Читать книгу The River Is Home - Patrick D. Smith - Страница 7

A GENTLE BREEZE was blowing through the cypress trees, as Abner Corey sat on the stoop of his shack, mending fish traps. There had been a light rain that morning, and now the sun was sending long shafts of light into the swamp to draw the water up again. The drops of rain, clinging to the cypress boughs, glittered like thousands of diamonds in the air. The cries of wood ducks and cranes mingled with the chatter of squirrels and the incessant bellowing of frogs for more rain. Everything was full of activity but the Corey family. Abner’s wife, Glesa, was stretched out on the back stoop basking in the sun. The two boys, Jeff and Skeeter, were throwing knives into the bare plank floor, while Theresa, the only daughter, was helping Abner mend the fish traps. The traps were the most valuable possessions of the Coreys because they represented their only means of getting cash money.

The Coreys had been living in the swamp for five years now. They had previously been sharecroppers, wandering to and from different parts of Mississippi and Louisiana year after year, getting what jobs they could and eating when they could, but always being without much of either. And then Abner had brought them to the Pearl River swamps of lower Mississippi to begin a new and strange life. They arrived with nothing and had to build their small shack with their bare hands. Abner had chosen a little clearing on a bayou several hundred yards from the muddy Pearl. The clearing was bounded by tall, moss-covered, cypress trees, mingled with magnolia and willow. From their clearing to the river lay long stretches of flat marsh grass, and behind the clearing was the almost impenetrable swamp. The swamp was joined by long, rolling hills covered with pine and scrub oak, but the only way to cross from the clearing to the hills was by boat through the murky swamp. Five miles down the river was a little settlement called Mill Town, and twenty miles to the north was Fort Henry. Once a week Abner and the boys would row to Mill Town and trade fish for money and supplies, and once a year they would go to Fort Henry to sell their winter trappings of hides. Fort Henry was a bustling port town on the steamboat route to Jackson, far to the north. Abner had promised the family if they ever got enough money he would take them on the steamboat to Jackson, but that time never seemed to come.

Most of the Coreys’ time was spent on the river and in the swamp—Abner and the boys fishing, hunting, and trapping, while Glesa and the girl did the house chores and tended the small garden on the edge of the clearing. They grew a few onions, peas, and peppers, but their main diet usually consisted of fish, game, and the wild poke salat that grew along the clearing. They were planning this year to have pork, because Abner had traded for three hogs in Mill Town and had built a pen on the banks of the bayou.

The Corey shack was built of drift lumber and cypress logs. The house had three rooms and no windows, and the roof was made of hand-hewn cypress shingles stuffed with moss. Two rooms of the house were used for sleeping, and the other for cooking and eating. There were two beds in one room and one in the other. The beds were made of cypress slats, and the mattresses were made of croaker sacks sewn together and stuffed with moss. Ma and Pa Corey slept in one room and the boys and Theresa in the other. The kitchen contained a bare plank table, a washstand, and a clay hearth in one corner for cooking. All the water for cooking and drinking came from the bayou. The Coreys used the banks of the bayou for their privy and bath.

The oldest of the children was Jeff, who was nineteen. Theresa was fifteen and Skeeter thirteen. The Coreys had named their youngest boy Skeeter because he was born prematurely, and Pa Corey said that he was no bigger than a good-sized mosquito. Even now he was small and runty for his age, and did not have all that he should have had in the way of book-learning. Jeff was tall and skinny with short-cut, blond hair. Theresa was the most unusual of the Corey children. She was like a rose growing in a field of cabbage. She was an unusually beautiful girl with long, flaming-red hair, brown eyes, and a complexion as white as snow. It was strange that such a child could have the same blood as the haggard pair that had borne her. Ma Corey was a fat, sloppy-looking woman with straggly gray hair. Her teeth were stained brown from the long years of snuff dipping, and her skin was wrinkled and tanned from the long hours of working the fields before they came to the swamp to live. Pa Corey was built much the same as Jeff, tall and skinny, with short-cropped gray hair. Ma had always said that he could make more money hiring out as a scarecrow than he could any other way.

