Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1952

by Wild Dogs of Drowning Creek (v1. 1)

  Thus he worked for some minutes, until he judged that he had cleared a space several feet square, to expose the sheathing boards. Again he shoved and applied pressure. The boards gave. He scrambled along the cross timber, managed to get his shoulder against the sheathing, and surged with all his strength. A strident crackling noise informed him that another piece was breaking away. Now there was enough of a hole above him to allow his head to pass through. Rising carefully to one knee on the timber and holding the sloping rafters above it with both hands, he looked out.

  He saw that the boards to either side of the gap were more strongly fastened, and when he tugged at them they resisted his efforts. But he brought his knife into play again. With all his strength and determination he commenced whittling along the edges of the hole. Big chips and slivers fell down into the house. He could hear the dogs sniffing, snarling and protesting as these light missiles pelted them.

  The work grew hard, and Randy felt weary and sweaty, but he kept at it. For more than an hour he painstakingly enlarged that hole in the roof. Finally, putting his knife between his teeth, he shoved his head out again. His shoulders followed. It was a tight squeeze, but he got both arms into the open, shoved down on the roof, and forced his body clear. He drew his legs after it, and finally stood up astride the ridgepole, folding and pocketing his knife again.

  Loudly and gratefully he sniffed the open air. It was like finding the way out of a dungeon. Then he made a survey of the roof. Toward one end rose a length of old iron stovepipe in lieu of a chimney. Turning from this, he cast his eyes about for a way down.

  Most of the trees close at hand were small, brushy, and full of young green leaves. However, against the eaves at one side towered a broad-trunked, wide- branched old sycamore, close enough for two sturdy limbs to thrust out almost horizontally above the edge of the roof. Randy moved down the slope toward them, caught hold of the largest, and swung himself into the tree. He scrambled along like a young ape toward the trunk. Getting down would be easy.

  But even as he told himself these things, he was aware with sinking heart that the dogs had poured out of the house and were gathering around the sycamore like dancers around a maypole. Their canine sense of hearing, keener than that of any human being, had told them what was going on. Bugler raised himself, strong forepaws against the patchy bark of the sycamore’s trunk, and crinkled his muzzle to show his teeth at Randy.

  “Don’t you ever know when you’re not wanted?” Randy said, and again produced his knife.

  The sycamore was not the sort of tree from which one easily got a strong, straight piece of wood for a spear shaft, but, after scrambling and searching, Randy chose a branch of fairly good length and a proper thickness. It was not as straight as he would like, but it must do. He whittled it around and around until he could snap it free. Then, sitting on a big bough with his shoulders against the trunk, he trimmed away the shoots and twigs. From one of his moccasins he undid the leather tie-thong, and with this he lashed his knife firmly to the end of the branch, to serve as the point of his spear.

  Thus armed, he lowered himself through the branches to a point just above the highest leaps of the dogs. He tried to thrust down at Bugler, then at the wolfish one. But both of them skipped away, circling the tree. Disgusted with this unsuccessful warfare, Randy mounted through the upper forks again, returned along the two big boughs, and dropped down on the roof once more. He jabbed the knife blade into the shingles, so that his makeshift spear jutted upward. He looked at his watch.

  It was past two o’clock. Dinner would be over at New Chimney Pot House. His friends would wonder what had happened to him. Randy felt both hungry and thirsty. The bright sun beat powerfully down upon him. His ears seemed to sing with its heat. He scratched one of them, but the singing noise kept on. He looked down from the eaves at the dogs, who maintained their sentry duty beneath him.

  “Whatever’s making that noise, it isn’t you,” he told them. “And I don’t feel like singing myself.” He glanced around, and listened yet again. “It seems to come from the stovepipe yonder.”

  He gazed at the upright black cylinder at the apex of the roof. Was it vibrating in some strange manner? He walked along the ridgepole toward the pipe. The singing grew louder and nearer, a steady and rhythmic hum.

  Curiosity overrode Randy’s other thoughts and feelings. He came close to the pipe and glanced into its shadows. Then, rapidly and nervously, he backed away again.

