Swamp Sister

14

Shad left the road and cut off through the shrub. He started walking faster and faster, not really watching too much at what might be ahead but at his boots swinging out rhythmically one beyond the other.

A root in the ground came at him fast, and he snagged his foot on it, went lurching ahead for two-three yards trying to get his balance and finally gave his ankle a good twist. The pain shot into his stomach like sickness, and he looked back, shouting, "You goddam son-o-bitch!" and felt like going oven and giving the root a kick, only his ankle hurt too much.

He gingerly put down his foot and tested it on the ground, pressed hard and grunted. It held.

"What surprises me is I didn't tear hit clean off, and it standing over there in the root and me standing here onefooted."

He went on, favouring the twisted foot some, and he thought about Mrs. Taylor, and the thinking left a bitter, ash taste in his mouth. Didn't think she'd go to do like that at me. Thought she liked me fer what I am and not fer what I might have hid away. Yes, oh my yes; he could see himself lugging old Rival around the swamp like a third leg with a clubfoot. He needed him like nothing. He didn't need anyone -except maybe Dorry.

He went along a split-nail fence, so old and tired it was trying its unlevel best to tumble down, and near to doing it, and beyond the fence and through the willows was the old, empty Colt place. A shell of a shanty, bow-sided and weathered and not enough roof left to nest an owl, squatting immobile and gape-windowed with sassafras sprouting all around.

He approached the old man's place in a circuitous manner, taking time and care in his investigation. He didn't want to go balling the jack right into Mr. Ferris' lap. He didn't want to meet anyone now -just Dorry, and to hell with the rest. He went on in through the rear door and it squeaked like a wagon at the end of summer.

The old man was on his bed, not in it. He was in his longjohns and he still wore his trousers, one worn and greasy suspender up, the other looped down around his elbow. His bare right foot was hanging off the bed nearly touching the floor. He was asleep on his back, his mouth open, and everytime he breathed the phlegm in his throat rattled like a page being torn out of a magazine.

There was an old wheel lock muzzle-blaster hanging oven the fire board on the limestone fireplace, but that had belonged to granddaddy Pol and anyone who was fool enough to try it was risking a blown-off hand. The Harks had used it only as a decoration for as far back as Shad could remember. He went to the large woodbox against the south wall and raised the lid.

The dusty rifle was in there, and the lid slipped his fingers and went down with a plam! On the bed the old man said. "Whuah?" and stirred himself a little, his right hand wagging in the air alongside the bedboard as though he were trying to row himself away from the disturbance. "Whaas' at?"

Shad ignored him. He hefted the rifle. It was an old stock-scuffed Springfield, rust-splotchy along the barrel. He worked the bolt back and forth, finding it stiff.

The old man managed to get his elbows cocked behind him and he propped his head and shoulders up on his spindly arms. He looked at Shad, a bleary-eyed, whiskeny-f aced stupid look.

"Thet – thet you – Shaddy?"

"Naw, it's Estee, come to see ain't they nothing else handy around here she can tote off to that brood of hern."

The old man started wobble-necking his head to and fro. He'd had a rough night; he hardly even felt like arguing with Shad. He'd planned on starting his south ploughing that morning, but that no-account Estee had come down the road last night, and then he'd dug out his jug of corn and – and my-my, wasn't it something the way women and corn tone a man up? He reckoned he wouldn't do much ploughing that day -maybe tomorrow.

"Now, Shaddy, now – now it don't do to come at me thataway. I plain ain't myself this morning – ain't hit morning? Uh – I thought hit seemed right bright. I got me a head – got me a head like -"

"Like a kid's piggy bank with no sense in it."

"- like a great big old drum, and the hull world a-coming at me and a-lining up taking turn a-banging hit, and some of 'em not waiting they turn, and a-clanging me with sticks and clubs and cypress trunks and – Lordy me-oh my, Shaddy, I just do hurt." His elbow props slid out at night angles to his stovepipe body and his head sank down into the striped pillow that had never been inside a case and was grey and shiny from wear.

"I don't see no great difference there than any other morning in your life," Shad said. "Except that they usually beat you with pink cottonmouths and twenty-legged spiders." He went over to the cluttered hutch and rummaged through the drawers for some ammunition.

"Sha – Shaddy – wha' you after there?"

"Your rifle. I done lost my carbine."

The old man thought about it, blinking up at the rafters.

"My rifle?" and finally he got it. "Well – well, don' go take hit, Shad. I mebbe need hit."

Yeah, and Shad knew why. "Pa," he said, "if you ain't more careful about selling things, that Estee goan end up owning the hull shanty."