Pa Corey would not go into the swamp with Jeff and Skeeter to set and run their animal traps. He was more afraid of snakes and alligators than he was of the devil himself. In the spring and summer, Jeff and Skeeter would go into the swamp to kill snakes and catch young ’gators, so they could sell the snakeskins and young ’gators in Mill town. In the winter they would trap for mink and otter. Pa Corey was a fearless man on the river and bayou, but nothing could induce him into the swamp. The boys had built a flat-bottomed skiff to use in the swamp and a rowboat for the river.

As Pa Corey sat mending the traps, he often talked to himself, as he was doing now. “Dern gars,” he said, “don’t make nothin’ but trouble fer me. Wish the slimy devils would stay out’n my nets and traps! Jest like hangin’ a bull ’gator by the tail. I wish the good Lord would have a big fish fry in Heaven and use all the gars they is in the river. Pesky devils.”

“Pa,” said Theresa, “why is it that the gars won’t stay in the traps like the catfish and the buffalo do?”

“Well, hit seems that the Lord equipped the muddy bastards with saws on their heads jest so’es they could saw their way out of anything. I’ve heard they can cut clear through a cypress log, jest as easy as nothin’. I caught one on a trotline once, and even the niggers wouldn’t et him. They said he were a brother to the devil, and if’n you et him you would shore go below onced you was dead.”

“Pa, Skeeter told me onced that he saw the devil up in the swamp one time. He said hit were jest afore dark and he come through a gap in the saw vines and there the devil set chewin’ on a big ole water moccasin. He said when the devil seed him there, he swollered the snake whole and run off through the swamp belchin’ smoke and bellowin’ like a bull. Do you reckon hit were so, Pa?”

“Now don’t you pay no mind to what Skeeter says, you hear? He’s lible to come home one day sayin’ he seed two bull ’gators doin’ a dance in the top of a cypress tree.”

“Jest the same, Pa,” Theresa said, “hit shore would scare me if’n I was to see somethin’ like that. That dern Skeeter jest ain’t skeered of nothin’, and I onced seen him ketch a live snake with his hands and pop its head clear off its body. Whut makes you so skeered of snakes, Pa?”

“Now you shet up and go tell them two boys to come here and help me git these traps in the boat. If’n we don’t get ’em out soon, hit’s goin’ to be too dark. And I jest got a feelin’ that them big ole catfish is goin’ to be on a party tonight.”

Theresa jumped up and ran to the room where Jeff and Skeeter were throwing the knives and said: “Pa said fer you two to git them traps in the boat so’es you can git ’em out afore it gits dark. You know Pa don’t like to be on the river at night with them steamboat fellers runnin’ over everything that gits in the way.”

“Who’s afraid of ’em?” Jeff said. “Skeeter, throw yore knife through her big ole toes.”

Skeeter rose, drew back the blade, and before Theresa could run, the knife went slicing through the air and buried itself in the floor between her toes. “Oh my gosh, Pa,” wailed Theresa, “Skeeter is in here tryin’ to split my feet in half with his knife.”

The boys jumped up and followed Theresa to the porch where Pa was sitting. Jeff said, “Dern fool! You ain’t got no cause to go around the house bellowin’ like that. I’ve seed Skeeter shave the whiskers off a tick’s face at ten feet with that knife. You know dern well he don’t never miss whut he aims at.”

“Yeh, but they’re always a fust time for everthing,” said Theresa. “So jest you don’t be doin’ that no more.”

“You dad-burned kids would make a hog’s jaw bust carryin’ on the way you do,” said Pa. “Now git them traps on out there in the boat and let’s git goin’. Theresa, you tell yore Ma to git up off that floor and hoe the garden like I tole her to. And you better help her, too.” Pa and the boys loaded the traps in the boat and shoved off down the bayou toward the river. They had about two miles to row before they got to the place where they were to set the traps. They did not put them in the river where it was deep but set them in little coves and branches running into the river. They set their trotline in the river and ran it along logs or sunk it deep into the water by putting heavy iron weights on the line. Pa was in the rear of the boat, and the boys sat in the middle and rowed.

