Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1952 (4 page)

 
          
“Let’s
stay here, Jebs,” said Randy. “We’ve been spending too much time in civilization
lately.”

 
          
“Then
Sam and I will drive over in the new jeep,” decided Driscoll. “Sam understands
enough about the wheel rig to explain it to Mr. Hager.”

 
          
“I’m
with you, Driscoll,” said Sam. “
Jebs,
let me have
those sketches you made. Now don’t you and Randy murder yourselves working. Why
not wander around and explore your old stamping grounds?” They all went
outdoors. Willie Dubbin slouched away to resume his ploughing. Sam and Driscoll
headed for the jeep.

 
          
“Any
trails leading anywhere?” called Jebs after them.

 
          
“There’s
one at the back of the old place,” Sam told him. “The Indians use it to visit
that lonely blind man I told you about—Mr. Tasman.”

 
          
He
hoisted his bulk into the rear of the jeep, dwarfing its proportions. Driscoll
started the motor and drove away with his big partner.

 
          
“That lonely blind man.”
Jebs repeated Sam’s words. “Randy,
what say we go have a peek at him?”

 
          
“Why
not?” said Randy at once. “Sam said last night that he lives about a mile away.
I’d like to stretch my legs and shake down that dinner before I start kneeling
on the roof again.”

 
          
“Suits me.”

 
          
They
skirted the edge of the cornfield, moved around the filled-in foundation hole
of the razed manor house, and beyond it came to the trail of which the giant had
told them. It was no more than the slight indication of a path, roving here and
there among the trees on no apparent course, but not hard to follow when once
found. The boys trudged past and under loblolly and longleaf pines, past
darkskinned gum trees and tall tulip trees. As they trudged they talked,
rehearsing the events of the recent night and morning. At last Randy, who was
in the lead, stopped and held up his hand for a halt.

 
          
“There’s
a clearing just ahead,” he said, dropping his voice.

 
          
They
could see into one of those naturally treeless spaces in a forest, and against
a close-grown clump of jack oaks and small pines on the far side they could
make out a building.

 
          
It
was a small cabin, little more than a shack, made of stout whipsawed slabs.
Building paper covered its shed-type roof. In size it measured perhaps twelve
feet by fifteen, and in the side visible across the clearing the boys saw a
half-open door of cleated planks and a single small window, its sash raised and
a piece of dark cloth hanging inside like a curtain. There was no garden, no
outbuilding, no sign of life or motion except—

 
          
“He’s
bound to be at home,” said Jebs. “I see smoke coming out of the chimney.”

 
          
“Who’s
there?” someone challenged them.

 
          
The
voice came from inside the half-open door. It was a strong, ringing voice, but
with a flat quality to its accent.

 
          
Neither
Jebs nor Randy replied. Something of mystery and inhospitality seemed to hang
about the clearing, the cabin and the unseen dweller.

 
          
After
a moment, the door pulled all the way inward. Then a man appeared on the sill.

 
          
He
was under medium height and of slender build, and he wore an old faded khaki
shirt and trousers. In one hand he held a knotty-looking cane, the point of
which he thrust gropingly before him. As he stepped into the open, he raised
his face. It was a gaunt, line-bracketed face, with curly gray hair above it.
It looked pale, and its expression was of strained attention. The eyes were
wide open and stared emptily.

 
          
“Who’s
there?” the man repeated. “I can’t see you, I’m blind. Speak up, whoever you
are. State your business, if you’ve got any, and then go away. I don’t like
visitors.”

 
          
THE
DOGS RETURN

 
          
There
was another moment of silence. The blind man stood outside his crude door,
leaning lightly on the knotty cane. He craned his lean, tense face forward on
his slim neck. Then he moved toward the boys.

 
          
His
feet shuffled, as though finding their own way, but they were sure and even
nimble. The cane lifted a little, and Randy and Jebs saw that it was a
stoutlooking piece of wood, and that the hand in which it rested was a sinewy
one.

 
          
“Are
you Mr. Hobert Tasman?” ventured Randy.

 
          
Again
the blind man stood still. His vacant eyes turned toward Randy.

           
“If you know my name, you know that
I’m blind and want to be left alone,” said Hobert Tasman. “What are you doing
here? You sound young—like a boy, still in
your ’teens
.
Haven’t you anything better to do with your time than come poking around where
you’re not wanted? I live out here to keep away from people like you.”

 
          
“My
name’s Randy Hunter, and I have a friend with me,” said Randy. “He’s Jebs
Markum.”

