by Robb White
For a second Jonathan felt like just running as hard as he could, racing across the sand bars and splashing his way up the river, tr)ing to beat darkness and reach the Farm while he could still see his way.
That feeling passed as he began to realize that he was
a long, long way from the Farm. Figuring back, he decided that he must have started down river a little after ten. Now it must be after five. That would be seven hours. Except for watching the coon, he had been hurrying all that time. So, no matter how fast he tried to go back, he had only a little more daylight—not enough to get back.
Jonathan sat down again.
For a little while he couldn't think at all. The sun seemed to be falling down behind the trees, letting darkness down on him as it went. There he was, all by himself, with nothing in the world but a fishing pole. He was hungry, getting scared, lonesome, and most unhappy.
What should he do? he wondered.
Should he go back up the river as far as he could before it got too dark?
He decided against that. Darkness might catch him along a stretch of river where there were no sand bars—just thick, dark woods. If he was going to have to spend the whole night by himself, Jonathan wanted to spend it on a sand bar where he could at least have room enough to run if anything came.
Should he go up or down river, looking for a bigger sand bar? No. This one was about as big as the rest of them.
Suddenly Jonathan felt tired. He could hardly lift his hand up off the warm sand. And he was hollow with hunger. In another minute or so, he thought, he'd be crying.
He gritted his teeth against that.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
[onathan had never felt so trapped and helpless. As he sat there on the sand bar, he wondered how long the night would last and how dark it would be. He couldn't let himself go to sleep, for, if he did, something big might come—like a bear —and he wouldn't hear it in time. So he would have to sit there all night long in the dark.
He had never stayed awake for an entire night and wondered if he could. But he had to; that's all there was to it.
Then for some reason, Jonathan remembered the day of the final examination. It seemed a long time ago—not just three days. He remembered how, when he first turned over the paper and looked at the problems, he had felt just as he did now—trapped and helpless. He'd felt small, almost tiny^ and puny. But he also remembered that when he started turning acres into dollars the feeling had gone away. He remembered now the good, clean feeling he'd had when he'd started really to thinJc.
Suddenly Jonathan asked himself: Why don't I think some right now? Why don't I stop sitting here like a
dummy, so scared a small rabbit would look like an elephant to me? What's the matter with me?
What was the worst part of spending the night there? he asked himself. The answer wasn't long in coming—darkness. If the sun would just keep on shining all night, he'd enjoy staying on the sand bar.
But the sun was going down now, so how could he make some light?
Jonathan took everything out of his pockets. In a little tin box were the fishing lures his father had bought for him. He had a handkerchief and $6.35. There was a bolt he thought belonged to his bike, and the stub of a pencil. Folded up was an advertisement about dogs for sale he had clipped out of a magazine. His key to the apartment was on a little gold chain with a gold knife on the end of it. This had been a birthday present. Also on the chain was a miniature telescope which, if you looked through it, you saw a cowboy on a horse—all in color. There was a rubber band to go around his reel spool to keep the line from spilling off. And he had the rod case holding the rod and reel.
That was all. Not a single match, nor a piece of flint and a piece of steel. No way to make a light.
He lined all the things up on the sand and studied them.
Then he grabbed the little telescope thing.
With his knife he pried open the case. Inside there was only one lens, but when he held it just right the sun came through it and made one little intense spot of light on the
palm of his hand. Slowly the spot began to hurt—a lingering, hard, burning feeling.
Jonathan held the lens tight in one hand, and ran back to the woods. He gathered up the driest leaves he could find and some pine straw. Back on the sand bar he made a little pile of them and held the lens above them.
They wouldn't catch fire. The lens would burn a perfectly round hole right through a leaf, but it wouldn't blaze up.
Jonathan was getting frantic, for the sun was far down in the sky and soon would be gone.
He ripped off his shirt, and found a dry part up near the collar. Chopping off a piece of it with the knife, he added that to his pile of leaves and straw.