They passed through the area of flat marsh grass and into the dense vegetation of the river bank. The entrance of the bayou into the river was so thick with cypress and magnolias that a person not familiar with it could pass right by, without knowing it. Pa said that was a good thing because it would keep the river folks and the sporting men from Fort Henry from messing around their place. The water, where the bayou met the river, looked like a pot of boiling mud. The Coreys could never remember the river when it wasn’t muddy, but the bayou was always clear. Pa believed the big gar fighting on the river bottom kept the mud stirred up all the time.

When they reached the river, Jeff and Skeeter had to put all the strength they had into rowing the boat upstream. The river was always swift; even in the summer when there was not much rain and the water was low, it was full of trick currents and whirlpools. They had once seen a big log go down in the middle of the river and shoot high into the air a hundred yards from where it went under. Sometimes the channel would change overnight, and the steamboats would run aground and have to be pulled out of the mud.

About a mile above the Corey bayou, the river made a big turn and cut to the west for a few miles. This was known as West Cut. Along the turn there were several coves and creeks running into the river. When they reached the turn, they cut into an almost hidden cove along the west bank. This cove was Pa Corey’s favorite place for placing his fish traps. The big cats and buffalo would come into the cove at night to feed on the smaller fish and swim into his cone-shaped traps. He had caught as much as two hundred pounds of fish in one night here.

After they had carefully laid the traps and tied the trap lines to stobs, they cut back into the river to see about their trotline. When they came to the line, the boys headed the boat downstream so Pa could work it from the back of the boat. The hooks were baited with big chunks of squirrel and rabbit meat, and Pa had several piles of the cut meat in the boat to bait the hooks that were empty. About halfway down the line he jumped up and started shouting wildly: “Gol dern sons of bitches! Why can’t the dirty devils let a feller make a livin’ in peace?”

“Whut’s the matter, Pa?” asked Jeff.

“Matter!” cried Pa. “Look at this! A dern catfish head without no body. That cat woulda weighed at least twenty pounds. Hit’s the dad-nabbed turtles did it. If’n it ain’t them thievin’ devils, hit’s the blame gar tearin’ up the traps and nets. They ought to be some way to outdo these critters.”

“I knows a old nigger down at Mill Town that could fix it so the gar and turtle wouldn’t mess around with no fish lines,” said Skeeter. “He done learned to mix up some potion you kin rub on the lines that makes them critters turn their tails and run. Let’s see whut he kin do next week, Pa.”

“We’ll shore have to do somethin’, Skeeter,” said Pa, “or hit won’t be wuthwhile to even fish in this muddy ole river.”

“Pa,” said Jeff, “hit’s goin’ to be dark pretty soon and it’s jest about time fer that steamboat to come round the bend. You better hurry up or we all lible to be swimmin’ home stead of ridin’ in this here boat.”

“You mighty right,” said Skeeter. “You shore better git done with them lines, Pa, afore that steamboat feller gits here.”

Pa Corey finished baiting the last hook, and they turned the bow of the boat downstream towards home. The last rays of light were fading through the tall cypress trees, when they reached the mouth of the bayou that led to their home. About halfway through the marsh flats, they heard a loud blast and saw fire and smoke belch above the treetops.

“Jest listen to that feller sound off,” said Pa. “You would think the idiot owns the river the way he tries to blow the tops off all the trees.”

The steamboat men did not like the people who lived along the banks of the river and in the swamps. They felt that the families, like the Coreys, who made their living along the river were always getting in their way and slowing down their speed. Sometimes the boatmen would purposely go close to the bank and run through trotlines just to get rid of them, and when they caught the swampmen on the river with their small boats, they would try to sink them with their wake. Once, below Mill Town, a swampman had shot a deck hand on a boat when they passed and tried to sink him, and the people in Mill Town had lynched the man without giving him a trial. The townspeople and the men on the river boats called the Coreys and their kind swamp rats, and said they were no better than the vultures living along the river banks. There was no law to protect the swamp rats, so they preferred to stay to themselves and avoid trouble as much as possible.

