Devil Storm Page 8

  “I expect we’ll be closing in on him any day now. There’s Frank and myself and Ernest Atkins, and the Strathans have promised to help too. We’da had him before now, if dogs had done us any good.… Funniest thing about that old man and dogs—you ever hear that? It’s like he’s got ’em bewitched or some such.”

  “I tell you what,” said Lester, “we’ll just take my Samson, then. The man hasn’t been born that could bewitch him.”

  Walter gulped. Lord, not Samson! Tom wouldn’t stand a chance against that monster.

  “Well, whatever you think, Lester—you’re the deputy, of course. What do you say to a little hunt later on this evening?”

  “Can’t do it today, Rupert—already promised Bubba I’d take him to Galveston. What say Samson and I join you all tomorrow evening, if you haven’t had any luck by then?”

  “Well, that’d be fine, Lester. ’Preciate your help.”

  “Not atall. If there’s one thing I can’t tolerate, it’s a thief. Speakin’ of thieves, Rupert, did I ever tell you the story ’bout Lovan Hamshire’s oldest girl runnin’ off with the Thompson Seed salesman? No? Well, it seems there was this special on rutabaga.…”

  Walter didn’t pay any more attention after that. He wasn’t in the mood for one of Lester’s tales. First chance he got, he slipped out from behind the oleander.

  “Well, there you are, son!” his father called out. “Come along, now. Your mother will be expecting us.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Walter. The crowd had thinned out some; Fanny Kate Vaughan was nowhere in sight. But it wasn’t Fanny Kate Vaughan Walter was worrying about now.

  It wasn’t fair, that was all. Rupert Bland, famous for nothing, and Frank Buvens and Ernest Atkins and now Lester Barrett and Samson, to boot—all of them against one old man. No way you could call that fair; it stank to high heaven, that’s what it did. Walter was near to gagging with the smell of it.

  But what business was it of his, anyway? Why did it matter to him what happened to some crazy old coot who was always mumbling a lot of nonsense about secrets and bones and digging for treasure that was likely no more’n a pipe dream? Walter asked himself that question over and over again as he sat on the beach that evening after supper, watching the waves break on the sand. Alice had tried to follow him, but he had run her off. He couldn’t explain what he was feeling, couldn’t put it into words to himself, much less to her. It was a kind of pain, almost—the same hard lump that stuck in his craw like a piece of undigested potato whenever he saw a half-dead animal caught in a trap or looked at that old black ribbon around his mother’s neck. It wasn’t fair, that was all.

  Walter picked up a shell and drew a circle in the sand. The tide was out now. The sky glowed red, reflecting the sun that was setting behind his back. Red sky at night, sailors delight.… He added eyes and nose to the circle, then a grinning mouth. It wasn’t very good, not much better than the faces William used to draw in the sand. He was always drawing faces.…

  Walter sighed unhappily. He had thought the bad feeling would wash away here on the beach; other times, for other reasons, it had. But not today; it wasn’t going anywhere today.

  He added a tooth to the mouth and paused for a moment, considering its effect. Then, with one swift sweep of his arm he erased the whole thing.

  I got to warn him, he told himself. Some way or other, I got to warn him.

  Chapter 10

  Walter awoke with a start. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep at all; what time was it, anyhow? He looked out the window. There was a little old sliced-off half of a moon just rising. Moon like that won’t rise till after midnight, Walter told himself. Looks like I’ve lost half the night.…

  He jumped out of bed without giving himself a chance to think about what he was doing, pulled on his britches, and started across the room. The floor creaked beneath his feet, and he froze.… Nothing. He moved again. He was past the girls’ beds … past the bureau … almost to the door.…

  “Where you goin’, Walter?”

  Hell’s bells.

  “Go on back to sleep, Sister. It’s the middle of the night.”

  “Well, I know that. Where you goin’?”

  “It ain’t any of your business.”

  “Can I come with you?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause it might be dangerous for a girl, that’s why not. Now, you just go on back to sleep, you hear me?”

  “Walter Carroll, if you don’t tell me where you’re goin’, I’m gonna go wake up Mama and Papa.”