First smoke came up from the cloth, then it began to char and, finally, a little spark began to creep. Jonathan tried to hold the lens steady and, at the same time, blow on the spark.
Then there was flame.
For the next five minutes all Jonathan did was race to the \'Oods, scrape up leaves and pine straw, and race back to his growing fire. Then he began getting twigs and dry branches until he had the fire going good.
For a long time, then, as the sun sank, he gathered wood. There was plenty of it, left by the river after some flood. He hauled out logs and limbs of trees, lightwood knots, and even a plank he found, making a pile of stuff to burn during the night.
By the time he had enough the sun was gone, leaving the \hole \'estern sky glowing with a soft red.
All that work had made Jonathan so hungry his stomach felt as flat as a floor.
He set up the rod and reel and picked a lure out of the box. It had a little head like a fish's, made of lead, and a silver spinner in front of the hook.
There was hardly light enough to see when Jonathan cast the lure out across the river. It splashed in the water close to the far bank and he let it sink for a moment before reeling it in.
Something hit it about halfway across. Jonathan forgot all he knew about sport fishing and Just went to work getting that fish out of the river so he could eat him.
It was a largemouthed bass weighing about two pounds. Jonathan dropped the rod as soon as he slid the fish up on the bank, and jumped, grabbing the bass with both hands. He didn't take the hook out until the fish was up beside the fire.
Now what? Jonathan wondered as he sat, holding the fish by the lower jaw. Since he had never cooked anything in his life, he didn't even know where to begin. But he was going to eat that fish, maybe even raw.
Then he remembered the coon getting the scales off. And Mamie—she used a sort of tool.
Jonathan got his little gold knife, killed the fish, and set to work.
It was easy. All he had to do was scrub the fish from tail
to head with the knife blade and the scales came off in a shower.
With the scales off, he cut off the head and then remembered the coon slitting its fish. Jonathan discoNcred that all the entrails came out together after the belly was slit. He finalh' had two fine slabs of fish. He put a long stick through them and held them over the fire, trying to keep the flames from touching them.
They began to smell wonderful, and Jonathan's stomach got ready, but he kept the pieces o'er the fire until they got so tender that they were almost falling apart.
W^aiting for his supper to cool was a nuisance, but at last he started to eat. Parts of the fish were burned, but it was all delicious, and Jonathan felt a lot better, but still hungry, when he finished.
He built up the fire a little, then got the sand off the reel and went back to the river bank. By now it was pitch dark and nothing bit his underwater lure, but the mosquitoes started biting chunks out of him.
Jonathan gae up and went back to the fire, where the mosquitoes weren't so bad.
The sand was warm and the fire was hot. Jonathan sat with his arms around his knees and watched the fire burn and listened to the noises all around him.
Eery now and then fish would
splash in the river; sometimes he saw the silvery explosion they made. He recognized the singing of a chuck-wiU's-widow and the hooting of owls, but he didn't know what made all the other noises.
However, none of them sounded dangerous, or even close by, and slowly Jonathan began to feel peaceful and happy. Shortly thereafter he was curled up on the sand asleep, his shoes under his head.
What woke him up was a feeling that something was looking at him. At first he was too sleepy to be afraid, but as he woke up completely a cold shiver ran all over him.
The fire was still burning and it was still pitch dark all around it. Jonathan didn't move a muscle as he lay there, knowing that something was looking at him and that it was close to him, but not knowing where it was—not even the direction of it.
He tried to hear it. With all his might he listened, his mouth open, his breathing stopped. He could hear a hundred different small noises, but nothing from whatever it was that was standing in the dark close to him.
Slowly, not moving his head, he searched with his eyes.
At first he didn't see them. Then, when he did, they paralyzed him.
Just to the left of the fire, out in the darkness, there were two eyes glowing. They were a faint red color and unblinking.
Jonathan could hear a dry, rattling noise then, but after a while he found out that it was his own breath rattling in his throat. He felt dizzy and weak, as though all his muscles had turned to mush. It was even hard for him to open his eyes again.
There they were, red, dim, unbhnking.
