was a goner. You know, done passed, but he got to feeling a little better, and we walked on down the lane from his little cabin toward our house. Heck, when we looked back at his cabin, his lantern was out, and we was sure the angels had done come and got him.

  Well, the next day I begged Daddy to go with me to check on Uncle Hugh because he seemed so sick when we left him on Christmas Eve. Heck, I wasn’t about to go up to his cabin by myself. Walk in on a dead man? Not on your life. Anyway, Daddy drove as far as he could in our old ’36 Chevy, and then we walked about a half-mile on up the lane to Uncle Hugh’s cabin. When we was about there, I saw smoke coming from the chimney, which made me feel a little better, but I still stayed out in Uncle Hugh’s front yard while Daddy walked up on his porch and hollered for Uncle Hugh.

  Shoot, it wasn’t but a couple of minutes until Uncle Hugh opened the door and walked out on the porch. My gosh, I was sure relieved.

  “How you doin’ Mr. Jack? What brings you way down here in the woods?”

  “I’m doing just fine, Hugh, but how’re you feelin’? Richard tells me you’ve been havin’ some chest pains, and you haven’t been well.”

  “Well, Mr. Jack, I have been feelin’ kinda poorly, and when Richard and John Clayton was here last evenin’, I shor was hurtin’, but I’m better now.”

  Daddy talked with Uncle Hugh for a few more minutes and asked him a bunch of questions. Then he said, “Hugh, I’m going to come by here tomorrow and take you to see Doctor Kennedy over in El Dorado. I think he can give you something for your heart, and I think you’ve got high blood pressure, which he can treat. Just be ready to leave about ten.”

  “Oh, Mr. Jack, I can’t afford to see no doctor. I’ll be all right. Y’all just don’t worry none ’bout me.”

  “Hugh, Doctor Kennedy will understand about you not bein’ able to pay him, so don’t worry about the money, and we’ll work out something if you need some medicine.”

  Well, Uncle Hugh kinda tried to tell Daddy no again, but I could tell he was really glad he was gonna get to see a doctor. The next day me and Daddy helped Uncle Hugh walk from his cabin down the lane to where we parked the car, and then Daddy drove Uncle Hugh over to El Dorado. We were back by noon with Uncle Hugh proudly clutching three bottles of medicine: one for his heart, another one for his high blood pressure, and a third one for the gout. Heck, a week later Uncle Hugh was getting around real good, and he was even able to walk into Norphlet to get groceries. Well, me and John Clayton still came by real regular to see Uncle Hugh ’cause he was such a good friend, and besides that he could tell some of the best stories you ever did hear.

  CHAPTER THREE

  An Encounter

  It warmed up a bunch right after the first of the year and me and John Clayton was ready to get outside and do some exploring, or, heck, just fooling around anything but being locked up in the house or in school. Sunday was a nice warm day, and John Clayton came by right after dinner. We plopped down on my front porch trying to come up with something to do.

  “Shoot, Richard, I’ve already read all your danged funny books four or five times, and I’m bored outta my mind. We gotta get off this front porch and do somethin’—anything. Hey! Let’s go explorin’ down in Flat Creek Swamp.”

  Well, I felt as bored as John Clayton did, but, heck, we’d tramped through that danged swamp so many times that going down there again seemed to be about as much fun as re-reading old funny books.

  “Aw, we’ve walked round in that danged swamp till I’m blue in the face, and this time of year we can’t even fish or go swimming. What are we gonna do down there that’s any different?” Well, John Clayton sat there and scratched his head for a few seconds, then kinda nodded.

  “Heck, Richard, maybe we outta go around that big marsh at the second beaver pond and go on down the creek. Every time we go down in the swamp, it’s always to the second beaver pond, and we stop when we get to that swampy marsh. Let’s circle that marsh and keep going till the creek crosses the O’Rear Cutoff Road.”

