Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1952 Read online

  WILD DOGS OF DROWNING CREEK

  Manly Wade Wellman

  THE JUNIOR LITERARY GUILD AND HOLIDAY HOUSE NEW YORK

  Copyright 1952 by Manly Wade Wellman

  to GEORGE F. SCHEER

  WHO STARTED ME ALONG DROWNING CREEK

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  SKULKERS IN THE NIGHT

  Long, loud, and clear rose the baying howl in the dark. It sounded like an outlaw trumpet, calling to raid and plunder. The calm of the June evening seemed to flee, as though startled.

  Randy Hunter’s tanned young face looked at Jebs Markum’s square ruddy one as they sat together in the jeep. Each saw in the other’s eyes a nervous mystification.

  The big farmer standing at the roadside chuckled, not very jovially.

  “You’re hearing a wild dog, boys,” he said. “I reckon there ain’t nobody in North Carolina tough enough to keep from shivering when he hears that.”

  “Wild dog?” repeated Jebs, his voice shaking a bit. “Shoo, Mister, I didn’t reckon dogs ever went wild. A dog’s tame. Man’s best friend.”

  “Tame animals go wild sometimes, son,” replied the farmer. “There’s a pack of ’em here in the Drowning Creek country. They’ve given us a sight of trouble lately. I figure they might be dangerous to more than pigs and chickens, too.”

  Again rose the bugling howl, from somewhere off in the swampy timber above which was rising a round full moon. Another dog-voice, yapping and quivery, joined in.

  “Around here we name that loudest one Bugler,” went on the farmer. He was a sturdy, healthy man, bareheaded and dungareed, and his heavy black hair had a grayish sheen, like wrought iron. “One or two fellows has even seen him. He’s a big scudder, with black spots on white, and a sharp nose. Now, what did you start asking me when that Bugler dog sort of butted in?”

  “I’m Randy Hunter, and this is my friend Jebs Markum,” Randy said again. “We live in Moore County. We’re looking for a place called Chimney Pot House.”

  “Well, my name’s James Martin, and yonder’s my place.” The farmer jerked his iron-black head toward a cheerfully lighted house a hundred yards along the road. “Chimney Pot—ain’t that the old place where they dug up the money last fall? Ain’t they building a new house and getting ready to work the land again?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jebs. “It belongs to Driscoll Jordan. He’s a friend of ours. He wrote that they’d cut a new road through the woods to reach it, and he wanted us to drive out with this jeep he’d ordered.”

  “I’ve met Driscoll,” said James Martin. “Likewise that great big tall partner of his, Sam Cohill—the one they say used to be a circus giant. Sam worked all winter, starting to fix up the place while Driscoll was in school. They’re good neighbors. I’ve been letting my hired hand, Willie Dubbin, go over and help them out.”

  “But the road—” began Randy.

  “Oh, sure enough, they’ve got a road. Keep going for half a mile and you’ll see the turn-off at the right. It’s not wide, but it’s new. You’ll spot it.”

  Again the bugling call sounded, and the night seemed to grow darker by a shade or so.

  “If I was you two,” said James Martin, “I’d go find that house right quick. Willie Dubbin tells me it ain’t healthy to walk these woods after dark. He hates to hear the wild dogs singing their hymns.”

  “Thanks a heap, Mr. Martin,” said Jebs, shifting gears and starting the jeep again.

  The gray twilight had faded into gloom. Jebs switched the headlights from dim to full, and they blazed against the rutted clay of the road. “Feels chilly, all of a sudden, for June,” remarked Jebs. “Hark at that Bugler dog sound off again. He sounds closer, or maybe I’m getting jumpy.”

  “You and me both,” said Randy. “Why didn’t Driscoll write something about these dog packs prowling around his old ancestral home? I thought we’d have a nice, quiet week helping him get things shaped up.”

  Suddenly Jebs craned his neck above the steering wheel.

  “That looks like our turn-off, right up ahead.”

  He cut the jeep’s speed to a crawl. At the right of the road, a stretch of the ditch had been filled in over some drain tile. It gave an approach to a narrow way that dived in among the dark trees. The jeep’s wheels found the ruts, waddled around a curve, then another curve. The road to Chimney Pot was barely more than wide enough for the jeep to pass. The heavy foliage, crowding in on either hand and above their heads, shut out what little light remained.

  “This is just a trail,” said Randy, more to make conversation than anything. “It reminds me of how the trees jam around and over Drowning Creek. Remember, Jebs?”

  “I’m not forgetting,” replied Jebs.

  “This little path twists and curves like a snake,” went on Randy. “Sam must have run it every which way, to avoid too much cutting work. Say, I’ll be glad to see Sam and Driscoll again.”

  Once again the bugling howl resounded, and to both boys it seemed almost oppressively close at hand.