Still so scared he was almost helpless, Jonathan began to think—a little. Suppose he got ready as carefully as he could, just moving one leg at a time, then ran for the river?
Bears didn't mind water, he remembered. He'd seen them in the zoo playing around as though they enjoyed being in the water.
Climb a tree, somebody had told him. But he couldn't even see a tree and, anyway, the eyes were between him and the woods.
Just lie there? Maybe whatever it was would go away— maybe it was something that didn't like to eat people. But— maybe it did.
When he tried to lick his dry lips, his tongue was drier than his lips.
Dig straight down in the sand? Cover himself up with it and then keep right on digging.
But the thing already knew exactly where he was. It was standing there in the darkness looking right at him. Even if he got under the sand there'd be a lump.
Maybe if he jumped up and yelled at it? Jonathan knew that if he tried to yell with his throat so dry and tight he'd do well even to make a small squeak.
Suppose he reached out, got one of the burning pieces of wood and threw it? But wouldn't that make it mad?
Jonathan lay, shaking, and looked at the eyes.
A piece of wood in the fire blazed up for a moment.
Jonathan saw the shadowy outline of the thing's body
and, he thought, it had hght gray splotches where it wasn't just black. In the daytime it would probably be black and white.
Black and white.
The bright blaze died down so that he couldn't see the body any more. But he kept peering as a wild, crazy hope began to grow in him. He knew that it was an impossible thing, that it couldn't happen that way, but the hope kept getting stronger. Maybe, he thought, it's only because I want it to be true so much.
But—if it was?
Jonathan couldn't stand it any longer. He got ready. He closed his mouth and waited until he could swallow. Then he wet his tongue and throat. His heart stopped hammering against his chest and that slowed down the shaking some.
At last he thought he could do it all right. He drew in a deep breath, let half of it out again, and said quietly, his voice low and friendly, 'Tot Likker.''
The fiery eyes slid back into the darkness until he could hardly see them. Then, slowly, they came forward again— but only a little way.
''Come here, Pot Likker," Jonathan said. He made it sound low and friendly still, but he put a little sternness in it, too. ''Come here, boy."
The eyes came closer.
"Here, Pot. Come on, boy." Jonathan patted his hands softly together.
Gradually, step by step, the big dog came around the fire.
Jonathan didn't reach out to touch him, or even move. ''Good dog. Good old boy. Good dog.''
Pot Likker circled and disappeared. Jonathan didn't even turn his head. ''Gome on, boy," he coaxed.
Then, behind him, he heard the dog's slow footsteps in the sand and, at last, he felt his breathing. Then, so gently that Jonathan could barely feel it, Pot Likker sniffed at his head.
Jonathan rolled over slowly until he was on his back. Very quietly, but steady, he reached out with one hand, the fingers open.
Pot Likker, tense and alert, put his head down a little and snifl[ed his fingertips.
Then, the touch so light he could hardly feel it. Pot Likker's tongue ran up his fingers, leaving them feeling cool.
Jonathan got slowly to his feet. "Let's build up this fire. Pot Likker," he said. "Getting cold around here."
Not paying any attention to the dog, he got some more wood and piled it on the fire. Then, just saying, "Gome here," he sat down with his back to Pot Likker.
It was a long wait, and he almost did not wait long enough. But at last Pot Likker inched closer and closer until he was even with Jonathan. He sat down on his haunches then and looked into the fire.
Jonathan reached out, touched the dog on the shoulder,
let his hand shde on, slowly and gently. Pot Likker began to tremble.
When his arm was around him, but not pressing him, Jonathan said, ''Good dog/'
Pot Likker stopped trembling. Jonathan let his arm press a little harder. ''See? I wouldn't hurt you. Pot. I love you.''
Then they sat, side by side, looking at the fire.
Jonathan gradually got sleepy again. "Let's get some sleep. Pot," he said, lying down on the sand.
He was almost asleep before Pot Likker came and lay down close beside him. Jonathan put his arm around the dog and went to sleep, happier than he had been in a long, long time.
