Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1952 (2 page)

 
          
Feet
hurried away through the night around them.

           
The white dog from the house paused
in the glow of the headlights. He stood stiff-legged and tense and ready. Randy
saw his long, square-tipped muzzle, the flash of his sharp fighting fangs. His
small, pointed ears cocked forward, as though listening to the retreat of his
foes.

 
          
“These
boys are all right, Rebel,” came
Sam
Cohill
’s booming tones. “Come on in, you two.
We’re glad you’re here.”

 
          
“You
aren’t any gladder than we are,” said Jebs heartily, as he groped into the rear
of the jeep for his suitcase. “Let’s get inside, Randy—quick.”

 
          
NIGHT
AT CHIMNEY POT

 
          
“Come
inside, boys, come inside,”
Sam
Cohill
’s hospitable roar resounded about them as
they carried their bags to the big stone doorstep.

 
          
Holding
his lantern high, the giant beamed down at them. His strong-featured face was
as big as a meat platter, and through his pointed brown beard his teeth gleamed
like a set of piano keys.

 
          
“This
is like old times, only better,” he said.
“Driscoll!
Here they are.”

 
          
As
Randy stepped across the threshold into a spacious room, a boy of his own age
started forward with a smile of welcome. Driscoll
Jordan
looked his old self, lean, sun-browned and
dark-haired. One sinewy hand gripped Randy’s, the other reached toward Jebs.

 
          
“Did
you have trouble finding your way?” he asked.

 
          
“Not
a bit,” replied Jebs sarcastically. “We had a whole escort of wild dogs to show
us in, and raise a cheer for us in your front yard.”

 
          
Sam
Cohill
had shut the tall door. “It must have been
the noise of the jeep that attracted them,” he said.
“That
and the headlights.”

 
          
“They
didn’t attract us,” announced Randy bleakly. “You never mentioned the wild dogs
in your letters, Driscoll. A neighbor of yours, a man named Mr. James Martin,
told us about them. Then we had a close look for ourselves.”

 
          
“We’ll
fill you in on the wild dogs pretty soon,” said Driscoll, “when you’re settled
in. Are you hungry? Sam and I are about to have some late supper.”

           
“We had a bite before we started
out,” said Jebs, “but not so big a bite we can’t munch something else. Hey,
Randy, look at Sam. Isn’t he the fashion plate?” Both boys gazed at the
grinning giant. In the days when
Sam
Cohill
had lived as a recluse in the ruins of
Chimney Pot House, he had looked almost fearsomely rough in his home-made
clothing. Now he wore well-cut trousers of brown gabardine. His green corduroy
shirt, almost as big as a pup tent, was zippered in front, and its collar
spread open to show his great corded neck. On his big feet were moccasins of
heavy oil-tanned leather, with double soles and sturdily welted seams. Above
them showed ungartered socks of gay pattern. Sam’s beard was trimmed to a
narrow point like a lance head. It made him look like an old-fashioned doctor.
His once wild mane of hair had also been clipped, parted on the left side and
swept back on the right.

 
          
“Food’s
all ready in the kitchen,” said Driscoll. “How do you like New Chimney Pot
House?”

 
          
They
glanced around the front room. It was massively timbered as to unfinished walls
and high rafters, with a plank floor on which lay rag rugs. Furniture included
a studio couch, a center table, and several sturdy arm chairs, one of them of a
size to accommodate
Sam
Cohill
’s body. Bookshelves lined one wall. Opposite
showed a big stone fireplace. Above this hung Driscoll’s faithful machete in
its leather scabbard, and also Driscoll’s favorite head- gear—the old
Confederate army cap that he had inherited from his great-grandfather. A
kerosene lamp burned brightly on the table.

           
“It’s comfortable without being
fancy,” said Randy after a moment.

 
          
“Fancy
things aren’t always the comfortable ones,” agreed Driscoll. “Here’s the
kitchen door, beyond the fireplace. Notice that all the doors are eight feet
tall. That gives Sam one inch of clearance, to pass through without bumping his
head.”

 
          
Another
lamp lighted the kitchen, which was not much smaller than the big front room.
On
an oil
stove simmered a large kettle and a small
one, and a spicily appetizing odor filled the air.

 
          
“We
have spaghetti tonight,” announced Sam. “Grab plates and stand by to take on
cargo.”

 
          
From
the big kettle he forked bale-like masses of spaghetti into plate after plate.
Upon each white mound he scooped thick red sauce from the smaller pot. “Grated
Parmesan cheese in the shaker on the table,” he said. “Get coffee cups, too,
and there’s a bowl of green onions in the refrigerator.”

 
          
It
was an electric refrigerator, but when Jebs opened it to get the onions, he saw
that it was kept cool by a big block of ice in a dishpan.

 
          
“The
ice comes to Mr. Martin’s from
Wagram
every other day, and we’ve been picking it
up there,” explained Driscoll. “It’s a long cold walk getting it here, too. I’m
glad we’ll have our own refrigerator working in a few days.”

 
          
“How
will you get it working?” inquired Randy.

 
          
“Mr.
Martin has rural electrification power at his house now, and Sam and I bought
his old home power plant second hand.”

 
          
“Dig
in,” urged Sam.

 
          
With
energetic appetites they attacked the spaghetti. “It’s right good,” praised
Jebs. “Which of you made it?”