  He went clear to the opposite end of the roof and sat down. Dejectedly he shook his dark head from side to side. He mopped sweat from his face.

  “That’s all I need up here with me,” he groaned. “A big nest of wasps!”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  WASPS CAN BE HELPFUL

  At any other time, without danger below and around him, Randy might have observed the wasps with cautious interest. Nature’s ways had always been his fascinated study, and he knew something about wasps and would be glad to find out more. Just then, however, he regarded them only as possible assailants who might at any time come buzzing around—might even come near to driving him off the roof where he had found refuge.

  The nest inside of the stovepipe was of clay, neatly and even cleverly built. Hobert Tasman, the human potter, would have recognized the skilful instinct of these little winged clay-workers. The early North Carolina spring had seen the start of that nest, when a lone queen wasp began a colony by building a few cells and depositing eggs in them. Those eggs had soon hatched into worker wasps, that built more cells for more eggs and more hatchings. A visit to the rooftop toward the end of summer might find a community of more than a hundred. Even now, there must be at least twenty or thirty, and more hatching in the little clay snuggeries. The cells, built close together, made a sort of lining that extended all the way around the pipe, several inches inside its upper opening. As Randy watched from where he had set himself as far away as possible, several buzzing explorers bobbed in and out.

  “Wasps are carnivorous,” he remembered. “They grab spiders to carry home and seal up for the young grubs to eat. I’ve seen them foraging.”

  He wiped away more sweat, for the salt in perspiration attracts wasps. One lean, swift little scout, on its way to the colony in the stovepipe, sang past his head like a malicious bullet. He forced himself not to duck. A quick movement might startle and infuriate the owner of a most unpleasant natural dagger.

  “I can’t stay up here forever with those jet fighters raiding all around me,” thought Randy gloomily. “If enough of them jab you, you can be in serious shape. I’ve heard of people getting enough stings to land them in a hospital. My best stunt would be to plug that pipe somehow.”

  But how could he plug it? He looked around, at the old shingles on which he braced himself. After a moment, he chose one of the largest near at hand, and carefully pried it loose. It came away whole in his fingers. The noise of his prying attracted the dogs below, and they prowled close to that point; but, to his relief, no wasps flew near.

  Next, Randy divested himself of his shirt. Stripped to the waist, he felt all the more vulnerable should wasps stage an attack. Whatever he did, he had better do it quickly.

  Rising, he moved as quietly as he could toward the pipe. In his right hand he held the shingle, in his left the shirt. From inside the black cylinder issued the muttering hum of the wasps. Swiftly and surely Randy came near, cautiously raised the shingle. Then he clamped it down, flat on top of the pipe.

  At once the hum increased to a buzzing roar, like the sudden start of a motor. The shingle under Randy’s clamping palm rattled and quivered with the pattering blows of many flying bodies, tiny but vigorous. Had he not held the shingle in place, it might have been knocked clear. With his other hand, Randy threw his shirt over the shingle, drew it tightly down all around, and used the sleeves to bind it snugly around the pipe, to hold the shingle in place.

  From ground level he heard Bugler’s voice, almost snoringly vibrant, as though the spotted chief
of the dog pack was both perplexed and irritated.

  “That’s that,” said Randy aloud, his voice triumphant. “I’m through with those wasps—or am I?”

  He looked at his watch again. It was past three o’clock in the afternoon. Wasps or no wasps, Bugler and his band of four-legged outlaws still held Randy trapped on the roof.

  And if it was three o’clock now, in three more hours it would be six. After that, the sun would sink and go down. Randy shivered, hot though he was. He was thinking of how he might be forced to spend the night on the roof of this mysterious old house, next to an orchard of sassafras trees and hemmed in on all sides by a throng of beasts.

  Yes, and at sundown a certain baleful two-legged thing might come looking for that cowskin coat and the unknown tool or weapon in its pocket.

  “Wasps up here,” he said, “and dogs down there. I only wish there was some way to bring them together and let them cancel each other out.”

