Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1952

by Wild Dogs of Drowning Creek (v1. 1)

  “The hunting animals are out,” said Sam.

  “Exactly. And the raccoons go down to the streams to fish. Certain flowers that look like buds by day, open into wide blossoms. A lot of things were new to me, coming from the mountain country as I did, and I was glad to learn about them.

  “Of course, I didn’t see much of other folks. My neighbors were farm people. They worked from early dawn to sunset, and went to bed at nine o’clock. They’d think I was strange—uncanny. I didn’t tell any of them I could see at night. I’d quarrelled with my cousins, and didn’t keep in touch with them. So I was left pretty much to myself for a while. Then I found some friends.”

  He paused, smiling.

  “Other people out in the night?” asked Sam.

  “It began like this: I was sitting beside a creek, on a moonlit night something like this one. I had my fishing line in the water. Then I heard a noise in the brush, and a dog came out. He acted timid. He watched me closely. I spoke to him, and then I threw him the fish I’d caught a minute before. He acted glad to get it. Other dogs came out into the open. They looked hungry, too, and I had plenty of fish, so I gave them all some. I caught them fish for hours. They were grateful. When I walked back home through the dark, they came along. They acted like a kind of escort.”

  “And you made friends with them?” Randy asked.

  “Can you imagine how good it was to have them for friends?” Tasman almost cried out. “Seeing only at night, I was almost like somebody cast away on a desert island. Imagine being cast away alone, and then getting a dog—a whole bunch of dogs—for your friends. Dogs are the best of animals to have around. They’re grateful if you do anything for them. The same thing can’t always be said for men.”

  “Mark Twain remarked something like that once,” observed Sam, more gently than he had spoken since Tasman’s capture.

  “Next night, those dogs were waiting to go out walking with me. I caught them some more fish. They thanked me, the way dogs do—they frisked around and wagged their tails. But they liked me as well as they liked my fish. I was as glad as they were. I had company at last, though I couldn’t see or move until after sunset.”

  “And those were wild dogs, eh?” said Mr. Martin.

  “Yes, wild dogs. A whole pack of them, living in Lee County woods.”

  “Seems to me I’ve read something about wild dogs there,” nodded Mr. Martin. “It was in the papers. One notion about where they came from is that, during the hard times before the war, lots of folks moved to other parts of the country and left their dogs behind to shift for themselves.”

  “There you are,” said Tasman earnestly. “You’ve been looking on wild dogs as villains; but do you see who the real villains were? The people who deserted their pets. What could a lonely, hungry dog do but hunt, roam the woods looking for food? People in those parts were afraid of them, fought them away from their houses. But I’d made friends with those dogs. I never had a reason to fear them. And they seemed to see that I was—well—I was their kind.”

  “Their kind?” repeated Jebs.

  “I was lonely,” said Tasman. “I was deserted. I wandered the woods at night. We understood each other.”

  Sam moved across to his shelf and took down a book. “Go on talking,” he said, and headed for the lighted kitchen.

  “News came out that there’d be an effort to round up the dogs and kill them,” resumed Tasman. “They were accused of killing stock in Lee County. By then I was with the dogs every night. It was my one pleasure. I trained them to obey my voice, and to come from far off when I blew my supersonic whistle —that one you took away from me just now. There were thorns and brush that made some trouble, so I got this cowskin jacket to protect my own skin. They learned to know the jacket, and me. All during the blind day, I’d look forward to a night walk with my dogs. When I heard they were in danger, I decided to save them if I could. I’d heard of this piece of halfforgotten woods—”

  “How did you hear of it?” interrupted Driscoll.

  “Lee County farmers read me newspaper articles about you boys. All about your Chimney Pot House, and the money you found, and so on. I thought my dog friends might be safe in a place like this.”

  “So you came down here to Drowning Creek,” said Driscoll.

  “We started at sundown one day and traveled all night. There were ten dogs, following me when I called them. We camped the next day, all during the sunlight hours, near Pinebluff in Moore County.”

  It was Jebs’ turn to break in. “You were close to where Randy and I live,” he told Tasman.