When he woke up it was broad daylight and a dog was licking his face. Its tongue was as wet and warm as a wash-rag, and Jonathan sat up, swabbing his face. "Quit it. Pot," he said, but without anger.
It wasn't Pot Likker at all. It was a tan hound. And it was smiling at him. It drew its upper lip back from its teeth so that it was all wrinkled up. It was the funniest look Jonathan had ever seen on a dog's face and he couldn't help laughing.
Pot Likker wasn't there. Jonathan got up and walked around looking for him and calling him, but Pot Likker didn't come.
For a moment he w^ondered if the whole thing had been a dream. Then he knew that it had not. Pot Likker had been there during the night—Jonathan knew that.
Soon he heard voices and then he saw Mr. Worth and Judy and another dog coming down the river.
They glanced at him and then looked at him hard.
"Jonathan!" Judy said, coming up to him.
''Good morning/' Jonathan said.
''Where'd you come from?'' she asked.
''How'd you get here? When'd you start?'' Mr. Worth asked.
''I thought you couldn't come/' Judy said.
''I could. So I followed you. But you went away somewhere."
''Well I be doggone/' Mr. Worth said. "This is about where we struck that hot trail, isn't it, Judy?"
She studied the river. "Right here. We cut in over there/'
Jonathan nodded. "That's where your tracks ended."
Mr. Worth began to laugh. "We came out back up the river a piece. Didn't catch that coon either. But then we weren't really trying, were we, Judy?"
"Hard as we could/' Judy said. "Did you spend the night here?"
Jonathan nodded.
"Why didn't you holler?"
"I hollered all day long. I was hoarse from hollering."
"You should've hollered once more/' she declared.
&n
bsp; "Why?"
"Because we spent the night just around the bend."
"Did you?" Jonathan asked. "I didn't hear you or anything."
'Well, we did. You remember, Uncle Dan, I said I thought I saw a fire, and you said it wasn't."
''Doggone if you didn't. That's too bad, Jonathan. Bet you were really lonesome all by yourself."
Jonathan started to tell them but then remembered how they had looked at him in the pasture when he'd said Pot Likker had chased the bull away. ''No," he said. "I wasn't very lonesome."
Judy looked happy. "I'm glad you could come, Jonathan. Now we'll have some fun. We'll catch all the coons on the river."
"Are we going to eat anything?" Jonathan asked. He looked at the bundles they were carrying, but they didn't look very heavy.
"Haven't you had anything to eat?" Judy asked.
"I ate a fish last night, but I'm a little hungry, I think."
"Well, let's eat right now," Mr. Worth said. "J^^Y? Y^^ and Jonathan go catch some fish and I'll build up a fire. You got a match, Jonathan? I put mine in my bundle."
Jonathan shook his head.
"No matches? Shucks, I'll have to unwrap this thing," Mr. Worth said.
"How'd you start a fire then?" Judy asked.
"I had a telescope with a cowboy in it," Jonathan told her.
''Awhatr
"A thing I had on my key chain."
Judy looked at him for a long time. "You know, I never in all my life ran into a boy like you."
CHAPTER TWELVE
lathan really had fun. With Judy and Mr. Worth there everything seemed so easy. As they went along down the river, never hurrying, nor apparently caring about anything except what might be around the next bend, Mr. Worth told stories about coon hunts, or Judy and Jonathan just talked about nothing.
And the w^ay they ate! All Mr. Worth had in his bundle was a frying pan and stewpan, some salt and pepper, a slab of smoked bacon, and a half-dozen or so big Bermuda onions. Wrapped up in Judy's blanket, which Jonathan carried half the time, was a long flashlight, a hatchet, and some corn meal. Every now and then, as they went along, Mr. Worth would say, 'Til catch up with you at the next bend or so,'' and go off up little trails that Jonathan hadn't even noticed. Each time, when he caught up with them again, he'd have found some potatoes or lettuce or something to eat. Once he brought a \atermelon.