 
          
“Hey,
there, Mr. Tasman,” said Jebs diffidently.

 
          
“We
don’t want to meddle with your business,” went on Randy. “We’re visiting some
friends— Driscoll Jordan and
Sam
Cohill
—and we only thought—”

 
          
“Driscoll
Jordan and
Sam
Cohill
,” repeated Hobert Tasman coldly. “When
Sam
Cohill
speaks, his voice comes from nearly a yard
above my head. I’ve heard that he’s a monster. He tramped over here once, and I
could hear his great big feet shaking the ground. Well, I told him to stay
away. I don’t care for giants.”

 
          
Randy
looked at Hobert Tasman. The blind man was small, and Randy knew that sometimes
small men resented big ones.

 
          
“Sam
can’t help being oversize,” argued Randy.

           
“He’s really a gentlemanly kind of
person. As I started to say, we came over here because he worries about you,
all alone as you are, and—”

 
          
Randy
broke off, embarrassed.

 
          
“Go
on, finish it,” said Hobert Tasman harshly, gripping his cane. “I’m not afraid
to be reminded that I can’t see.”

 
          
“We’ll
get out if you want us to, Mr. Tasman,” said Jebs. “We just wanted to find out
if we could help in any way, that’s all.”

 
          
Tasman
relaxed a trifle. “You sound like well- brought-up young fellows,” he said,
more gently. “If I were you, I’d go back and help that friend of yours, Cohill.
Probably he needs help.” The voice turned harsh again. “Probably he needs to be
taught civilized ways. Does he even know how to read and write?”

 
          
Randy
and Jebs had turned to go, but Jebs, nettled at the slur on Sam, paused and
spoke over his shoulder.

 
          
“You’re
figuring Sam all wrong,” he said hotly. “He’s as civilized, pound for pound, as
anybody in
North
Carolina
. He doesn’t need to learn how to read, he reads plenty. He’s got about
five hundred books on his shelves.”

           
“Books?” echoed Hobert Tasman, so
quickly that both boys turned to look at him again. “What kind of books?”

 
          
“Why,”
said Randy, “I was looking at his shelf last night. He has novels, and things
like the poems of Milton and Longfellow.”

 
          
“And
natural history books,” added Jebs. “A couple of reference books, and stories
by Ernest Thompson Seton, and some—”

 
          
“Ernest
Thompson Seton?” repeated Tasman, more sharply than before. “What books by
Seton?”

 
          
“Let’s
see,” said Jebs. “There was
The Biography
of a Grizzly
, and there was
Wild
Animal Ways
.
And —wait a minute—
Lives of the Hunted.
That’s one I’ve always liked.”

 
          
For
the first time the slender, hard-knit form stood easy, and a smile touched the
gaunt face. “You like it?” said Tasman softly.
“Lives of the Hunted
, eh? I never read it.”

 
          
“Maybe
you’d like to borrow it,” said Jebs impulsively,
then
fell awkwardly silent, feeling he had said the wrong thing. But Tasman only
shook his gray head, slowly and sadly.

 
          
“You
know I couldn’t read it.”

 
          
“Listen,”
offered Jebs, eager to make amends.

           
“Maybe somebody could read it to
you. Maybe I could.”

 
          
“Would
you?” said the blind man, and moved a step forward. He looked and sounded hungry.
“Would you, boy?”

 
          
“We’d
both be glad to,” Randy assured him. “As a matter of fact, I don’t think I ever
read
Lives of the Hunted
, either. So
you and I would both be getting that book for the first time.”

 
          
Tasman
leaned both hands on his cane. “I’m sorry if I was hasty a moment ago,” he
said. “I’ve always been interested in natural history and outdoor life. I used
to study it, until I went blind. Well, all right. I accept your offer. Next
time you come this way, you might bring that book.”

 
          
“We’ll
borrow it from Sam,” promised Jebs, “and bring it over the next time we come.”

 
          
“Good-day, then, both of you.
What were your names, now?
Randy Hunter and Jeb Markum?”

           
“It’s Jebs, not Jeb,” said the
owner of that name. “I was baptized James Ewell Brown Stuart Markum, and folks
kind of hammer it down to Jebs.”

 
          
“I
see. Jebs Markum.
Good-day to you.”

 
          
Thus
dismissing them with a touch of his earlier cool reserve, Hobert Tasman started
back toward his cabin door. Again his feet seemed to slide along, feeling their
way. His stick, questing ahead, touched the door sill. He put his free hand on
the jamb, lifted his foot, and stepped inside.

