Then There Were Five (11 page)

“What are they doing? What is that thing?” he breathed into Mark's ear.

“It's a still,” Mark breathed back. “You know, for making stuff to drink. Corn whisky they make. It's against the law.”

“Why do they make it, then? Why don't they buy it if they want it?”

“This doesn't cost anything; not even the price of a license. That's why.”

Down in the hollow a fire was burning beneath a strange-looking object. It seemed to be a round turnip-shaped container with a metal coil coming out of the top of it. The coil was attached to a large hogshead. Around this contraption the men were grouped. Five, Rush counted. Two were sitting on a log, two on the ground. Oren was standing by the still, the firelight shining on his narrow face. Besides himself there were two large, shaggy men with full beards and longish hair. There was a tall weedy man with no chin, and a great fat one with a white round face like a Stilton cheese. The men were passing a gallon vinegar jug from one to the other. But from the relish with which each of them tilted it up and drank from it, it was obvious that the jug no longer contained vinegar.

“Who are the ones with beards?” whispered Rush.

“The Delacey brothers, Cedric and Fitzroy. They live up back a ways, right in the woods where it's hard to get to. They have a cabin there, and they fish, and hunt, and set traps, and live like a couple of bears. They never come down to Carthage even, only about twice a year—”

“Trying to forget their names I bet,” Rush said. “And who's the fat one?”

“That's Mr. Waldemar Crown. He's a real educated man, but he's bad. Even Oren says so. He's s'posed to have murdered a man a long time ago, but they couldn't ever prove it. And when the Carthage bank was robbed five years ago they thought he was the one behind it. But they never could prove that either. Everyone's scared of him except Oren and the Delaceys. He never can keep hired help on his place.”

Rush felt distinctly creepy. This was the first really bad person he had ever seen. Even Oren wasn't a criminal.

“Who's the tall thin one?”

“Johnny Cortain. He mows lawns and does odd jobs around. He's kind of weak in the head, but they say when they get in a jam down to the bank they call in Johnny. Anything to do with numbers is duck soup to him, he's better than an adding machine. There's no harm in Johnny, he's just kind of weak and silly.”

“Quite a bunch,” said Rush. “I wish Cuffy could see me now.”

The fat man, Waldemar Crown, had apparently just told a joke, for suddenly the men began to laugh. The two with the beards kept hitting their knees and howling. Great bear howls came out of their shaggy mouths. Johnny Cortain had a high-pitched giggle, and even Oren's narrow mouth turned up at one corner.

“Well, it's an old joke,” said the fat man, “but I daresay it's new to you. After all, you don't get about very much do you, any of you? At least not in the realm of light entertainment. It would be rather unrewarding for the Delacey boys to swap anecdotes with the company
they
keep: woodchucks, and skunks, and squirrels. Johnny never remembers a story, and you, Oren, confine your social life to the livestock on your farm. You ought to go about more.”

“Well, I'm gointa!” said Oren unexpectedly, setting down the vinegar jug, with which he had been refreshing himself at some length. “I'm gointa clear out. Gointa sell the farm. I've had enough of it. Fed up and through. I won't git much for it, but I'll git enough to lift me out of here. Then I'll clear out. Git me one of these defense jobs that pays good, or set up with a fella I know on a fruit ranch in California.”

“Whatcha going to do with the kid?” said Johnny Cortain. “Take him along?”

“N-a-a. Take him along! He ain't nothin' but a weight around my neck. I'm aimin' to let the county look after him if he can't look after himself. Them Welfare people been nosin' around too much. Now they'll git him for good, let them worry about him for good!”

Rush put his hand on Mark's shoulder. “Gee,” he said.

“The authorities may have something to say about that,” declaimed the fat man, who for unpleasant reasons of his own was an authority on the authorities. “I wonder if they'll let you step out so easily.”