  Well, for once, I kinda liked what John Clayton had in mind. Heck, he was right. We always stopped at the big marsh at the second beaver pond ’cause there was knee-deep water and scads of blackberry vines. Just the idea of getting all wet and scratched up always sent us back. But, heck, you could look across the marsh and see some really big pin oak trees and some huge canebrakes. ’Course, I was really wondering what was in those big woods we could see in the distance. About all we knew was that the creek came outta them big woods and crossed the O’Rear Cutoff Road four or five miles east of our farm.

  “Well, what are we waitin’ for?” I said. “Let’s head out.”

  I stuck my head in the front door and yelled, “Momma, me and John Clayton are fixin’ to go down to the swamp and explore. We’ll be back after awhile.”

  “Be back before dark,” said Momma as she walked out on the front porch to check us out.

  “That’s your good school shirt, Richard. Go change, and don’t get your shoes wet. You hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I headed back to my room with Momma following me to be sure I put on some old rag. Heck, a rip or tear in a good school shirt would put my clothes in real bad shape. I put on a shirt which was at least two years old, and the sleeves came up almost to my elbows. I don’t care much about how I dress, but that shirt was almost too far gone. Heck, it looked like a little kid’s shirt. Well, I didn’t have no choice, so I buttoned it up and walked back out on the porch with Momma.

  I took a good look at Momma just before we left. She was standing there, wearing an old blue dress that was just hanging on her because she was just like me―skinny, skinny, skinny. She had a bandanna tied around her head to keep her black hair outta her eyes while she was working, but even dressed like that, she looked real pretty. I guess I’m not the only one that thinks Momma is pretty ’cause Daddy is always fussing about men flirting with her when she goes downtown.

  Daddy walked around the corner of the house just as we were leaving, and I poked John Clayton to hurry up or we were gonna have some chores to do. Heck, if you give Daddy a couple of minutes to think, I’ll guarantee you he’ll come up with some stuff to do.

  “We’re headin’ to the swamp, Daddy. I’ll clean the mule stalls when I get back.”

  Daddy was standing there holding a shovel, and I figured that danged shovel would be in my hands real soon if I didn’t throw out something like “work later.” Daddy started to say something, but when I volunteered to clean out the mule stalls, he was kinda surprised, and he just nodded his head. Heck, I wasn’t gonna clean out no mule stalls when I got back. I was just saying that. You know you’ve gotta think real quick if you’re a kid or your folks will work you to death.

  Daddy was wearing a fresh-starched khaki shirt and pants, and he’d combed his sandy red hair back real good. Shoot, I knew durn well he’d be gone to some honky-tonk by the time I got back, and I could forget cleaning out the mule stalls. Daddy’s just great, except for one thing―well, maybe two things―beer and women. He can’t leave neither one of ’em alone, and that causes a bunch of trouble around our house. Heck, even I can see why the women at the refinery where he works chase after him. He’s over six feet tall, with blue eyes and a very nice smile, and he weighs one hundred and eighty pounds.

  Well, we get along real good when he’s not drinking, but on weekends, look out. W
hen he comes in drunk, I’m like one of them football referees because Momma sure ain’t shy about tying into him.”

  We headed outta the yard with my old hound, Sniffer, and pretty soon we were tramping down the creek. It was fairly warm for a January day: about sixty degrees, and the weeds was all shriveled up where we could walk through the swamp real easy. Shoot, I could walk through the first part of Flat Creek Swamp blindfolded, I’d been there so many times. But, after about another hour of walking, I saw the second beaver pond and the big marsh behind it.

  “Shoot, Richard, that ain’t just a little old marsh today. Look at all that water. We gotta plow through all that cane and briars over yonder if we wanna keep from gettin’ wet. You sure you wanna do this?”

  “Oh, come on, John Clayton, you whiner. Heck, we ain’t got nothin’ else to do.”

  ’Course, I was right, but to keep Momma happy and not get my shoes wet, we was gonna hafta make one heck of a circle.

  First off, we turned and went through the biggest danged canebrake I’ve ever seen, and just when we thought we’d be in open woods and have it easy, we ran into a blackberry patch that didn’t seem to have no end. Shoot, it was either get scratched up or wade in knee-deep water.