A hesitant slyness stole over the old man. "Well, if'n I had me some dollars I wouldn't have to go and sell things." He closed his eyes and looked like he was prepared to pass on to another world at any moment. "I could buy me some food and things what I need – if I had me another one of them ten dollars – Shaddy."

Shad said nothing. He was wondering if he should tell him he was leaving for good. He could just hear what the old man would say – Shad smiled. The old man should have been a preacher, he could sure rip hell-fire into a fella. But his amusement palled, and he suddenly sensed an irrevocable loss. Standing in the centre of the shadowy room, where millions of dust specks danced in the blocky shafts of sunlight that rammed through the windows and open door, a realization came to him like the spectacle of a foundering ship. He watched it sink with a sort of detached fascination until it drifted to the bottom, and suddenly it had meaning for him.

This's the last time I'm going to see the old man, ever. He went quietly to the bed. "Pa – Pa, I'm saying goodbye now."

But the old man had drifted off again, and Shad had spoken low. I could give him a prod. I could speak up and wake him.

He stared at the rumpled old man who had gone halves in giving him life, at the dirty, foolish, hung-over old man on the filthy bed. Maybe it was better this way, unsaid. Maybe this was the only way.

Shad hefted the Springfield and walked on out the back door, across the yard and left the shanty where he had lived for twenty years, left the corn-sodden old man asleep on the foul bed that a cat wouldn't litter on.

The night came in sections. It came creeping across the fields and under the trees, stretching the shadows farther out until they joined and lost all shape and meaning, and then everything was shadow all around; and the trees and the bushes and the weed lost their colour and turned to black and grey; and the moon never stood a chance, because with the night came the swamp mist; and in the woods and in the swamp the little creatures fretted and twitched and sniffed, because now their scent would be damp, active, and everywhere danger waited.

And that's how it was with Shad.

He left the skiff when he decided it was eight o'clock. He took his time, staying clear of the fields and meadows and the road; picked up a path that led to the bridge creek and found some steppingstones to cross over. Then he entered a shadow-pool grove of sycamores. He stopped suddenly and looked back, listening. Something that had crunched the dead leaves behind him stopped also.

He stepped into the shadow of a tree. It couldn't be Sam because Sam didn't make noise. Might be Jort Camp though. He looked up at the black leafy terraces overhead. The swamp mist was crawling off like a sick man, thinning out, and the moon was trying to show. Well, that would help some. He didn't hanker to be rushed when he couldn't see who on what was doing the rushing.

He walked along the shadow of the sycamore to the next tree and put his back to it. The who-or-what was making a move again. He heard it first, crunching softly on dead leaves, then saw it. Ten yards off a man's head raised above the shrub. It gave Shad the absurd sensation that he was a little boy again alone a night in the woods.

"I see you there, Shad Hark," the man called. "I see you agin that tree."

"All night," Shad said. "You win the gold paper ring off the cigar." He straightened up and stepped into the lane. "Why you tagging after me, Tom?"

Tom Fort left the shrubbery and started toward Shad, but slowly, as though approaching a pitfall.

"Ben looking fen you since late last night," he said.

"That so? Ain't I the popular one lately."

"No call to git sassyfied, Shad. I'm fixing to do you a hurt."

"Why's that?"

"Because Dorry Mears is my girl."

Oh, tired Christmas. Here was something he hadn't counted on.

"Well, who even said she weren't?"

"Dorry did, last night."

"Well, Tom, I reckon that's her nevenmind."

"I don't give a damn-fer-Fniday hoot what she says," Tom snapped. "I'm telling you _she's my girl!_"

Shad was becoming annoyed. "All right. Go to hell ahead and call her your girl. Don't mean beans to me. Go write you out a big sign saying 'Dorry's my girl' and wear it on your backside. I ain't stopping you none."

"You kin cold toot that again. I ain't fixing to take no back seat fer nobody."

"Thataboy, Tom."

Tom Fort shuffled closer. He held his left hand slightly in front of his waist, fingers spread, palm down. The right arm was back against his body, obscure in shadow. Uhuh, Shad thought. He's either going to pop with a knife er a six-gun.

"Go on," Tom said, "laugh. I'm fixing to cut you up good."

Shad held up a hand, flat. "Now, Tom – Tom, you don't want no fuss with me."

"Can't whup you with my fists, so I brung me a friend along."

The moon broke through the mist and the clean blade of a long hunting knife suddenly winked at Shad.

"Now, Tom – I don't want no trouble with you."

"Think you own the goddam world, don't you?" Tom Fort hissed and he crouched, his left hand far out now for balance, knife-hand in at the waist. "Think because you found all that money you kin tramp high and handsome on who you please. Think you kin buy a fella's girl away from him."

