A Yellow Watermelon

by Ted M. Dunagan

  “I wonder why he thinks we be hiding Jake?”

  “Probably ’cause y’all the only colored folks that live here bouts.”

  Everybody cropped the wings of their chickens so they couldn’t fly out of their pens. This was done by cutting the feathers off the ends of their wings with a pair of scissors leaving a straight line of short stubby nubs where the long tapered ones had been. They could still flap, squawk, and run, but they couldn’t fly. The pens were constructed out of chicken wire, which was much finer than fence wire. The holes were too small for the chickens to get out or for foxes and other varmints to get in.

  The old rusted hinges on the gate to Uncle Bud’s chicken pen groaned when I opened it. The chickens started cackling and retreated to the far side of the pen as if they knew we were up to no good.

  “What if somebody in de house hears all dis fuss and comes out here?”

  “Ain’t nobody in the house, they gone to church.”

  “What if one of ’em didn’t go?”

  “If one of ’em didn’t go, then they won’t be able to hear us anyway because they’d be dead. Speaking of church, how’d you get out of going this morning?”

  “Faked a bellyache. Thought I wuz gon’ get a whupping from Momma, fo’ she finally let me go back to bed. ’Spect I probably will get one fo’ de day be over.”

  “I doubt it. If everything works out, then you gonna be a hero when you get home about midafternoon.”

  “Midafternoon! I gots to be home fo’ everybody gets back from church.”

  “Poudlum, after we get your cow home we got to make one more trip to that whiskey still.”

  “Uh-uh!”

  I knew the time had come when I needed to tell him everything. I started out by telling him where Jake had been all week, where he was going to meet us, and what we were going to do. I went on to tell him how Jake and I had written a letter to the whiskey police and how we expected them to haul Old Man Creel away when he came home later today with his load of moonshine. His eyes grew wider and wider as I talked, but when I finished he was nodding in agreement.

  “So when dat old man gets home he gon’ have mo to worry ’bout dan our cow.”

  “If the Lord’s willing and them mail riders did their job, he will. We ain’t never gonna tell nobody about none of this. As far as we know that cow just got loose and wandered on back home. Now, let’s quit standing around here in this chicken pen and catch one. Watch where you step.” I added that last part because I purely hated the feel of chicken do squeezing up between my bare toes and I figured Poudlum felt the same way.

  Them chickens made a real ruckus when we went after them, flapping their useless wings and running in all directions. We finally cornered a young pullet. I fastened the gate while Poudlum tucked the bird under his arm.

  On the way out of the yard I spotted a piece of rope on the back porch. “Will that cow come to you if you call her?”

  “I doubt it. She gives good milk, but she be dumb.”

  I grabbed the rope and said, “Come on, let’s get moving.”

  The chicken got quiet and we made good time through the woods, coming out about fifty yards from the old man’s house. After looking and listening, we dashed across the road into the woods on the other side and stopped at the big loblolly pine tree I had spied from.

  I went over the plan with Poudlum, then I gave him the rope. I took the chicken and we walked to the edge of the woods where we immediately heard the tinkle of old Sukie’s bell. There she was, a good thirty yards inside the gate.

  Looking to my left toward the house, as expected, I saw that Old Man Creel’s car was gone, but I didn’t see the dog anywhere.

  “I don’t see that dog, Poudlum.”

  “Maybe he be sleeping somewhere. Let’s just go get de cow, keep dis chicken and eat it ourselves.”

  “No, can’t take that chance. Go on up to the gate and wait for me. I’m gonna walk down the fence toward the house. The closer down there we can keep him the better.”

  I was much closer to the house than I wanted to be when the dog saw me before I saw him. I heard a rumbling growl and then I saw him coming out from underneath the table where the old man and the preacher had sat and drunk their whiskey.

  Before he could charge I threw the luckless pullet over the fence as hard as I could.