  “We got here the next night,” continued Tasman. “I made myself a shelter. The Indians on the shores of Drowning Creek were friendly, and helped me build a permanent cabin. They were sorry for what seemed to be a blind, helpless man. When my potter’s wheel and baggage were shipped by truck, the Indians carried those things in. I paid them for their trouble. And here we were.”

  “Here you were,” accused Mr. Martin, “figuring to feed your dog pack on pigs and chickens belonging to other people.”

  “They were hungry,” Tasman argued. “Game was scarce.”

  “How long did you think you’d get away with it?” Mr. Martin demanded.

  “I didn’t think I’d need to make many raids,” pleaded Tasman. “I caught fish for them, the way I’d done in Lee County. I spent what money I could spare for more food. And I planned to build some pens of my own—raise chickens and maybe a few sheep—”

  “All that for dogs?” asked Randy.

  “You people still don’t understand. I was all alone, cut off by blindness from the daytime world. I stuck by my friends. They were hungry dogs, with nobody to depend on but me.”

  “They’re no friends of mine,” said Randy. “They tried to kill me.”

  “Stop and think,” said Tasman. “Where did they find you?”

  “Why, at that deserted old house.”

  “Yes.” Tasman leaned forward, gazing through the dimness with his eyes that saw in weak light. “They were used to finding me there—we often met at that place. I kept my jacket and whistle there. When you blew that whistle, it fetched them. They thought you were a trespasser. You have a dog here —what would you expect him to do if somebody poked in here when you were gone?”

  “I see your point,” Randy admitted.

  “Where is Rebel, by the way?” asked Jebs.

  “Outside, guarding that big bad wolf,” said Randy. “Only Mr. Tasman argues that he’s a fairly decent citizen.”

  “I told him to be quiet,” said Tasman. “He won’t cause trouble.”

  Mr. Martin raised his voice. “Sam! How about opening the back door and letting both those dogs in? I want to look at them.”

  “Go ahead,” seconded Tasman, and a moment later the two beasts strolled in—first the wolf-dog, then Rebel, close behind. Rebel’s eyes were fixed on his late opponent, but he did not offer to resume battle.

  “Sit down by me, boy,” said Tasman, and the gray dog did so. Tasman stroked his large, pointed ears.

  “You see,” he said. “He’s gentle when you know him.”

  “He really acts like a well-trained pooch,” admitted Mr. Martin. “Go on with your story, Tasman.”

  “I knew something was up when Sam Cohill and the others came to my place, looking for Randy,” resumed Tasman. “After they were gone, I heard commotion far off. Some of the dogs came to try and tell me something.”

  “They came to your house?” said Randy. “I used to worry about that.”

  “Oh, they’re always around my house,” Tasman told him.

  “Were they there when I was reading to you?”

  “When I’d hear you coming, I’d tell them to get out of sight. But whenever you read out of that Seton book, there were half a dozen dogs within earshot all the time.”

  Mr. Martin was looking at the wolf-dog. “Will he let me touch him?”

  “Yes,” said Tasman, and Mr. Martin, too, stroked the gray fur. Re
bel kept a silent, calculating watch.

  “Well,” Tasman wound up, “that’s my story. The story of an outcast. I ran with the wild dogs. They were hungry, and I figured to borrow some meat from the neighbors. It would tide them over until I could raise enough food myself to take care of them. I didn’t get away with it. You caught me. What happens now?”

  “Let me answer that,” said Sam, striding in from the kitchen with his book.

  “Tasman,” he said, “do you know what ails your eyes?”

  “I’m blind by day, and I can see by night.”

  “Yes, but why? Did you ever talk to a doctor about them?”

  “Once. I told Randy and Jebs—I got scared and angry, and walked out of his office.”

  “If you’d stayed in his office, he’d have told you that you have cataracts,” Sam informed him. “As soon as you mentioned this night vision of yours, I checked the facts in my encyclopedia.”

  “Cataracts?” repeated Jebs. “I’ve heard about them.”

  “They’re caused by a hardening of the crystalline lens,” Sam explained. “Your eye has a lens at the front of the pupil, like a camera, to focus the light so that you can see clearly. Sometimes that lens hardens and gets milky, and you go blind. But, in some cases, the trouble starts in the center. At first it dims only the middle part of the lens and doesn’t reach the rim. That’s why you can see at night.”