  “Dang you, Richard, we’re gonna be scratched up from head to toe before we get outta this blackberry patch.”

  “Yeah, but look right ahead; we’ll be in them big woods in another twenty yards. Shoot, just push the blackberry vines down with one foot and step out with the other.”

  “Ha, that’s okay for your feet, but what ’bout all them vines sticking my arms?”

  ’Course, old Sniffer, being a dog, didn’t go through all them blackberry vines. He just circled around and was sitting there, waiting on us, giving us a dog grin like, “Hey y’all ain’t as smart as a dog.”

  Well, we both whined about getting scratched up, but in a few minutes we’d left that danged blackberry patch and walked into some of the biggest woods I’d ever seen.

  “My gosh, John Clayton, I can’t believe we never explored these woods. Look at the size of those trees.”

  “Yeah, this is gonna be fun.”

  We turned back toward the creek, and in a few minutes we were walking along the bank following the creek downstream. Well, we continued on down the creek, sometimes stopping to check what the water had washed outta the creek bank, and, after a couple of hours, I figured we must be getting close to where the creek crossed the O’Rear Cutoff Road. ’Course, we were yelling, laughing, and just raising cane as we walked along, figuring there wasn’t a soul nowhere around and old Sniffer was running out ahead of us giving out one of them long, wailing hound howls every now and then. All of a sudden I stopped.

  “What’s that smell?”

  “Yeah, I smell it, too. It’s smoke and something else, like something sour.”

  “Hey, what’s that up ahead? Look up on that little ridge with all them beech trees.”

  I thought I could make out a shed or something when Sniffer came a-hightailing it outta them woods like something was after him.

  “Dang! What’s wrong with Sniffer?” said John Clayton.

  “Sniffer! Here! Here! Come here!” I yelled. Sniffer wasn’t gonna stop, but I grabbed him by the collar as he ran by, and he was just a-shaking. “What’s wrong, boy?...

  Boom!

  Dang, the sound just echoed through the woods, and I nearly jumped outta my skin ’cause a bullet smacked into a tree right beside me and bark flew out and stung my arm. Shoot, Sniffer jerked away and took off like a scalded dog.

  “What in the world?” I yelled. “Who’s shootin’ at us?”

  Heck, we were scared just absolutely outta our minds, and we didn’t move an inch ’cause we were afraid whoever was shooting at us might shoot again.

  “That’s far enough, boys!” yelled somebody from up in front of us.

  I jumped about three feet again when that fella yelled, and then he stepped out from behind a big pin oak tree holding a rifle. My gosh, he was one of the worst-looking men I’d ever seen. He had on an old crumpled felt hat and some ragged overalls with a blue work shirt pulled over them, and he was wearing some old beat-up work shoes with shoelaces hanging off the side. He had a stub of a cigar in his mouth and a kinda scruffy “I ain’t shaved in a while” look. Shoot, that guy looked as mean as some slimy snake.

  It took us a little bit to calm down, and then I hollered back, “Why’d you shoot at us?” Well, I kinda threw out my shoulders like I was all put out and stuck my fingers in my belt.

  “Hell, son, I didn’t shoot at you. If I’d shot at you, you’d be dead right now. I shot at that tree to get your attention.” He pulled the cigar outta his mouth, spit a stream of tobacco juice toward us, and gave us a sneer like “Y’all messing with the wrong man.”

  “Whata you mean? We ain’t doing nothin’, just walkin’ ’long the creek bank,” I said. “Shootin’ at somebody’s against the law!”

  “You’re trespassin’—comin’ on private property―and I’m the law in these woods. You understand that?” The man shifted his gun to his other hand like he was maybe gonna point it at us again, and I began to get real worried.

  Well, I’m a little bit of a smart aleck, and I put my hands on my hips and stepped forward.

  “Naw, I don’t understand that ’cause we ain’t a-trespassin’; this is Parson’s Timber Company land, and it ain’t posted or nothin’. Heck, we’re always roamin’ round on Parson’s land. Do you work for Parson’s?”