  At first he was torn between coming after me or going for the chicken. I knew this because of the way his head turned from me to the chicken, back to me, then unable to resist, he went for the bird which was running and flapping for its life. A short burst and he caught it and crushed it with his massive jaws.

  I turned and started running down the fence line yelling, “Open the gate, Poudlum.”

  When I got there he had slid the latch back, but was struggling, unable to open it by himself. It was a big gate, wide enough to drive a truck through when completely opened, but the hinges were worn out and the bottom was dragging on the ground.

  We each knew what to do. Without talking we got our hands underneath one of the boards near the bottom, lifted and pulled until we had it open far enough to get the cow through it. We stuck our heads through the opening, looking toward the house. The dog was on his stomach with the chicken between his front paws, ripping away at it. The only thing I didn’t like about it was that his head was pointed toward us and he would be able to watch us, but it was now or never, so I said, “Come on, let’s get the rope around the cow’s neck and get out of here. Don’t run, just walk real easy like.”

  While we walked to where the cow stood, I kept my eye on the dog. He continued with his Sunday dinner, but every few moments he would stop, raise his head, and look directly at us.

  When we reached the cow I said, “Put the rope on her, she knows you.”

  While Poudlum got the rope tied I never took my eyes off the dog. I knew he could hurt us bad, maybe even kill us.

  We both started pulling while Poudlum talked softly to the cow. “Come on Old Sukie. We’s gon’ take you home where you belongs.”

  I was greatly relieved when she lifted her head and began following the lead of the rope, but then the cow bell around her neck began to jingle loudly.

  The dog’s head came up from the chicken again and this time it didn’t go back down. I knew then that I should have taken my pocket knife and cut the bell off her before we had started moving her.

  We were almost to the gate when the bulldog lost interest in the chicken.

  “Pull harder,” I told Poudlum. “We got to get through that gate and close it.”

  I moved behind the cow and started pushing on her rump while Poudlum pulled hard on the rope. Just as Old Sukie was halfway through the gate the dog stepped over and away from the mangled pile of feathers and began to growl.

  When we were through the gate I knew we didn’t have much time. In fact, I suspected we were out of time.

  “Quick, Poudlum. Help me close the gate.”

  As soon as we got our hands on the heavy gate I knew it was too late. I heard the rhythm of his big heavy paws beating the ground on a dead run and I knew we would never get the gate closed before he got there.

  I grabbed Poudlum’s arm and yelled, “Run! Run hard as you can!” We were half way across the strip of tall grass when I glanced over my shoulder and saw the bulldog tearing through the open gate.

  I yelled, “The big pine tree where we stopped! Hit it on the run and start climbing!”

  Poudlum was three steps ahead of me when I thought about dropping my stick to gain some speed, but I decided against it. If the dog caught us I could use it on him so that at least Poudlum could get away.

  When we reached the edge of the woods I took one more quick glance over my shoulder. He was gaining on us, but I figured we had a good chance if we made no mistakes. One stumble or slip and I knew we wouldn’t make it.

 
Poudlum leapt for a low limb, grabbed it and was pulling himself up an instant before I did the same. I could feel the dog’s hot breath on my heels as I grabbed for the second limb, then I was up next to Poudlum where both of us were hugging the tree trunk and breathing hard. The dog was snarling, growling, and scratching at the tree. He was reared up on the trunk and I could see tiny white feathers stuck in his face. We remained frozen to the tree until the dog finally backed off, sat on his haunches and stared at us.

  “How long do you think before he’ll leave?” I asked.

  “Dat’s a bull dog. I heard tell dey won’t quit till dey dies.”

  “Does that mean we hafta stay up in this tree till he dies.”

  “Guess so, unless you can figure out a way to kill him.”

  “How am I supposed to kill that dog?”

  “You could pretend like you wuz climbing down, den when he rushes at you, bash him in de head wid yo’ stick.”