Oren smiled his crooked smile. “Ever hear of a fella changin' his name? I got one all picked, and what's more I got an advantage in my face. It don't show up good in a crowd; there's a lot of folks looks like me—”

“And they ain't the kind of folks anyone cares to look at twice,” observed a Delacey brother, pawing the air in mirth while Oren scowled.

“It's an inconspicuous type, granted,” said the fat man. “Well, more power to you, Oren. I'm a great believer in the individual liberties myself.”

“And how!” agreed the other Delacey. The fat man ignored him.

“Now what I have in mind is this,” he said. “Your boy—what is his name?”

“Mark Herron. And he ain't
my
boy.”

“Yes, Mark. I myself could use a lively boy about the place. I can't keep any hired help longer than a week or so, but a boy like that, young, dependent … it would dispense with the question of salary, and a charitable act on my part, just at this moment, would be both becoming and salutary.”

“It's okay with me,” said Oren indifferently, and stooped down again for the jug.

Rush looked at Mark. His eyes were glittering in the firelight, showing grief or rage, or both.

“Doggone him! He won't do it, I won't let him. I'll run away first,” whispered Mark savagely.

“Darn right you won't. You come live with us, that's what you do.”

“Your father would like that fine, I bet. Thanks just the same though. I'm glad we came here tonight. I thought Oren was acting queer.”

One of the Delacey brothers lifted his large nose.

“I smell a dang funny smell. You know what it is, Fitzroy?”

Fitzroy also lifted his nose.

“You two have noses like wild animals,” said the fat man. “Have another drink.”

“I smell it too,” cried Johnny Cortain in his reedy voice. “It's citronella, that's what it is. It's to keep mosquitoes away. Who's got it on? I ain't.”

“Just as soon wear perfumery,” grunted a Delacey. “It's you, ain't it, Crown?”

The fat man shook his head.

“They don't bite me; I imagine I have a bitter rind like a lemon.”

“'Tain't Oren, neither, it's comin' downwind,” said the first Delacey, lumbering to his feet. “Strong enough to knock you over. Bring the lantern, Fitzroy.”

Before Rush scrambled away from the bluff edge he saw that the Delacey had a shotgun in his hand.

“Quick!” whispered Mark.

Their headlong flight was noisy and terrifying. Like frightened stags they crashed through the underbrush. Behind them there was more crashing, loud bellows, and a few wild shots from the gun. But before long the hullabaloo ceased and Mark slowed down.

“Jeepers!” said Rush. “Jeepers W. Creepers! I never was shot at before in my whole life. Jeepers.”

“Oh, they prob'ly just shot it off up in the air to scare us,” Mark said. “But I'm glad they couldn't see us.”

“All I need is a ten-gallon hat and a good horse,” said Rush. “Hi-ho, Silver. Jiminy, I never thought I'd go through anything like that. What would they have done if they'd caught us?”

“Let's not try to guess. They don't know it was us. They'd
never
guess you, because they don't know I know you, and Oren thinks I don't know about the still either; only when we get down to the creek I'm going to wash. If he ever smells citronella on me—”

“What will you do? About what he said, I mean?”

“I dunno. But I won't be kept by the county and I won't work for Crown. Do you think I could pass for eighteen?”

Rush almost laughed. “We-e-ll. No, I guess not.”

“I wisht I could. I'd join the Marines.”

“Be your age, Mark. You'll have to be anyway—you're thirteen. But don't you worry. When my father gets back from Washington I'll ask him. He knows a lot about everything.”

Mark sighed. “I wisht I knew when Oren's planning to leave.”

The creek was dark and cool-sounding, but Rush was too lazy and exhausted to bathe in it. He lay on the bank in a bed of mint, breathing in deep breaths, letting the night, and the fragrance, and the fresh sound of water wash away the ugliness of what he had seen and heard. Mark scrubbed and splashed near-by but he wasn't enjoying it. He was worrying.

“Gee, I wisht I knew what to do.”

“It'll be okay,” said Rush. He felt sorry for Mark, but he knew his father would think of something. “I'll write to him if he doesn't come soon,” he said.

