Not a minute too soon. Before I even muddy my knees, Annie’s come to the gate. She’s peering into the forest, trying to spy her daughter between the tree trunks. Eyes rolling like a spooked pony’s, she whimpers and cradles her overgrown belly. Clings to the fence rails that run ’round her property, the only barricades separating her from the dark.
“Git in here, girl!”
Lola Mae jumps. She drops the squirrel, and the nest he’s brung her, and loses hold of his leash. All-fired to make his escape, the little begger legs it across the path and runs straight for my hideout. I’m resting so still, he don’t see me ’til I clamp one hand ’round his hindquarters and slam the other ‘round his trap. Wriggling like a good thing, he’s mad enough to spit hornets. I keep a tight grip, hold him close ’til he’s a sight more biddable.
“Them wolves is going to git you. They got my babbies, they’s going to git you too.” Annie lowers her voice, mumbles: “Sweaty teeth, so many, many teeth. Gobble you up, girl; gobble, gobble, gobble—” Then, so loud it echoes: “Gobblegobblegobble!”
“Save part of your breath for breathing, Potpie. Hooting and hollering like that ain’t going to scare nothing away.”
Potpie, I think. Horrid nickname for a bird what used to be such a stunner. “Oh, Lola Mae, all them wolves. They gone and ate up Retti, didn’t they?”
No they didn’t, darlin’, I think, swallowing thickly. I know Annie ain’t been right in the upper storey since she became Trick’s wife—became his best customer, more like. That don’t make it no easier seeing her buffaloed like this.
Lola Mae gathers the nest and slides it into her satchel. She makes a cursory check for the squirrel, then echoes my thoughts: “No, Mamma,” and wanders towards the house.
“Retti’s been ate, and now they gone and took Jaybird too!”
My head whips up. What does she mean, Jaybird’s took?
“Don’t get your spurs in a tangle,” Lola Mae says. Tucking the squirrel under my arm, I slowly approach the cabin, keeping the rustling to a minimum. “Hush now, Potpie. Jaybird’s dandy. He’s paying Daddy a visit—I seen him off meself this morning.”
Annie don’t look convinced and I can’t say I am neither. Something in the girl’s calm reminds me of Trick when he’s aiming to bulldoze a client. And now she’s trying to pry her mamma’s hands from the veranda rails, trying to usher her inside. But Annie won’t budge. She runs down the steps, into the yard, stares into the forest beyond the fence. Lola Mae sighs and follow’s Annie’s gaze. Wrinkles corrugate her forehead as she looks; her eyes steady, like she knows someone’s watching.
“Hey, Chip,” I whisper, keeping the women in my sights. “Do me something.”
The squirrel looks up at me with his black button eyes. “I ain’t yours to play with. Let me go.”
“And I ain’t going to higgle with no overgrown rat. Have a gander through them’s cabin window over there, and then we’ll see what we’ll be seeing. Don’t you even think about fussing, you hear?” I wrap my hands ’round his neck, tighten them just short of throttling.
Much as he can with his collar squeezed, he nods. Then he’s off my lap in a flash, a black blur of motion across the sodden ground. The twine linking us unfurls like yarn from a bobbin—two, six, twelve, fifteen yards of it—then he slips between two slats in the fence. A handful of seconds later he’s splayed and skittering up the cabin’s wooden siding; clodhopping across the windowsill. Dancing back and forth along its length, he admires his reflection from all sides in the glass. “Purdy,” he chitters, leaning back to take in the full view. His high-pitched voice carries far on the cool air—I barely have to strain to hear it. “Mighty purdy.” He fluffs his tail, looks into the cabin, claws at his face. Then shouts, “Sparrow!” and leaps off the ledge, dashes across the yard and up a fencepost, chasing the oblivious bird.
“Get back here, damn coot,” I whisper, yanking and spooling the rope ’til he complies. When the line atwixt us is drawn up short, the squirrel hunkers down in front of me, chest heaving from his efforts. “What did you see?”