  I looked up through the limbs of the tree at the sun, concluded it was about half past eleven, and knew we had to do something soon. I also knew that if we had to just sit up in this tree until someone rescued us, then we would both probably be marched home and beaten severely with switches. On top of that we would miss the opportunities of robbing the bootleggers and getting Jake safely out of the county. We had to do something.

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll give it a try. You hold on to my belt.”

  I hated the idea of getting that close to him, but relished the thought of rapping him on the head with my hickory stick. I twisted around so that instead of sitting on the limb I was laying across it on my belly. The dog got to his feet. I got a good grip on my stick with the leather strap around my wrist, then I lowered one foot to the limb below me while I told Poudlum, “Hang on to me real tight.”

  When my foot touched the lower limb he charged, reared up on the tree trunk, growling and snapping his powerful jaws. I quickly jerked my foot up, swung the stick with all my might and felt the jar of it all up my arm when it hit him on the right side of his head. It never fazed him. As soon as it bounced off his head, before I could lift it back up, he turned his head and grasped it tightly in his jaws. I knew immediately that he wasn’t going to let it go. Then I lost my grip on the stick and the leather strap was pulled tight around my wrist when he dropped his front feet back to the ground. He started to back up and the leather cut deep into my skin while my belt was cutting into my belly. I gave up and slipped my hand out of the loop.

  After I gained my former position, Poudlum and I watched while he viciously shook his massive head from side to side with my prized stick in his mouth.

  “If ‘en dat was yo’ arm, den he would’ve done bit it off.”

  “I’m getting scared, Poudlum.”

  “Gittin’ scared—I been scared ever since you first thought of dis whole thing.”

  “You got any other ideas?”

  “Yo’ slingshot might help, but we ain’t go no rocks.”

  “I got three marbles.”

  “Dey probably be better dan rocks. How good is you wid it?”

  “Not as good as Jake, but pretty good.”

  “If’en you could hit him in a vulnerable spot—like pop him in one of his eyes, den he might go away.”

  I pulled my slingshot out of my back pocket, dug out my three marbles, put two in my mouth and loaded the other one in the pouch.

  The dog settled down on the ground where he was chewing on my stick, but he had his right side toward us, angling away so I couldn’t get a bead on his eyes.

  I waited a few moments hoping he would shift his position, but he just kept eating my stick.

  “We gots to get out of here,” Poudlum said. “Shoot him in de ear.”

  I aimed carefully, but just as I released he turned his head slightly and the marble struck him on the neck. I knew it stung him good because he leapt to his feet and began going in circles biting at the air as if he thought he had been stung by a wasp.

  “Dat was almost a good shot. Let’m settle down fo’ you shoots again.”

  He was back chewing on my stick in a few moments and this time he was facing us.

  “Now you can go for dat eyeball,” Poudlum said. Once again, I loaded up and took aim, but he just wouldn’t keep his head still and my second marble landed right between his eyes and bounced off. The shot didn’t bother him as much as the first one had.

  “Dat dog has got one hard head. And we is running out of time,” Poudlum moaned.

  And I was down to my last marble.

  19

  Robin Hood

  Turned out that I didn’t need that last marble. While I was loading it into the pouch, in anticipation of my next shot, I heard a loud crash from toward the edge of the woods in the direction from which we had come.

  Poudlum looked at me with big wide eyes and asked, “What you think dat wuz?”

  I looked down to see that the dog had turned to face whatever had caused the noise. I could see his broad red back and his thick bobtail sticking straight up. Right below it hung his privates, like two big black walnuts in a tight leather sack.

  That’s when I heard the first sound, which was followed almost immediately by the second. Zing! Splat!

  It was a sharp and biting sound when the rock hit the dog’s sack. He went down like a fallen oak tree, pitching forward on his belly. I knew at once what had happened.

  Poudlum didn’t. “What happened? You didn’t even shoot yo’ marble.”

  “It’s Jake,” I answered.