By the time the Coreys had put the few cats they had caught into the fish box and secured it in the bayou, Ma Corey was calling them to supper. Jeff took a bucket from the rear of the house, went to the bayou to bring in water for washing the dishes, and Pa and Skeeter went in search of wood, to keep the fire going through the night. The fire at night was their only protection against the mosquitoes, which were especially bad in the spring of the year. It was dark by the time all three got back to the house, and, as they climbed the steep steps to the kitchen, they could smell the aroma of frying fish and boiling coffee. Theresa was setting the table with their only setting of tin dishes, and Ma was bending over the mud hearth getting the pan ready to fry the corn pone. The Coreys in the last five years had eaten tons of fried fish and corn pone, which was their regular supper most every night.

“Gol dern it, Ma,” Pa said, “I shore wish we hadn’t had to build this blame shack so high off the ground. Hit nearly breaks my pore tired bones to climb the steps ever day.”

“You jest better thank the good Lord that we did build the shack high off the ground stead of fussin’ about it,” said Ma. “You know dern well what will happen when the rains come and that muddy ole river comes messin’ aroun’ tryin’ to git in the house with us.”

“I reckon you right, Ma, but it shore do tire a pore ole fool like me climbin’ them steps all the time.”

Pa and the boys took the bar of yellow soap off the cabinet top and began washing the river slime from their hands before supper. Each took his turn at the one cloth towel that hung on a nail over the washstand. When they had finished, they sat at the table, and Theresa poured hot coffee into the tin cups before them.

“They ain’t no more sugar for the coffee, Pa,” said Theresa. “You better git some the next time you is in Mill Town.”

“Yah,” said Ma, “and if’n you don’t git some more corn meal, they ain’t gonna be no more pone on the table afore long. If’n you two boys would stay out’n that swamp long enough to clear me a little patch of land, I could grow us some corn to eat and to feed them pore old hogs. Them hogs air gittin’ so thin hit’s a wonder the snakes ain’t done et ’em afore now.”

“Now, they ain’t no use to worry none,” said Pa. “Me and the boys air goin’ into town Satterday and we’ll git some sugar and meal if’n them dern turtles and gar will jest leave us be long enough to haul in a mess of fish.”

“You goin’ to take me to town this time, Pa?” asked Theresa. “You been promisin’ to take me for quite a spell now. Please take me this time, Pa.”

“Now, you know why I ain’t took you to town, Theresa,” he said. “I done tole you a thousand times that if’n them dern town boys was to ever see you, they’d come sniffin’ aroun’ here and jest cause us a heap of trouble.”

“Well, that ain’t no reason why you can’t ever take me,” said Ma. “You know dern well ain’t even no old hound dog gonna come sniffin’ aroun’ after me.”

Ma Corey finished the frying of the bread, dumped it onto a plate and set it, with the fish, on the table. They all gathered at the table, and Skeeter slapped a fork into a big piece of the fried catfish.

“Now, jest a minute, Skeeter,” said Pa. “I think I better turn up some thanks tonight afore we eat this meal.” Pa turned his head towards the roof, and the others bent their heads.

“Good Lord,” he said, “thank ye fer this meal. And please, Lord, keep them dern turtles and gar away from the lines afore Satterday so’es we can have some more pone on the table next week. Thank ye. Amen. Damn critters,” he murmured to himself, as he carved a big piece from the pone before him.

“Pa,” said Jeff, “me and Skeeter was thinkin’ ’bout goin’ into the swamp tonight after we eat and giggin’ us some frogs. I heered one bellowin’ last night what sounded like he was as big as a bear. Shore would be good to have some frog legs to eat in the mornin’.”

“You boys had orter stay out’n that swamp in the nighttime. You know the good Lord didn’t make that place fer us human bein’s to go into. One of these nights you goin’ to go into that place and ain’t gonna come out at all.”

“They ain’t nothin’ in there that could hurt a feller if’n he jest keeps his eyes open and don’t act a fool,” said Jeff. “Anyhows, we ain’t skeered of hit like you air.”

When they finished the meal, Theresa put the dishes on the stand and began heating some water to clean the grease left on them by the fish. Ma put a big dip of snuff in her bottom lip and got the sage-straw broom to sweep the floor. Pa ambled out to the front porch to sit and think about ways to get more traps set, and Jeff and Skeeter got out their frog gigs to sharpen the points on the old whetrock that the family had had for as long as they could remember.

“Jeff,” said Skeeter, “if’n we see a big moccasin in the swamp tonight, I’ll show you how to ketch the varment. Maybe we kin swap him fer some likker sticks when we go to town Satterday.”