He was half asleep by the time Mark had come out of the creek and dressed himself.

“I don't see how I could smell of citronella now,” said Mark. “I even washed my hair!” A few seconds later he said, “A mosquito just bit me, so it's all right. Gee, I never thought I'd be glad to have a mosquito bite me.”

The repercussions of that night were several. Rush got home so late that Cuffy scolded him straight into bed. She even opened his door after the light was out to tell him an extra thing or two about his behavior.

Isaac arrived still later, and by daylight it was apparent to everyone that he had had an argument with a skunk, and that the skunk had had the ultimate triumphant word.

“Keep hib
oud
of here. Keep hib oud!” cried Mona frantically, holding her nose. “What a
dawful
sbell! Revoltig!”

It was Rush's sad duty to purify Isaac. He did it with the garden hose, brown soap, white soap, a scrubbing brush, and a bottle of eau de Cologne (Mona's). It took all morning, and at the end of it Cuffy swore all that had happened was that Rush had transferred the smell to his own person. He was handed his luncheon through the kitchen window and made to eat it out of doors. After that he himself had a bath with the hose. Nobody would let him use the pool.

That night Rush woke up feeling as though there were crumbs under his skin, and by the next morning he had developed a howling case of poison ivy. He wondered if Mark had it too, but wistfully decided that he probably hadn't, that the bath in the creek had undoubtedly saved him.

“What I can't understand,” said Cuffy, scrubbing him raw with a nailbrush and brown soap, “is why it's broke out all over your front like that.”

But Rush, remembering that brief unpleasant journey on his stomach through the dark woods, understood all too clearly, and sighed the deep, patient sigh of a martyr bound by secrecy.

CHAPTER VII

The Twelve-Pound Cat

“Best worms is down by the old pigsty,” said Mr. Titus, ambling off in that direction. “Rich earth there. Real rich. Worms love it; night crawlers. I've hooked many a good-size bluegill on a night crawler. Yes, and better than bluegills, too.”

He detached one of his apron strings from the reaching tendrils of a morning-glory vine.

“They can talk about their plugs for casting all they wanta, and their feather flies and spoons, and I don't know what all. Let 'em talk, I say, but give me good live bait. Yessir,” said Mr. Titus rolling the words around in his mouth like a fat giant in a fairy tale. “Give me good LIVE BAIT!”

Oliver, plowing along behind him, agreed heartily.

He agreed with everything Mr. Titus did or said. As a fisherman, storyteller, baker of cakes, and general all-round person, Oliver found Mr. Titus without fault. Ever since Rush had allowed him to accompany them on a fishing trip Oliver had taken every opportunity to see Mr. Titus. He had even bought a straw hat at the Carthage Dry Goods and Confectionery exactly like Mr. Titus's. It had a green celluloid skylight set into the front brim that cast a bilious light upon his face. The only trouble was that it had looked too new, and Oliver was aging it by stepping on it now and then, rolling it in the dust, and picking at the edge of the brim to make it ravel. He had done a pretty good job on it in a short time, and the hat looked almost as experienced as that of his idol.

Mr. Titus encouraged this friendship. He fostered it tenderly with rich night crawlers, and marble cake, and all-day excursions to Abbot's Slough, or Squaw Dam, or one of the many little ponds or streams that he knew about.

“There's the place, right about there.” Mr. Titus indicated a spot in the dark, pigpen soil with the toe of his shoe. “Here's the trowel, Oliver. I'm too old and fat to have to bend down. You dig 'em out and I'll point 'em out. I'm an expert worm-diviner.”

What he said was true. In very little time they had a Mason jar full of good, active live bait.

Next they picked up the lunch basket (an important item), and with their fishing rods and identical straw hats walked side by side along the dusty road toward the slough that ran through Bagget's pasture. Oliver was even beginning to walk a little like Mr. Titus. Hambone wagged along beside them.