  Again he studied the pipe, now closed by shingle and shirt. Its upper joint was fully three feet long, and clamped on to a lower piece of pipe, almost at roof level. He came close, took hold, and cautiously worked that upper section forward and backward. Inside, the wasps churned and sang and strove to get out. He might drag the joint free, but the imprisoned little warriors inside would immediately swarm out and over him.

  He shifted the pipe more delicately. It seemed loose. Randy’s frown of meditation deepened on his face as he puzzled. Then he came to a decision.

  “I was right when I said that all I needed was a wasp nest,” he told himself.

  Again he made a patrol of the roofs slopes. He found a shingle of the right size and detached it, always with the dogs below for company, and returned with it to the pipe. There he squatted on his moccasin heels, one foot on either side of the ridgepole. On his knees he carefully balanced the shingle, then with both hands he began, slowly and cautiously, to loosen the top joint of the pipe.

  The grumpy war song inside swelled to a roar, traveling up and down the whole pipe. Probably a squad of wasps, like little airborne commandos, waited at the point where the two pieces of pipe threatened to come apart. That, said Randy, would not do. With the utmost of gingerly care, he continued his loosening operation.

  The joints fitted together, one corrugated rim over another. He slid the upper part an inch, two inches, along the lower. When he judged that they were almost ready to show open space between, he edged closer, the shingle still on his knees. He put his naked left arm around the pipe as it wobbled all but free. With his right hand he smacked the upper shingle resoundingly.

  At once the vibration inside seemed to shift. There was a bombardment of sound under the shingle at the top, like a brisk rainstorm falling upward. The wasps were all gathering there at his knock. He took the second shingle in his right hand.

  “Now,” he said, to signal himself.

  Up came the pipe, under went the shingle, and he lowered the pipe upon it. He drew a sigh of relief, his cheek resting against the rusty black metal that sang inside with the wings of his captives. Between the shingle lashed above, and the shingle he held below, he had shut up a whole community of wasps. And they didn’t like it.

  “I know just how you feel,” he addressed them. “I’ve been trapped myself, for more than three hours. I’ll give you plenty of dogs to take revenge on.” Holding the entire arrangement carefully and tightly, Randy hoisted himself erect from his full- knee squat. He turned around, then moved, step by step, along the ridgepole. He studied the ground below. On the side of the house opposite the sycamore was a space of fairly clear ground. Down the slope toward it he walked, as slowly and apprehensively as though he were advancing over a surface paved with eggs. Close to the very eaves he paused. He raised his voice.

  “Hey!” he yelled. “Ahoy, down there below— hurry, hurry, hurry! I’ve got a present for you!” With the fingers of the hand that held the pipe he tapped against the metal. It resounded like a tomtom, and the dogs came from everywhere, as he had foreseen. He saw Bugler, he saw the wolfish specimen with the bushy tail, the red-brown hound, all the others. As they came close beneath, he quickly counted them—all ten were there. They looked as though they expected and awaited his downward jump.

  “Here’s your treat!” Randy called to them. “It’s something very special, something every wild dog should experience and enjoy! Ready, gentlemen? One—two—three—stand by to receive supplies!”

  Down among them he hurled the shirt-swaddled stovepipe.

  He waited, teetering on his toes at the very eaves, long enough to see the pack scatter away from the falling object. Then, as it bounced on the ground, they charged back at it from all sides. The agile Bugler, first to reach it, had his teeth in Randy’s shirt, was rending it away. Randy waited no longer. He whirled around, raced back up the slope of the roof, over the ridgepole, and down the other side.

  His improvised spear still stuck, handle up, before him. Without slackening his pace, he shot out his hand and snatched it free. He gained the place where the sycamore’s branches projected within reach, caught hold, and swung himself upon him.

  At that very instant, there rang out in the bright afternoon air a shrill, startled howl of pain, which was echoed by a whole chorus of cries. The wasps were out of their nest, out of the pipe, and had gone into deadly action against the nearest living things they could find.