“You better quit messin’ with them snakes so much without any help,” said Jeff. “One of them varments is goin’ to knock a hole clear through you one of these days.”

“Shucks,” said Skeeter, “you know I ain’t skeered of them snakes. I was in the swamp one day by myself and I seed a big otter stalkin’ one of them buggers. I sot real still in the skiff and watched what was goin’ to happen. That dern otter snuck up to that snake backwards and waved his tail at him. When the ole snake struck at that bugger’s tail, that otter turned so quick and sunk his teeth behin’ that snake’s head I hardly saw it happen. I asked the ole otter to tell me how he done it, and that sapsucker showed me all about it. I’ll show you how hit’s done fust time I gits a chance.”

“One of these days you goin’ to turn into a gar fer tellin’ them big tales like you do,” said Jeff. “Sometimes you scare me when you start talkin’ like what you do.”

“I ain’t tellin’ no tale, honest, Jeff,” said Skeeter. “You kin see sights sech as I do if’n you jest goes about hit in the right way.”

“If’n I ever see some of the buggers you do while I’m in that swamp alone, they ain’t even goin’ to be no swamp left where I come tearin’ my way out of there. Now, you better shet up sech talk and go git us a good lidard knot so’es we kin git goin’.”

Skeeter took a burning stick from the hearth and went to the back of the clearing where they stacked the wood to get a fat pine knot to use as a torch. When he got back, he was slapping his neck and howling with pain. “We better git some of that oil I got and rub on us afore we leave,” he said. “Them skeeters is shore out to kill a feller tonight. Dem if’n I couldn’t feel the blood runnin’ out’n me when that devil sucked.”

“I don’t know which would be the wust,” said Jeff, “havin’ them skeeters suck the hide off’n me or have that stinkin’ crap you made smeared all over me. Hit’s like choosin’ betwix a turtle and a gar. What you put in that stuff, anyway, Skeeter?”

“Hit’s a potion a ole nigger give me at Mill Town onced. Hit’s got jest about everthing in it.”

“Well, I don’t doubt that a bit. Now go get the stuff and let’s git on in the swamp.”

Skeeter went into the room where he and Jeff slept and pulled a long box from under the bed. The box contained many odds and ends and several bottles of potions that Skeeter had made for different purposes. He selected a bottle with a murky red fluid in it and went back to the kitchen where Jeff waited by the fire. When he opened the bottle, Ma dropped the broom and ran from the kitchen.

“Good gosh a mighty, Skeeter,” Theresa shouted, “whut in the world is hit you got in that bottle? Hit smells like the devil’s breath itself.”

“Damn, Skeeter,” said Jeff. “If’n hit’s all the same to you, I’ll jest stick by the skeeters and let you keep that stinkin’ stuff to yoreself.” Ma Corey came running back to the kitchen, dragging Pa with her. “Jest git you a whif uv that stuff,” she said, “and you won’t worry ’bout eatin’ no food no more. Now, you tell that dern youngin’ to git that stuff out’n my kitchen and don’t never bring nothin’ like that in here no more. I’d jest as soon sleep with a bed uv skunks.”

“Yore Ma’s right, Skeeter,” he said. “You’ll have all the buzzards comin’ from the swamp to see what’s dead in the house.”

“Derned if’n I’m goin’ to have the skeeters eatin’ on me, even if’n I do have to smell like a barrel of skunk juice,” said Skeeter.

Jeff lit the pine knot, and they went into the yard. Skeeter stopped and rubbed the mosquito potion on his face and arms, and they loaded the gigs and poles into the light skiff and shoved off up the bayou.

“Who’s goin’ to pole, and who’s goin’ to gig tonight, Jeff?” asked Skeeter. “If’n I’m goin’ to pole, you better git up here and hold this lidard knot afore we gits into that thick brush.”

“You mout as well stay up there and do the giggin’ whilst you’re there,” said Jeff, “’cause you’re a sight better shot with that thing than I am.”

“Well, if’n’t I’m goin’ to stay up here, you be shore and go slow, so if’n I see me a snake I kin ketch him.”