 
          
Randy
and Jebs headed back toward New Chimney Pot.

 
          
“Well,
that was a genuine, corn-fed brush-off,” commented Jebs. “For two cents I
wouldn’t ever go near him again.”

 
          
“I
won’t offer you two cents,” replied Randy, “because I’m going back—both of us
will go back— carrying the book with us. He needs company. I’ll bet he’s
interesting, once he starts to talk. He said he studied natural history.”

 
          
“Then
why doesn’t he act more natural?” demanded Jebs. “Maybe that’s acting natural
for a hermit, though.
Sam
Cohill
was funny when we first met up with him.”

 
          
“Sam
understands a fellow like Mr. Tasman,” said Randy. “Sam had sympathy for him.
When he saw the man wanted to be let alone, Sam did just that. Sam knows what
it’s like to want no company but your own.”

 
          
Halfway
along the home trail, Rebel met them. The white
dog did not
bound or bark
, but showed plainly that he recognized the two boys as
guests at his home, and was ready to offer them friendly courtesy. Returning to
the yard of New Chimney Pot House, the two consulted.

 
          
“What’ll
we do while the jeep’s coming back?” asked Randy. “Work at the dam, or on the shingles?”

 
          
“The
shingles are probably worse needed,” said Jebs. “Look at the clouds boiling up,
above those trees to the northwest. Maybe it won’t rain tonight, but when it
does we’d better have our roof on.”

 
          
Thus
agreed, they heaved more bundles of shingles up the ladder and began to nail
down new courses. Hours passed at this work. Through the yard below them moved
the mule wagon, with Willie Dubbin heading back to the Martin farm.

 
          
“Take
care them wild dogs don’t tree you-all up there,” he called to them. “Though I
wouldn’t swear but what them dogs might not know how to climb— maybe even fly—”

 
          
The
wagon rolled on, and the rest of his words were lost.

 
          
“Hear
that?” said Jebs.
“About dogs flying?
It gives me the
creeps.”

 
          
“Don’t
get believing Willie Dubbin’s superstitions,” cautioned Randy.

           
“I’m trying hard not to,” said Jebs,
putting nails in his mouth.

 
          
A
large expanse of the tar-paper slope was shingled when the noise of an engine
heralded the jeep’s return. Randy and Jebs scrambled down to greet Sam and
Driscoll.

 
          
“Look
what we brought back,” said Driscoll, as Sam hoisted out a heavy-looking piece
of machinery. “That Mr. Lyman Hager understands any kind of an idea and builds
any gadget to order, while you wait. Fancy, huh?”

 
          
“Pretty
fancy, though I don’t see how it works,” confessed Randy.

 
          
The
device of which Driscoll and Sam looked so proud was a straight metal axle,
nearly five feet long, with a hub at each end, from which spokes had apparently
been chopped or broken. At first glance it seemed that these hubs had once held
two wheels of unequal sizes, both of them now crowded in upon the axle so as to
rest about a foot inward from the hubs on either side. One wheel was a solid
metal pulley, some fifteen inches in diameter, and the other apparently an old
disk wheel from a junked automobile, innocent of tire.

 
          
“Your
Mr. Hager must be a genius,” commented Jebs. “It’ll take another genius to know
how that will work.”

 
          
“Oh,
it works,” said Sam. “This is a straight axle from the wreck of a specially
made wagon. Each of these hubs is put on with bearings, to allow a fast, easy
turn. Mr. Hager clamped and coupled the wheel and the pulley both fast to the
axle. We can assemble the wooden framework of a water wheel to the big wheel,
and when the stream over the dam sets it turning around, the pulley turns at
the same speed. A belt connects it to the power plant, and there you are.”

 
          
“I
get it now,” cried Jebs, his mystification changing to enthusiasm as he
examined the arrangement. “We can set the hubs in solid supports, and they
stand still while the axle turns with the water wheel and the pulley.”

 
          
“And
look at the tags of angle iron Mr. Hager screwed on, for our wooden work to
bolt to,” added Driscoll, pointing. “Well, you two seem to have shingled away
hard while we were gone.”

 
          
“We
might have done a right much more if we hadn’t gone calling on your Mr. Hobert
Tasman,” said Jebs.

 
          
“Did
you do that?” said Driscoll. “I’ll bet he ordered you away from his lair.”

           
“You’d win that bet, but he changed
his mind when we offered to read to him out of one of Sam’s books,” Randy told
them. “Sam, will you let me take
Lives of
the Hunted
over to him tomorrow?”