  “It sounds like a fairy tale,” said Driscoll.

  “No, it’s simple science,” Sam insisted. “You know how the pupil of the eye gets big and wide as the light grows dim?”

  “That’s right,” agreed Randy. “Daylight contracts the muscle of the iris. Then, toward evening, the iris opens out again.”

  “And that’s how things are with you, Tasman,” elaborated Sam. “It’s at the center of the crystalline lens in each eye that there’s a big lump of hard, opaque tissue. When the pupil widens, you see out around that lump. You have a ring of vision around the central cataract.”

  “I might have read up on that,” said Tasman. “But I saw only at night. I couldn’t make out print.”

  “And the blindness will spread and be complete,” said Sam, “by dark and by daylight.”

  “It will?” said Tasman wretchedly.

  “But don’t you know that an operation will remove the cataract?”

  “Remove the whole lens?” demanded Mr. Martin. “How can he see with that part of his eye gone?”

  “They can fit him with spectacles, to take the place of the natural lens,” said Sam. “Then he can see, by day as well as by night.”

  “You mean that?” asked Tasman, with a voice that shook.

  “Let’s have a real doctor look at you,” said Sam. “You know, fellows, no real damage was done by Tasman or his dogs. I’m willing to call things quits.”

  “So am I,” said Driscoll.

  “All of us,” wound up Mr. Martin.

  “Stay here tonight, Tasman,” invited Sam. “Tomorrow morning Driscoll can drive you to Laurinburg. He’ll help you find an eye specialist, to check on those cataracts and tell you exactly what you can expect about them.”

  IT HAD BEEN done. Another evening fell, and all of them sat in the yard of New Chimney Pot House—Tasman, big Sam, Randy, Jebs, Driscoll and Mr. Martin. Near them lounged Rebel. His eyes and nose turned toward the woods.

  “I know the wild dogs are hanging around somewhere out there, Rebel,” Driscoll said to his pet, “but they aren’t going to raid us.”

  “No,” said Tasman. “Not unless I signal them, and I won’t.”

  “So the doctor gave you a good report?” Mr. Martin asked Tasman.

  “He says an operation and spectacles will handle everything,” replied Tasman. “He’s writing to a specialist at Duke University Hospital, up at Durham. That’s where I’ll go to be operated on.”

  “And then you’ll head back to your mountains,” added Randy.

  “I’m glad I never sold my farm,” Tasman said happily. “I can work there, and study nature, the way I hoped to once.”

  “How about the dogs?” asked Jebs.

  “Bugler goes with me. And one or two more. As for the others—”

  “Let me speak for that wolf-dog,” said Mr. Martin quickly. “I’ve had him over at my place all day. Lee likes him, and even Willie Dubbin’s getting over his nervousness. You did a wonderful job training him, Tasman. He’ll be a champion watch dog and hunting dog.”

  “Some of the Indians would like to choose from the pack,” contributed Sam. “They even want to send off for supersonic whistles to control their new dogs.”

  “And I’ll pass the word to a couple of neighbors who’d like good dogs and won’t jabber too much about all this business,” offered Mr. Martin.

  “What about the charges against me?” said Tasman.

  “What charges?” Sam grinned. “I’m the special deputy in charge of clearing up the wild-dog business, remember? Well, it’s cleared up. Nobody’s been hurt. Nobody need worry about it any more.”

  “The doctor says I ought to be back on my mountain farm by late summer,” Tasman told them. “All of you will be welcome to visit me there.”

  “Jebs and I want to come,” said Randy.

  “And I’ll be glad to see both of you,” returned Tasman. “When I say I’ll see you, I mean just that.”

  Rebel moved forward a pace, alert in the evening.

  “Is somebody coming?” asked Sam.

  “Just Bugler, I think,” said Tasman.

  The spotted dog had come out from among the trees. Slowly he approached the group.

  “Steady, Rebel, he’s okay,” cautioned Driscoll.

  Rebel stood where he was. Bugler trotted close to him. The two dogs sniffed noses, like friends.