  “You wouldn’t do that—”

  “You just try me. I double-dog dare you!”

  “For Gordon’s seed,” Walter murmured. He didn’t have time to argue. “Look, I’m goin’ to find old Tom and warn him they’re comin’ after him with dogs and guns, all right? Now, leave me alone.”

  Alice’s eyes widened. “Who’s comin’ after him with dogs and guns?”

  “Mr. Bland and Mr. Buvens and Lester Barrett and the Strathans—all of ’em. And they’re settin’ old Samson on his trail tomorrow. Don’t seem fair to me, that’s all. Look, I told you the truth, so just go on back to sleep.”

  Alice shook her head. “I’m goin’ with you.”

  “You are not, either. I told you, it might be dangerous for a girl.”

  “I don’t care. If you’re goin’, I’m goin’.”

  “Aw, for cryin’ out loud.” He had to take her. That was all there was to it. “Well, come on, then. I cain’t stand here talkin’ all night.”

  The truth was, he was glad of her company. The night was dark, thick with darkness. Clouds scudded across the sky like evil things, clawing at the moon. There was no light to speak of but the distant flashing of the old beacon down at Port Bolivar and the pallid glimmer of a star or two. The children ran alongside the Gulf, their ears full of its noise.

  “Sure is dark,” Alice panted, when they had gone a little way down the beach. “How’re we ever gonna see him, anyway?”

  “We got to look for a campfire, same as we saw that first night, ’member? That’s the only way I can figure.”

  “Lord, Walter, he might be anywhere.”

  “I know, I know. But we got to try—”

  Just then there was a greeting bark, and Crockett came bounding up behind them.

  “Well, look who’s here!” cried Walter. “Hey, boy, you want to help us find old Tom?”

  Crockett wagged his tail.

  “Aw, come on, Crockett—you remember Tom. Go find Tom!”

  The dog cocked his ears questioningly.

  “I don’t think he knows what you’re sayin’, Walter.”

  Walter sighed. “I guess not. Well, come on, let’s keep goin’.”

  They trotted on in silence. There was no campfire to be seen, nothing but that old lighthouse light blinking steadily up ahead, just as it had done every night for as long as Walter could remember … on again, off again, on again, off again.… He found himself trying to run, even to breathe, in its rhythm. And then, in his mind he was climbing again to the top of those winding stairs.… You could look out of the tower, once you got to it, through a spyglass they kept there for visitors. Seemed as if you could see the whole world from up so high. “Is that China over there?” Alice had asked on that long-gone holiday, and Papa had laughed and said no, probably just High Island. And he had pointed out their house, and the Sea View Hotel, and Barrett’s Landing, and the old Indian graveyard.…

  Walter stopped dead in his tracks. “Hell’s bells,” he murmured.

  “What? What is it?”

  “I bet I know where he is.”

  “Where?”

  Walter felt sick. Weak at the knees. “In the Indian graveyard,” he whispered.

  Alice gasped. “No!”

  “It just now came to me. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. He told us himself, ’member? He said he sleeps over there sometimes.”

  “But you said he was just makin�
�� it up.”

  “Well, I know, but what if I was wrong? All of a sudden I got this terrible feelin’ I was wrong. Maybe old Tom got to thinkin’ how that might be a good place to find treasure. You never know—pirates coulda buried it right there with all them Indian bones and such. Wouldn’t anybody want to go messin’ ’round in a graveyard, see, so it’d be safe.” Walter squatted down and began to pet Crockett, to steady himself. “Oh, Lordy, I just bet that’s where he is!”

  “But, Walter, ain’t it haunted?”

  Walter swallowed hard. “Aw, Sister, you don’t really believe in them old ghost owls.”

  “N-no.… Do you?”

  “Course not.” For a moment neither of them spoke. Still as statues, they listened to the sound of their blood throbbing in their temples, their throats, even their fingertips.…

  “I guess I got to go over there,” Walter said at last.

  “All right, then,” said Alice. “We better get goin’.”

  “Not you, Sister, you don’t have to go. I cain’t let you go—”

  Alice squared her shoulders. “If you’re goin’, I’m goin’.”