“I’ll be derned if’n you do,” said Jeff. “If’n you start drag-gin’ live snakes in this here boat with me in here where I can’t see good, I’m lible to pull down yore pants and spank yore rear plenty good.”

A few hundred yards from the house the straight banks of the bayou melted into a seemingly unending lake of water and trees. This was the beginning of the great swamp. The water was shallower and darker, and the trees and vines looked almost impenetrable from a distance. It would be suicide for anyone not familiar with the swamp to venture into the place at night; even Jeff and Skeeter would not go in then, but they had made many trips around the edges in search of frogs. Danger dwelled in every tree and vine, and at any minute swift death could strike out of a dark shadow. The low-hanging branches and vines were covered with water moccasins, which had crawled there in search of safety from the alligators that lurked around the logs and shallow places. The alligators would conceal themselves during the day and come out at night for food. Deeper in the swamp there were even more dangerous enemies—panther and wild cat, and they had been known to attack a man by day or night. The water itself smelled of death and decay.

“Jeff,” said Skeeter, “let’s go over to that mudbank close to that old fallen magnolia tree. I seed sign there the other day where them big ole bull frogs had been sittin’ on their haunches and rubbin’ each other.”

“OK,” said Jeff, “but you hold that light good and high so’es I kin see some. Hit’s so dark in here tonight that you could see a nigger’s eye ten miles off. And I derned shore don’t want to git this skiff stuck and have to pull it out.”

“Pole her a little mite to the left, Jeff,” said Skeeter. “They’s two eyes over there as big as saucers starin’ at me.”

Jeff poled the skiff gently to the left, while Skeeter stood in the bow with the torch in his left hand and the gig in his right.

“Lordy me, Jeff,” said Skeeter, “look at the size of that feller. I’d bet that bugger would weigh five pounds. I’d hate to see that sucker jump as high as he could. He’d probably land down at Mill Town.”

“Well, quit runnin’ yore mouth so loud and drop that gig betwix his eyes afore he leaps in the water and makes some big ’gator a good supper.”

Jeff stopped the skiff and dug his pole deep into the muck to hold it steady. Skeeter raised the gig high above his head, took a steady aim, and sailed it towards the white eyes of the frog. The gig struck the bank with a thud and dropped into the water.

“Did you git him, Skeeter?” asked Jeff.

“I ain’t sure. I didn’t see him jump when the gig struck, but the gig didn’t stick to the bank. Pole her up and let me git the gig out’n the water.”

Jeff drew the pole out of the soft muck and shoved the skiff further towards the bank. “Hold her there,” said Skeeter. “I think I kin reach hit from here.”

Skeeter bent down in the skiff and reached into the black water for the long handle of the gig. When he raised it from the water, one end had sunk so he knew that his aim had been true.

“My gosh, Jeff,” he said, as he pulled the gig back into the skiff. “Look at them legs. Bet they air at least two feet long.”

“One more like that will be all we kin eat fer breakfast,” said Jeff. “Let’s find one more so’es we kin git the heck out’n here.”

Jeff poled the skiff further along the edges of the swamp, while Skeeter held the torch high in search of more eyes. At times Skeeter had to lie flat in the skiff to pass under the low-hanging buck vines. They pushed farther and farther into the swamp.

“Hold her, Jeff,” said Skeeter, “I think I seed some eyes a little over to the right uv you. Push her over there and let’s see what hit is.”

Jeff swung the skiff further to the right until the owner of the eyes came into the range of the light. “Hit shore air another big frog,” said Skeeter. “He looks like he mout be as big as the other one. Pole her in and let me git a throw.”

Jeff dug the pole into the muck, and Skeeter again took aim with his right hand, while holding the torch with his left. He raised the gig high, and it hit the bank with a dull thud. Only this time the gig pinned the frog to the bank. “I shore got me a perfect hit that time,” said Skeeter. “Pole her up and let me git the bugger in the skiff.”

Jeff poled the skiff close to the bank, and Skeeter put the frog in the bottom of the skiff with the other one. “How’s you and the skeeters gittin’ along, Jeff?” he asked. “Bet them buggers has sucked you dry by now, ain’t they?”

“Yeh, but I’d still rather they kilt me than to die of that awful stuff you put on you. Now let’s git back to the house afore that lidard knot has done burned out and we air left in a mess.”