  “I’ll be glad to see ’em, too,” announced Jebs feelingly. “See ’em inside a house, with bright lights and a good stout door with a big lock on it.”

  He steered the jeep around more curves.

  “Say, Jebs,” ventured Randy.

  “Say it.”

  “I’ve picked up a crazy notion that we’re not moving alone. I keep imagining that there’s something— a bunch of somethings—trotting along, keeping pace with us, beyond the trees to each side.”

  “I sure hope it’s just imagination,” said Jebs, “because I’ve got the same feeling. I wish that Mr. James Martin had hushed up his talk about wild dogs and how dangerous they might be. This is a kind of open car, this jeep. What if that big spotted one they call Bugler came hopping in here with us?”

  “I’d hop right out and let him have my place,” vowed Randy.

  “Hop out, would you?” Jebs laughed nervously. “Don’t forget, that Bugler mutt has a bunch of friends running with him. You might find yourself the guest of honor among them.”

  “Look there ahead,” said Randy. “Isn’t that light, through the trees?”

  “That’s just your vivid imagination, Randy. It must be nearly three miles to Chimney Pot, and we’ll have to go farther than that with all these S-curves. What if we ran out of gas all of a sudden?”

  “We won’t,” Randy almost snapped. “They filled the tank at Carpenter’s Garage in Pinebluff before we started. We haven’t gone more than thirty miles so far. We could drive all night on the gas we’re carrying.”

  “Maybe we could, but I don’t crave to,” said Jebs somberly. “Not in woods all busted out with wild dogs, feeling frisky and hungry and mean.”

  “Now who’s got the vivid imagination?” challenged Randy, but without triumph.

  The thought of a pack of prowling, masterless dogs on a galloping hunt through dense swampy woods was new to Randy, but none the more welcome for its novelty. On top of that, this great expanse of timber, uncut and almost unexplored for nearly a century of North Carolina history, held for Randy and Jebs memories of strange and s
ometimes frightening adventure.

  It was here, not far from the woods-cloaked shores of Drowning Creek, that the two boys had found their fill of excitement. They had helped Driscoll Jordan search for the half-forgotten ruins of the old Jordan home and its secret of hidden treasure. And they had found, not only both house and treasure, but also a strange hermit who was to become their friend—Sam Cohill, the giant ex-star of a sideshow, who lacked only one inch of being eight feet tall, with a brain and heart big enough to match his monstrous body.

  Now Driscoll, using the money he had found, was restoring Chimney Pot House, and Sam Cohill was his partner. Randy had meant what he said about looking forward to a peaceful visit to their friends in the newly built quarters. He glanced, right and left, at the huge trunks and the intervening clumps and thickets of brush bordering the narrow, winding road. He could not throw off the fancy, if it was a fancy, that they were accompanied by stealthy, watchful beasts, keeping pace just out of sight on either hand.

  “Now I do see a flash of light,” said Jebs after a while. “Maybe it was just the moon shining on a leaf —there it is again. Wait till we haul around this curve.”

  Randy peered, too. “I see it. It blinked through the trees yonder. And I never saw a light that looked any more welcome.”

  They emerged into an open stretch, where the moonlight showed them a meandering brook, a tributary of Drowning Creek, that forced back the trees on either side of it. The jeep bumped over ruts beside the trickle, and Jebs turned sharply to cross a rough, sturdy wooden bridge that boomed like a drum under the tires. Beyond were the lights, plain to see—two comforting yellow patches at two windows.

  “Everything’s okay now,” whooped Jebs.

  He drove into the yard, put on the brake, and turned the key in the ignition. The motor ceased its song.

  Just then, very close to their side, rose a stealthy, menacing growl. Another voice chimed in just ahead.

  “The dogs!” gasped Jebs, pointing.

  In the gleam of the headlights shone two eyes, bright and green and fierce. Two more eyes moved slowly forward in shadows beyond.

  ‘They’re coming at us, Randy!” warned Jebs, rising in his seat.

  Then rose a furious snarling war cry. Yet another dog, his swift white body cleaving the dimness, charged from somewhere near the lighted windows.

  “That one’s going to—” Randy began.

  But the white dog drove, not at the jeep but at the two pairs of eyes in front of it. There was a gasping growl, a click of teeth, and the night was split by a high screech of pain.

  A tall, wide door flew open between the windows. In its big oblong of light towered an enormous figure.

  “Get ’em, Rebel!” boomed a great voice they knew, and a lantern swung high in an enormous hand, lighting up the dark dooryard.

  “Who’s out there?” demanded the big voice. “Look out, our dog’s chasing some wild curs.”

  “Sam Cohill!” yelled back Jebs gratefully. “It’s us —Jebs Markum and Randy Hunter!”

  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.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  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 electrifi
cation 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.