  Walter felt a kind of admiring exasperation. Was she really as brave as all that, or was it just that, next to him, a pussycat would have looked like a lion?

  As if in answer, Alice put her hand in his. “It’s all right, Walter,” she said. “You’ll take care of me.”

  It wasn’t much of a graveyard—just a low mound, about fifty feet across, maybe three feet high in the middle, covered over with marsh grass and tall weeds and sticker bushes. It was thick with blackberries in June, but the birds had their pick of the crop; any Bolivar child would just as soon eat snake eggs as one of those Indian ghost berries.

  “Shouldn’t be too much fu’ther now,” Walter panted, as they drew nearer the spot. It had taken them the best part of an hour of running to get this far. Once they left the beach, they had to cut across the marsh and on through Mr. Langdon Huett’s property for the rest of the way. It seemed to Walter that his feet had grown heavier with every step. The wind had risen. It rustled through the marsh grass, sighing like a widow woman at a funeral wake.

  “You know, I don’t really see any sense in us goin’ right up onto the mound,” Walter said, trying his best to sound matter-of-fact.

  “Me neither,” said Alice, her face white in the faltering moonshine.

  “Good. Once we’re close enough, we can just holler what we know. If Tom’s there, he’ll hear us.”

  “Well, sure,” said Alice. “That’s the way to do it, all right.…”

  They were walking now. The ground was too rough for running.

  “Walter?”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t hear a kind of hootin’ noise a minute ago, did you?”

  “Naw … prob’ly just doves, that’s all.…”

  “Prob’ly so.…”

  A minute passed. Two minutes.

  Suddenly Crockett broke away, barking wildly.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Alice cried.

  “Don’t move,” Walter whispered. He could just make out a huge, dark form moving slowly not ten yards away. The children stood frozen, their blood no better than ice water in their veins.

  “Mooo,” said the thing.

  Walter nearly fainted with relief. “Aw, it’s just one of Mr. Huett’s cows.” He rubbed his arm. “Lord, Sister, you like to’ve cut off my circulation!”

  “Well, weren’t you scared?”

  “Naw … well, not all that much. Come on over here, Crockett. Leave that old cow alone!”

  They circled cautiously around the cow and kept going. The little snippet of a moon was higher in the sky now. It didn’t part with much light, but it was better than nothing.

  “You don’t smell rain, do you?” Walter asked after a while, mainly for the comfort of hearing his own voice.

  “I don’t think so,” said Alice.

  “Well, that’s good.” They walked on in silence, slapping at mosquitoes. It was lucky there was a breeze, or the pesky critters would have been even worse. Walter began to wonder if he and Alice had got turned around somehow; surely they ought to be there by now.…

  A cloud blew across the moon.

  “Lord,” said Walter. “I cain’t see my hand in front of my face.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Just hold still for a minute, Sister; we don’t want to trip.”

  “I cain’t hold still—skeeters are eatin’ me alive!”

  “Well, wiggle around some and slap ’em. Moon’ll be out again in a second, and then we can go on.”

  “You think we’re almost there?”

  “Bound to be.”

  Alice sniffled.

  “Aw, come on, Sister. You cain’t go to pieces now!”

  “But I cain’t see you, Walter—”

  “I’m right here. Look, give me your hand again.… That’s right.”

  “Where’s Crockett?”

  “He was here just a second ago. Crockett! Here, boy! Come ’ere, Crockett!”

  There was no sound but the trilling of a thousand tiny insect voices and the low rush of the wind.

  “Well, where’d he get to?” Walter grumbled. “Lord, I hope we find old Tom pretty soon. I cain’t take much more of this. I wonder if—”

  Just then the moon shook loose from the cloud, and the words died unspoken on Walter’s lips. In the pale light he could see the figure of a man standing no more than spittin’ distance from him and Alice. Crockett was sitting at his feet.

  “Y’all lookin’ for me?”

  Chapter 11

  Old Tom had looked plenty fearsome before, in the daylight. Now, with only that flimsy excuse for a moon shining down on him, he was enough to scare the pants off a hero.

  “What’sa matter, boy—cat got your tongue?”

  Walter was shaking so badly he could hardly speak. “W-we came to w-warn you,” he stammered. Alice was nigh to crushing every bone in his left hand.