Skeeter laid the gigs flat in the bottom of the skiff and crouched in the bow to hold the torch so Jeff could see. They were slowly making their way back through the vines towards the bayou, when Skeeter saw the biggest pair of eyes he had ever seen in the swamp at night.

“Look over there, Jeff,” he said. “Do you see them lights what I see? Them looks like the runnin’ lights on the back end uv a steamboat. Let’s go see if’n one of them blame boats has done run into the swamp.”

Jeff poled the skiff closer so that Skeeter could get a better look at the enormous eyes which had caught the glare of the torch. As they got nearer, the eyes grew larger and larger. “Hit must be the reflection of the moon on the water, only they ain’t no moon out tonight,” said Skeeter. “And look, Jeff, they air turnin’ as red as a tomato.”

“Them shore ain’t the eyes of no frog,” said Jeff, “so’es you better be careful up there in the front of this thing.”

After they had moved a few more feet forward, Skeeter signaled Jeff to stop. He stood up and held the torch higher so he could get a better look. “Pole her back a mite,” he said. “They’s a bull ’gator lyin’ there that must be a granddaddy to all the ’gators in the swamp. I’ll bet his hide would be wuth more’n all the snakeskins in the swamp.”

“Yeh, but don’t go gittin’ no funny idea ’bout me and you tryin’ to git that hide. I’d jest as soon that critter keep his hide and me keep mine. I’m goin’ to pole this skiff out’n here and leave well enough be.”

“Jest a minute, Jeff, don’t go fer a little yet. I got a idea where we mout be able to take this critter home with us tonight. If’n I could jest sink this gig deep enough betwix his eyes, we could let him flounce till he’s dead and then drag him in. He’s bound to be wuth enough to keep us in sugar and meal fer a month.”

“I’d druther do without no corn pone and drink my coffee straight than wrestle with that big devil. So’es you jest forget them ideas and let’s git out’n here.”

Jeff pulled the pole from the muck and started to back the skiff out, and Skeeter realized what he was doing. Skeeter was not willing to leave the prize without even a try, so when Jeff started backing the skiff away, he lifted the gig and let it fly with all the strength his body could give forth, straight at the red eyes of the bull alligator. The shaft sailed true and struck the alligator between the eyes with a sickening thud. When the gig struck, the ’gator bellowed with such force that it nearly knocked Skeeter from the bow of the skiff.

“I got him, Jeff, I got him,” cried Skeeter. “Pole up a little closer so’es I can see if’n he’s dead.”

Jeff poled up close to the burning eyes, and the ’gator did not move. The gig was planted solidly between its eyes. When he got a little closer, Skeeter signaled for him to stop and said, “He shore am dead, Jeff. I’ll grab hold of the gig shaft and you back off till we git him to floatin’. Then we’ll work him to the back, and you kin hold the shaft while I kin pole from up here. We kin drag him in home, and won’t Ma be proud when she sees this?”

Skeeter grabbed the shaft, while Jeff poled the skiff back into deeper water. Suddenly the entire swamp seemed to turn over and cry to heaven. The skiff went round and round with Skeeter holding his grip on the gig shaft. Jeff was thrown to the bottom of the skiff.

“Turn loose that thing, Skeeter,” cried Jeff, “‘fore that critter turns us over and kills the both of us!”

Before Skeeter could turn loose the shaft, he was slung through the air and thrown bodily into a group of cypress knees. The torch hit the water and went out in a sizzle of smoke. Skeeter was still holding to the shaft, and he felt himself being pulled through the murky slime at a fast rate of speed. Finally, from sheer exhaustion, he relaxed his grip from the shaft, and sank slowly into the muck.

Jeff was knocked dizzy for a moment, but raised slowly to his feet. “My God, Skeeter,” he cried. “Where are you?” No sound came from the darkness except the echo of his own voice. In a few moments he thought he heard a faint moan to his right. It sounded as if it was about twenty yards from the skiff.

“Skeeter,” he cried aloud, “kin you hear me?” Still no answer. Oh my Lord! he thought to himself, Skeeter’s done bin kilt.