 
          
“I
did,” Sam informed him. “I learned to make that sauce from an Italian
knife-thrower, during my circus days.”

 
          
“What’s
in it?” inquired Randy.

 
          
“There’s
ground beef in it,” said Sam. “Likewise tomato paste, and chopped onions and
garlic and fresh green pepper, and crushed red pepper. And Worcestershire sauce
and walnut catsup, and other seasonings—marjoram, thyme, rosemary, lots of salt
and black pepper.”

 
          
“Is
that all?” demanded Jebs with his mouth full.

 
          
“No,
come to think of it, there’s also a pinch of chile powder. That’s my own idea,
not the Italian
knife-thrower’s
.”

 
          
“I’m
still bowled over at how snappy Sam looks these days,” spoke up Randy, mopping
sauce from his plate.

 
          
“Well,
I get out among people a lot more than I used to,” smiled the big man. “I visit
Wagram
, sometimes Laurinburg, Rockingham,
Lumberton
. And I’ve spent some of my share of our
treasure on getting some new clothes built.”

 
          
“You
don’t know the half of it, Randy,” put in Driscoll. “A Laurinburg tailor cut
him a sports jacket that’s the sharpest thing ever seen in the Drowning Creek
country, and Sam sent up north for dress shirts and a couple of pairs of
specially made oxfords.”

 
          
“The
church ladies in
Wagram
knitted me lots of socks,” said Sam.

 
          
“Yes,
Sam’s right popular in
Wagram
,” Driscoll told his friends. “He did some strong-arm stunts at a school
party, and every kid in that school wants to grow up as big as Sam. I heard
about it all the way up north to Lawson.”

 
          
They
finished supper—big Sam Cohill eating as much as all three of the boys—and,
while they washed the dishes, Driscoll told his friends more news. While he,
Driscoll, had attended high school in
Lawson
County
where he lived with his guardian, Deputy
Sheriff Bailey, Sam had supervised initial work at reclaiming the long-lost
site of Chimney Pot House. A crew of workmen had salvaged from the old ruins
enough cut stones to build a new foundation, and solid, massive old beams for
the framework. One ancient thirty-acre field, unused since the fall of the
Confederacy, had been cleared and its timber sold, and Mr. Martin’s farm hand,
Willie Dubbin, had ploughed the land and planted it to corn.

 
          
“We’ll
need that corn, because this summer we’ll buy more stock to
raise
here,” finished Driscoll. “Mr. Martin sold us a couple of calves. We’ve added
to Sam’s penful of pigs, and we’ve got chickens, too. We’ll go
slow
on cutting more timber. What I want is to work with a
lumbering outfit that will leave the younger trees to come on. That way, the
place will be a permanent profit, and the forest will never be ruined.”

 
          
“Amen
to that idea, Driscoll,” applauded Jebs as he put away the coffee cups. “But
won’t the wild dogs bother your stock?”

 
          
At
that moment he started violently, almost dropping a cup. A whine sounded at the
kitchen door, and something scratched at its panels.

 
          
“Take
it easy, Jebs, that’s Rebel,” laughed Driscoll. “I reckon the wild ones have
pulled out, and he wants to get in.”

 
          
Sam
opened the door, and in trotted the white dog they had seen outside. He was a
clean-limbed specimen, both lean and sinewy, and his hair was short and smooth.
His muzzle looked fairly long, but square and strong. Both his ears and his
tail were cropped close. He looked at Jebs and Randy with wise eyes, and thrust
his nose into Driscoll’s hand.

 
          
“I
got Rebel two years ago,” said Driscoll, “and last fall I sent him down here to
keep Sam
company
.” “What kind is he?” asked Randy.

 
          
“There
aren’t many of Rebel’s breed
to be found these days,”
said Sam. “He’s a pit bull terrier, and I don’t see why they aren’t popular any
more. A smarter, braver, more loyal dog was never created than Rebel and his
kind.”

 
          
“He
must be worth having around, with wild dogs besieging you,” said Randy. “How
about telling us about that mysterious pack?”

 
          
“Come
into the front room.”

 
          
Sam
led the way. When all had seated themselves, he began.

 
          
“I
lived here for years with no suspicion of anything like wild dogs. But lately,
after the work started on this new house, I noticed them nosing around at
evening, and one or two of the farmers near our part of the woods say the dogs
have bothered their stock. One lost two sheep,
another a
bunch of chickens. Right here, around Easter time, they grabbed one of my pigs.
Rebel and I managed to chase them away.”

 
          
“Doesn’t
anybody try to hunt them down?” asked Jebs.

 
          
“That’s
ticklish work, hunting dogs,” said Sam. “Suppose you kill a dog, and it turns
out to be somebody’s household pet, out on a peaceful moonlight stroll. You get
into big trouble with
the somebody
. Anyway, these dogs
aren’t easy to trace. They don’t seem to have any special lair, and they fade
away fast if they’re followed.”

 
          
“Tame
dogs ought to find them,” suggested Randy.

 
          
“Some
tame dogs have found them,” replied Sam. “Dogs on various farms show up now and
then, pretty badly chewed up.”

 
          
“Have
any wild dogs ever chewed up Rebel?” Randy asked.

 
          
“I
reckon you don’t know much about pit bull terriers,” chimed in Driscoll,
somewhat scornfully.

           
“Rebel does the chewing if he
catches a wild dog, which isn’t often.”