  “Warn me ’bout what?” The old man rubbed Crockett behind the ears. The dog gave a little groan of contentment.

  Walter took a deep breath. “They’re comin’ after you—Mr. Bland and all of ’em—comin’ after you with dogs and guns—say they’re gonna lock you up. You got to get off the peninsula right now, right this minute—”

  Tom eyed the boy warily. “What you talkin’ ’bout, boy? What they wants with me?”

  “They think you been stealin’ their chickens.”

  Tom grunted. “Hmmph. That all?”

  “Well …” Walter hesitated. “My papa says you—you sorta scare ’em, some way.”

  The gold tooth flashed. “But I don’t scare you, that it?”

  “N-no, sir.”

  Tom leaned forward menacingly. “Well, you b’long to be scared, boy,” he growled. “What you thinkin’ ’bout, draggin’ your little sister out here in the dead of night? No tellin’ what mighta happened!”

  It was the last thing Walter had expected to hear. He had taken it for granted that Tom would appreciate having his life saved. “Well, I just—just thought you ought to know,” he mumbled defensively. “They got guns, Tom … and they’re gonna set old Samson after you tomorrow. He ain’t like these other dogs, you know.”

  “Don’t make no never mind, boy—they ain’t gonna get Tom with dogs and bullets. Ain’t nothin’ gonna get him but the old Gulf hisself. Conjure woman don’t lie.”

  “Just thought you ought to know, is all.…”

  Tom narrowed his eyes. “Well, you thought wrong, boy. Ain’t nobody askin’ you for nothin’. What you think—I’s gonna leave you my treasure when I pass? Hmmph. Look like you’da had more sense. Go on, now—take this child home! If I’s your papa, I’d wear you out.”

  Shame and disappointment rose in Walter’s throat. Why in blazes had he ever tried to help the old fool anyway? Must have been out of my mind.… He turned to Alice. “Come on, Sister. Let’s get away from here.”
>
  Suddenly Alice jerked free of Walter and faced Tom. “You got no call to talk to Walter that way, Mister. He’s just tryin’ to help you out. You got no call!”

  Lord, thought Walter, she’s gonna get us both killed. He reached for her arm. “I said come on, Sister—let’s just go home—”

  But for the moment Alice was too mad to be scared. She shook him off. “And he didn’t drag me out here, neither. I made him bring me. And nobody’s tryin’ to steal your old treasure. I don’t believe you’re ever gonna find it anyhow!”

  “Alice!” Walter hissed. “Come on, will you?”

  Tom crossed his arms. It was too dark to tell for sure, but Walter suddenly had the impression he was grinning. “So you think I’s too hard on your brother, Missy?”

  “I sure do.”

  “And my treasure ain’t nothin’ but crazy talk—that right?”

  Alice stood her ground. “That’s right.”

  Tom chuckled. “Well, maybe so, maybe so … you mighty sure of yourself.”

  There was a sudden whirring, rushing sound, and something swooped out of the darkness close beside them. Alice shrieked.

  “Get down! Get down!” Walter yelled, hitting the dirt and pulling her down with him. “It’s the ghost owls—they’re after us!”

  To his amazement the night was suddenly filled with laughter—deep, rich laughter—Tom’s laughter. “Ghost owls? What you mean, ghost owls? Looka there, boy, Missy—they owls, all right, but they ain’t no more ghosts than you and me.”

  Slowly, tremblingly, the children got back on their feet and looked up where Tom was pointing. In the faint moonglow they could just dimly see a pair of huge white owls, circling serenely about twenty feet over their heads.

  “We the ones trespassin’, not them.” Tom’s voice was hushed now, almost reverent. “This they home.”

  For a moment nothing moved but the wind in the grass and those two great white birds up above.

  “They’re not—not the spirits of old Indian chiefs who died ’cause they ate babies?” Alice faltered at last, her voice small.

  “Hmmph,” Tom snorted. “Who tellin’ y’all that kinda trash? Onliest Indians ’round here ain’t botherin’ nobody—they just dead, that’s all. Lyin’ there mindin’ they own business right under your toes.”