Part 6 (1/2)
”Oh, since the last feller routed me out.”
”You mean they's others know bout ye?”
”Awww sure, Dobber, but that'uz years gone by, long afore you was borned.”
”Daaawg--”
”Course that last'n, he weren't too swift--not as bright as you,” the lips moved eerily in the grimy moonface, the eyes were like green marbles and grit coated the skin. ”He never would heed my warnings, sorry chap.”
”Whoo-whoo-whoooo was he?”
”Don't matter now, you don't know him. Afore yer time.”
”Daaaawg---” was all Dob could muster as the marble eyes blinked up at him. He began to back away.
”Whoooa there speed, where ye goin--?”
”Lordy G.o.d Jehover--” Dob was beginning to think this critter in the hole must be some sort of earthly demon, left here by old Clootie himself; he might just be looking at a true seed of Satan.
”Come'on back hyere Dobber boy--”
”They gonna hang me good,” Dob was s...o...b..ring, ”That there drummer'll tell and Dobber'll be dust to dust, just like you--”
”That's a good'n. Har-dee-harharhar. Ye skeered that drummer somethin fierce, boy. Right now he's a-toodlin back down to his car--be there jist afore church bells and C.Y.F. is done, and--shoooo--that drummer is gonna hightail outa these parts. Nope. Won't catch him round hyere fer a c.o.o.n's age.”
Dob kept backing off. ”S-so you say--”
”Spit in d'well--Dobby, I knows. I knows these things. Git it? Now come'on over'chere--”
But Dob cut away, fast. High time to cut and run, so he ran--praying a mile a minute as his clubfeet shot down that wooded ravine with his heifer plodding behind him.
”Don't be skeered! They's plenty of us buried hither and yon!” he heard the hole hollering as he went.
That drummer must have gotten good and lost. Dob actually outran him back to Cayuga Ridge. Dob had wasted no time and was soon skulking around the back stoop of the Church, lungs afire when Fritzy came limping furiously off Pearlwick Road. Fritzy looked torn up and snake bit. From where he crouched, Dob saw Valjean Shea stroll out of the Livery in leather ap.r.o.n with a ten-pound hammer in her hand and she said something to Fritzy, but the drummer just ignored her, picking up his pace as he made a beeline for his Pontiac outside w.i.l.l.y Birdwell's Mercantile Feed, Fuel & Grain. Without a by your-leave, he hopped in, cranked the Pontiac and sped north out of Cayuga Ridge, headed for the company of downlanders no doubt. Dob could not believe it. He must of been in G.o.d's grace; reprieved from a murderer's fate while winning the powers of Master Loki in one sweep of His Hand. Nonetheless, when a stern Preacher Polk came out the vestry door and asked Dob what in judas he was up to, Dob lit out across the schoolyard without reply. It didn't do to press his dumb luck. He dodged the teeter-totters and merry-go-round, hoping to beat it home before sundown.
He should have known. You can't dodge the laws of sun and moon. Just after nightfall, it was, when Dob finally slipped up to their shack in Coffin Holler with magic bag and heifer in tow. He'd stopped only long enough to pull his bag from the gooseberry bush.
Through the window he saw Toodlem, inside, trying to stand on her head in the corner. She was in the company of two tabby cats and a bluetick pup. In the firelight, Dob could see that her floursack dress kept slipping down over Toodlem's pudgy knees and everytime she'd grab for her modesty she'd fall back down and have to start over. All to protect the innocence of a bluetick pup. His Nonny would have had another stroke.
Dob hid his bag in the woodpile out back, then fed the heifer. Before he went inside Dob couldn't help noticing for the hundred zillionth time that Toodlem had been out pinning her dolls to the clothesline. Whether strawheaded or stuffed with cotton, they all looked dripping wet to him, like she'd been giving them baths again. Dob tripped up the step then opened his back door real slow. She didn't hear him at first, still struggling, holding her breath as she perched on her head--until she heard the hinge squeak, that is and collapsed in a loud bellyflop which sent cats and pup scrambling.
”Where been Dop?”
”Been a-huntin squirrel.”
”Why Dopper don't takee no gun?” Toodlem asked one of the cats.
”Ain't gotta gun, you know that. Whar's supper?”
”Don't know. Takee th'train ter Memphis, I s'pose,” she told the pup cowering under a rocker.
”Where'd ye git the pup Toodlem?
”Papper give me the runt and good riddance...”
It was her Pap, Lawson K. Leapfeather, who owned the shack they lived in. He allowed it would be best to keep his special daughter close so he and Mrs. Leapfeather could keep an eye on her, especially once she dropped the kid and it became evident that Toodlem couldn't care for it and Mrs. Leapfeather took over. Special demands. That's what Nursy Jane said. Baby Lawson had special demands. Her Pap didn't think much of Dob, particularly after this turn of events, but he put them in the old squatter's shack which sat up the draw from his place. The Leapfeather Clan had first taken root in that rinky d.i.n.k shack and now it seemed justifiable that their last contribution to southern womanhood be kept safely inside it, doing headstands. Dob picked up jobs here and there from folks who needed a bear skinned or a toolshed painted. Sometimes he helped Black Elam shovel fertilizer from the Livery whenever the n.i.g.g.e.r needed a hand, but mostly Dob ground peas for Toodlem's Pap who kept them in groceries if you called baloney and sc.r.a.pple groceries and he never paid Dob a plug nickel. Right now, it looked like Mr. Leapfeather's bluetick had had her litter.
”Dop?”
”Huh?”
”How many sqwulls Dop git?”
”Didn't git nuffin. Ain't got no shooter I tole ye. Lord will provide Toodlem.”
”That's riiight, Lord provide baloney n'conebread.”
”That's right. Hey Toodlem?”
”Whud Dop?”
”You got no rose toilet water on ye?”