  Randy grinned fiercely as he scrambled along, made his way to the trunk and beyond, then along another swaying branch on the opposite side.

  Just beyond the sycamore grew a sturdy young pine, emerging from its sapling stage. As Randy spied it, a daring inspiration came, and he nerved himself to it. He leaped with all his strength from the sycamore, caught hold of the pine’s top with his free arm, and let his whizzing weight carry him forward. He seemed to soar, as though his shoulders had sprouted gigantic wasp-wings. But the springy young pine wood slowed his headlong flight, and the tree bent itself down and down. He saw the ground coming up from below, swiftly but not too swiftly. This must be like a parachute jump, he had time to think. Judging the point where the pine bent closest to the ground, he let go and dropped, landing on his knees and his free hand. At once he was up again, running like the wind. Behind him the pine snapped erect once more.

  And he could hear the dogs yelping and screaming their frightened pain as stings jabbed their hides.

  Away sped Randy. Never, he knew, had he run faster, on football field or cinder track. And never had he known a better reason to run. He buck- jumped and broke sideways, right and left, to avoid smashing into trees, but he did not slacken his pace for them. Blundering through some waist-high scrub, he saw a trunk up ahead, and on that trunk was a notch. It meant that he had come to the blazed line of the Chimney Pot property.

  Those blazes would show him the way back to New Chimney Pot. He strove to increase speed.

  His swift feet had carried him a long distance in that mighty spurt. Already the racket of the dogs sounded muffled behind him. Again a grin touched his lips as he ran. Those wasps must have driven any thought of a cornered boy clear out of their minds. He sneaked a backward glance over his shoulder.

  No, he’d been wrong. Something pursued him.

  It was the wolf-gray dog with the big ears, sharp muzzle, and bushy tail. Somehow this single member of the pack had sensed or guessed Randy’s retreat and scramble through the trees. Now it was racing after him. And it came along in murderous silence.

  Even as he spied it, it overtook him, in great grim leaps that cut down his lead all in a few moments. He spun around and made a stand, panting and gasping, because he must not let himself be seized from behind.

  In his hand, almost forgotten in that wild flight, was his spear—the spear he had made of a knife, a sycamore branch and a moccasin thong. He had not time to bring it into proper play as the wolfish dog drove close and sprang. He could only swing the butt of the branch like a club.

  That heavy, blunt branch-end struck the
dog in midleap, with all of Randy’s desperate strength behind it. A furious cry of pain rang out, and the gray body fell short. Landing on its side, the dog jumped up and danced backward, nimbly as a skilful boxer looking for an opening. They stood, glaring and tense, the boy and the beast.

  Another murderous snarl. Another rush and spring.

  Randy had had a moment to bring the point of his weapon around, and he thrust with it to meet the oncoming danger. Clumsily and hastily fashioned, the spear was not a good one, and Randy had no experience or knowledge of such stabbing warfare. The blade did not go properly home, but gashed and ripped the coarse-furred shoulder and slid along the ribs. Again the dog broke away and paused, half-crouching, ears back and teeth bared. Blood spattered its flank.

  But Randy did not wait for a third leap. He charged on his own account, the spear grasped in both hands and its point driving ahead of him. He struck at the sharp muzzle, which did not duck quite far enough out of the way. The steel blade reached and tore through one of the big pointed ears.

  Again a yelp of angry pain. Randy smote down with the shaft once more, a solid, rib-rattling blow that almost flattened his enemy to the ground. The dog yelped once more. Suddenly it had had enough. It turned and fled back the way it had come.

  Randy, the victor, did not stand there exulting. The wounded beast would seek its companions again. They would understand what had happened and would come in force to drag him down. He took to his heels again, breathing heavily but still able to make a fast run of it.

  He was back-tracking himself along that blazed trail. He saw, or thought he saw, trees and thickets he remembered. He must be getting close to the point where the side trail turned off toward New Chimney Pot House. Meanwhile, if the dogs overtook him, there were still trees to climb. And maybe he had learned something about fighting with a spear, maybe he could thrust and jab—