  “Naw, I don’t work for no damn timber company, but if I say this is private property, then its private property. You understand that, boy?”

  Well, the man kinda shifted his rifle again and gave us another hard look.

  “Richard, shut up―let’s get outta here,” John Clayton whispered.

  But shoot, I knew durn well we weren’t trespassing, and I just kept going on and on.

  “Naw, it ain’t private property, and even if it is, you ain’t got the right to shoot at us just for walkin’ down the creek. We could have you arrested!” I kinda yelled that arrested part and shook my finger at him.

  Dang, that was a big mistake ’cause, after I shook my finger at the man, he kinda squinted his eyes and his lips curled down. Whoa, I knew right then I shouldn’t have done that ’cause that man kinda leaned his head forward like he couldn’t believe I’d talked back to him, and then he licked his lips real mean. Then, my good lord, he raised his gun.

  “Y’all is gonna regret pokin’ round down in this swamp!” he yelled.

  “Dang! Dang! Dang!” I whispered to John Clayton. The hair on the back of my neck just stood straight up, and I stopped breathing.

  “Oh my god, don’t!” yelled John Clayton, who was already backing away.

  “Ahaaaaa, don’t shoot us!” I screamed, and, heck, I was running before them words was outta my mouth. ’Course, John Clayton did the same thing, and then I just nearly dropped dead of a heart attack.

  Boom!

  There was a rifle shot and dirt kicked up, and wow, did we turn it on. We flew through them big woods like nothing you’ve ever seen, and then, just as we started to slow down, another boom sounded, and a bullet tore through the trees above our heads. ’Course, that put us in high gear again, and we must have run another half-mile before we stopped. Well, we’d just stopped running when Sniffer, that cowardly dog, came sneaking outta the woods with his tail between his legs, giving me that “I’m so sorry I run off,” whiny look. John Clayton was panting like he’d run five miles.

  “Richard, what?―What in the world?―Why did that man run us off?―Shoot at us?” John Clayton was just sucking air and so was I. We walked over and sat down on a log to rest.

  “Heck, Richard, we were just walking along minding our own business, and some crazy man tries to kill us. Why did he shoot at us?”

  “I don’t have no idea, but I don’t think he really tried to kill us. Shoot, he could’ve just shot us when we was standin’ there. I
think he just wanted to run us off and scare us so badly we wouldn’t come back.”

  “Well, yeah, he danged sure did that, but why? Why didn’t he want us walkin’ through them woods, and who is he?”

  “Heck, I don’t have a clue, but since he ran us off, there must be something up ahead that he don’t want us to see. Maybe he’s guardin’ whatever’s up there.”

  “Uh, huh, I think you’re right; he’s a guard. Did you see anything before he shot at us?”

  “Yeah, I was just about to point out a shed on that little ridge ahead of us when he shot.”

  “A shed? Why would anyone guard a shed?”

  “Heck, if I know, but he may be doing something in that shed that’s bad or against the law, and he wants to keep a secret.”

  “Yeah, Richard, that’s gotta be it. That sorry man is up to no good. Heck, why else would he run us off?―Wonder what he’s doin’ in that shed?”

  “Well, one more thing. While we were standin’ there, I smelled smoke and it smelled like something was cookin’.”

  “Yeah, come to think ’bout it, I smelled something, too. What the heck do you cook deep in the swamp?”

  “Shoot, we wasn’t that deep in the woods ’cause I could hear cars from the highway, and I’ll bet he came in from the O’Rear Cutoff Road and didn’t walk through the woods like we did.”

  “Well, Richard, why don’t we tell our folks that some man shot at us, and maybe they’ll have the law check him out?”

  “Are you kiddin’? Shoot, with all the stuff we got into last year, there ain’t a soul in town that would believe us.”

  “Yeah, you’re right ’bout that.”

  Well, we sat there and talked and talked about what was sure one of the strangest things that had ever happened to us. Finally, we walked back up the creek toward my house.