  The dog was over the initial shock, but not the pain. He was slowly crawling forward on his belly, then he looked over his shoulder, rolled his eyes up toward us and began to howl, low and mournfully. I almost felt sorry for him.

  “Right in de nuts!” Poudlum said excitedly. “Dat dog’s as good as dead. I knows I would be. Come on, let’s get down.”

  Jake’s deep voice came floating softly through the foliage.

  “Y’all just stay where you is for a minute, till he crawls on off a ways.”

  I looked back toward the dog and saw that he was still belly crawling. Then he stopped, rolled to his side and licked himself, followed by another howl and some whimpering sounds. Finally he slowly struggled to his feet and started walking gingerly away.

  Jake came out of the woods, stood underneath the tree, picked up my stick. He chuckled. “He sho is walking funny, ain’t he.”

  “Jake! Boy, we are glad to see you.”

  “’Spect it be all right for y’all to come down now. Had a feeling y’all might get yo’ selves into a tight spot and need some help, so I snuck over here to check on y’all. Figured out what was happening when I heard dat dog, snuck up and threw a limb over yonder to get him to turn around so I could get a good shot at him.

  “Jake, what time do you think it is?”

  “Nigh on to twelve o’clock. We needs to get back across de road fo’ folks start coming home from church.”

  “Yeah, we need to move. Let’s see where the cow went.”

  We peeked out of the edge of the woods just in time to see the dog go back through the gate considerably slower than he had come through it. Old Sukie had wandered about halfway across the strip of tall grass, grazing, with our rope dragging along beside her. Poudlum and I dashed out and retrieved the end of it while Jake stood guard. She followed willingly and we were ready to cross Center Point Road when I heard a vehicle coming from towards the church. We quickly pulled the cow back into the cover of the woods, where we watched and listened. When the car went by I saw that it was Mrs. Annie Pearl in her old Plymouth.

  I knew something was wrong and I told Jake, “It’s too early for her to be going home from church.”

  “I could be wrong about de time.”

  I shaded my eyes with my hand, took a quick glance at the sun. “No, I fig
ure it’s right at twelve o’clock, maybe a little before.”

  “Maybe de preacher let out early.”

  “No, he never does unless there’s dinner-on-the-grounds, and that wasn’t happening today. He always makes everybody sweat until ten or fifteen minutes after twelve, then everybody stands around and talks for another fifteen or twenty minutes. Something has got to be wrong.”

  We attempted the crossing again, saw no movement nor heard any sound, went across as fast as we could with the cow in tow.

  We all breathed a sigh of relief once we were across and back under cover of the woods. We kept moving and it wasn’t long before we came out behind the Robinsons’ burnt-out cotton house.

  “You think your folks are back from church yet.” I asked Poudlum.

  “Naw, dey won’t be back until after two o’clock.”

  “How come so late?”

  “You thinks yo’ preacher keeps folks in church a long time—well, de one in our church carries on till after one o’clock.”

  “What time does he start preaching?”

  “’Bout eleven o’clock, den he goes on and on, yelling and screaming wid amens and hallelujahs from all directions.”

  “How do you stand it?”

  “I dozes a lot.”

  I had to tell Fred about this. There might be a market for his time-killing church games with the colored kids.

  “Poudlum,” Jake said, “since ain’t nobody home, why don’t you take de cow up to de house and tie her in de back? Be a nice surprise fo’ yo’ momma when she gets back. Me and Mister Ted gon’ wait here fo’ you.”

  Jake and I slid down into seating positions on the pine needles with our backs leaning against tree trunks. I looked across at him and realized that this would be the last day I would ever see him, and also the last time we would be alone. I felt sad and wished he could stay, tell me more stories, sing more blues songs, teach me more of the lessons of life and make me more toys. At the same time, I was glad he was going to get out of Clarke County and be free. I couldn’t stand the thought of him being caught by Sheriff Crowe and being sent back to that prison in Georgia where he would have nothing to eat except corn pone and dry white beans.