But then a second moan came, and now he heard it clearly. He took the pole and edged the skiff in the direction of the sounds. The moans became louder, and he cried out again. This time Skeeter answered him in a low voice: “Jeff! Air that you? Is the frogs still in the skiff?”

“Dern fool,” said Jeff, “you askin’ ’bout them frogs and me worried sick that ’gator done kilt you. Where is you? You better git in here afore them snakes finish you fer sure.”

“Jest hold the skiff still and keep talkin’, and I’ll come to you,” said Skeeter.

“Well, if’n you don’t git here afore long, I’m shore goin’ to be shoutin’ so loud them folks in the hills will hear me.”

Jeff felt a pull at the side of the skiff and knew that Skeeter had reached him. “Wait jest a minute and let me git up there and help you in,” he said. “We don’t want to turn this thing over.”

Jeff crawled to the bow of the skiff and grabbed Skeeter by the arms. He slowly pulled him forward until he felt his body roll into the bottom of the skiff. Then he inched his way back to the rear. They sat in silence for a minute, trying to get their eyes accustomed to the darkness.

“Now ain’t you done got us in a hell uv a mess!” said Jeff. “How you think we is ever goin’ to get home without no light? And I done tole you to let that damned ’gator alone.”

“We kin git home,” said Skeeter, “if’n we kin jest holler loud enough to git Pa to hear us. Then he kin holler back and we kin go to his voice.”

“Yeah, and have them moccasins drappin’ all over our shoulders. I’ll swear, Skeeter, I shore ought to whop the stuffin’ out’n you if’n we ever git out’n this.”

Skeeter and Jeff stood up in the skiff and shouted as loud and as long as they could, but they received no answer.

“Hit’s only about nine o’clock,” said Skeeter. “If’n we jest sit still a few more minutes till the stars come out I kin shore git us home. I know one star that lies right over the house. I’ve laid awake plenty of nights and looked up and seed it. And onced when I were in the swamp a ’gator tole me that if’n I ever git lost at night jest to make fer that star, and I would shore git home again.”

“Well, I hope to the good Lord that this air one time when yore tales makes some sense,” said Jeff.

Jeff stuck his pole deep into the muck to keep the skiff from drifting, and they sat waiting for the stars to come out to show them the way home. Even after so much time had passed, their eyes still could not penetrate the dark of the swamp. They heard noises that they knew to be frogs and ’gators, and other noises that they had never heard before. Once they heard an awful scream that Jeff said was a panther, deep in the swamp. They could feel the flesh creeping along their bones as the swamp became more murky and mysterious. Finally the stars came out, and the moon broke through the seemingly impassable barrier of blackness.

“You see that big star at the end of the Big Dipper?” asked Skeeter. “Well, you jest count six stars to the left and four to the right in a straight line, and you’ll come to a star that air a whole lot brighter than the ones around hit, and hit seems to turn to red and blue and green all the time. You see it now, Jeff?”

“Yeah, I sees hit. So you sit down in the middle and I’ll start polin’ towards it. And for God’s sake, if’n I drap a snake off’n one of these vines on yore neck, don’t turn the skiff over.”

“You better be the one to worry about that,” said Skeeter. “I wished you would drap one of them critters in here so’es I could show you how to ketch him. Then you wouldn’t be afeered of him no more.”

Jeff poled the skiff steadily in the direction of the star that Skeeter had pointed out to him, and before long they came out at the head of the bayou. “From now on,” said Jeff, “I think I’d believe you if’n you tole me Ma was a wildcat. I shore am proud that you weren’t tellin’ no big tale this time.”

They glided down the bayou to the landing at the clearing, and Skeeter slipped into the kitchen to get a lighted stick to clean the frog legs by, while Jeff secured the boat and put up the pole and the one gig they had left. After they had cleaned the frogs, they pulled off their overalls and slipped into bed.

Pa stirred in his bed and asked: “Air that you boys comin’ in now?”

“Yeah, hits us, Pa,” said Jeff.

“Well, you boys ought not be galavantin’ around in the swamp havin’ a good time til this time of night. Hit worries yore ma and me to know you air frolickin’ round in them swamps.”

“Yeah, Pa,” said Jeff, and they pulled the covers over their heads and went to sleep.