Shad edged to the left, trying to work the moon around into Tom's face, where he could see his eyes, and know when it was coming. This is just what I need. he thought, Kabar holes in me. "Now, Tom – Tom, listen at me -"

"Well, I'm goan set your clock, Shad Hark. I'm goan cut you up so you'll need them eighty-thousand dollars afore any girl'll look at you twice without gagging."

He means it. The little son-o-bitch pure-out means it.

"Tom – will you shet up here a minute? Will you let me open my mouth? Tom, if you stick me with that air Kabar, ten times eighty-thousand dollars ain't goan do me no good. And if you kin just stop acting as green as tobacco in a field, mebbe we can come at a deal here."

Tom Fort hesitated. "Huh? What deal?"

"The deal on eighty-thousand dollars. You knife-stick me and that money is gone to the world fer good."

"Well, I don't give a damn. I want my girl. That air money ain't doing me no good nohow."

Shad nodded. "Ner me neither, once I'm dead. That's why I'm saying we got us a deal here."

Tom straightened up a little. "You mean you willing to cut me in on hit? You meaning that, Shad?"

Shad put a hand to the back of his neck and gave it a rub.

"Well, now hold on here a minute. We got to look at it proper. I need help gitting that money outn the swamp and outn the county, and if you do what I say, we'll split hit plumb down the middle. Forty-thousand dollars, Tom. Forty-thousand dollars."

"Yeah -" Tom said. "Yeah."

"Course there's one thing we got to come at first."

"How's that?"

"Dorry's my girl."

Tom didn't like the taste of that. "Well, now hold on here, Shad. I cain't have me none of that. I love Dorry Means. I ben fixing on marrying up with her."

Shad came in closer, wagging his hands impatiently, "Marrying Dorry!" He nearly wailed. "Tom, Tom, I'm fixing hit so's you kin marry a movie star if'n you see fit. Forty-thousand dollars, Tom. Not beans er cow pies. _Fort ythousand dollars_."

Tom blinked and stalled. "Yeah -" he whispered. "Yeah. Forty-thousand dollars. Yeah. A man could – a man – Look a-here, Shad, you really do got that money, huh? Hit ain't just village talk? You really went and found that air Money Plane? You got the money hid away? Is hit hard to come at, Shad? I mean, we ain't got to tramp way out in that old swamp fer hit, do we?"

A cold realization came to Shad. This was the price of love. This was the boy who wouldn't sell the girl he loved – not unless the price was night. The little bastard. He was no better than Jort Camp or Sam Parks.

"No," he said, "we ain't got us nowhere to tramp to."

And then he swept his left arm swordwise, catching Tom's knife-wrist with the edge of his hand, and he stepped in fast and brought his right swinging into Tom's stomach. The boy doubled up around the sunken fist, his head leaning into Shad, and Shad shoulder-butted him on the point of his chin, snapping him straight, and then landed his left square into Tom's middle again.

He rolled sideways, grabbed Tom's wrist, raised his knee and snapped the wrist over it. The knife plopped in the weeds. He stooped, grabbed it, and sprang away as Tom aimed a kick at him.

He took the knife by the handle and fired it out into the night and turned as Tom rushed him; swung himself clear with a left hook to Tom's ear, got his balance, and then went in at him again.

They closed with a grunt, heads hunched and necks fumbling, and slammed into an oak trunk. Shad saw Tom's eyes, bugged and wild, mad with hate.

"They ain't no money, hear?" he hissed, "I never found no Money Plane. You sold out fer nothing."

Tom didn't answer, He brought up his knee. Shad expected that and he rolled, taking it on the hip. Then it was his turn and he kneed fast and sharp, but he was turned off center.

They lurched apart, panting, watching each other circling in the moonlight. Tom touched down with his fingers, fumbling blindly through the weed for a root, a stick, anything – Shad stepped in and Tom spun off balance and went down onto his back with a slam.

He had the upper hand now; it was all his way. He was straddling Tom, whacking away Tom's hands with his left and slugging him with his right.

"That's because you love her so much, Tom – That's because you'd sell your goddam ma fer a dollar and a new Barlow – That's because you need a lesson you won't soon forgit in foxiness – There never was no money, Tom. I don't have nothin'."

It was over. Tom was out of it, way out of it. Shad lurched to his feet, gasping, nursing his aching right hand, hugging it to his middle with his left folded motherly about it. He stumbled around a bit, aimlessly, looking for his hat. He felt sick in the stomach, which was the after effect of the fight. The other sickness was more general and was only vaguely concerned with fighting. It had to do with money.

"You're rather good at that sort of thing."

The quiet voice startled him silly. His head jerked up, turning everywhere, and froze when he saw the man standing near him in the shadows.

"You're Shad Hark, aren't you? I've been looking for you."