“Sparrow.”
“No, before that.”
“Window.”
“Inside,” I hiss. “What were inside the fucken cabin? You seen any kids in there?”
The squirrel squints. “Kids. Bed. Rug. Fireplace. Baskets. Branches. Wicker. Wool. Nests. You want nests?” All the supplies for weaving shift, I think, shaking my head. So Lola Mae’s fixing to pick up Daddy’s business, is she? “Icebox. Kid. Cradle. Table. Chairs. Kid.”
Were that four, or five? Lola Mae gots five siblings—“How many were that, Chip?”
“Kids, bed. Kid, chair. Kid, cradle. Sparrow. Sparrow!”
And he’s off again.
The rope whips a red line across my palms as the squirrel cuts dirt after his prey. I’ve half a mind to let him keep running all the way into someone’s crock pot; but the other half wants the skinny on what’s happening to Annie’s young’uns. And since I ain’t going to traipse up no weaver’s front steps meself, I’m going to need me a critter like him a whiles longer. I hoof it after him, trap him between me and the fence.
Keeping low, I jerk the twine so hard he’s pulled clear off his feet. He rights himself quick-smart; coils his tail and rises up on his hind legs, ready to spring either to the trees above my head or back to the pickets behind him. The cord goes slack as the squirrel quits moving. Instantly, everything but his ears and nose, which is twitching something fierce, is frozen. His eyes is wide open, staring at something over my right shoulder.
My muscles tense and for a second I’m a human squirrel: hunkered down in the bush much too close to Annie’s house, arms crooked in front of me, wary look in my eye. Heart pounding in my mouth, I turn my head slowly, neck straining as my chin brushes my shoulder—take in the sight of a polished Winchester, a ten-gallon hat, and spurs spinning like windmills on the back of the cowboy’s tooled boots not ten yards to my right. His pointed ears perk up as Lola Mae says, “C’mon, Potpie.” The girl flicks her hair, glances into the woods. Between leaves and branches, her gaze meets his.
“Let’s get you inside,” she says, wrangling her mamma’s bulk away from the gate, back to safety. The Marshal’s long pink tongue curves out his snout, wets his lips. He bares his yellow teeth in a wolf-faced smile, steps away from the hundred-year oak. Nods as she gestures him to wait. His eyes is the only features a man would wear: the rest of his face is pure lupine.
Hoo-ee. Trick sure done a number on them Plantain Marshals before they caught him. Seven lawmen was set on his trail, chased him from their jurisdiction into ours here in Two Squaw county. Trick rode at full gallop, burned the breeze ’til his horse were nearly buzzard bait. By some accounts he were heading for Chippewa country, hell bent to get there with his haul intact—God knows what dark doings he could’ve got them injuns into, if’n he ain’t got nabbed—but I reckon he were heading home, where the lone Sheriff ain’t never gave him much trouble. As he fled, whether home or away, his tattoos streaked lightning. He tossed lasso after shifted lasso, aimed them at his pursuers in hopes of roping their heads. A flick with his wrist and Trick could’ve tightened the noose to change their minds and their direction, by magic or brute force. Whichever worked first.
But either his concentration were off on account of his speed, or he’d seen the only real chance at freedom came from buggering the Marshals up real good: shifting their bodies, never mind their souls. One shot felled two men, sending them to the bone orchard with their necks broke, their faces half-stretched and hideous, adding murder to the tally of Trick’s crimes. The other five was merely struck glancing blows: the weaver’s rope slid off scalps, thighs, forearms. Everywhere a loop touched, them cowboys was changed. Shifted half-wolf, not full. Instead of making them think they was dumb animals and losing them in the wild like he’d planned, Trick’s magics made them stronger. Wilier.
Faster.
Ain’t nobody can outrun a half-wolf, a lesson Trick ain’t soon to forget.
Now Lola Mae pretends she ain’t looking back at the Marshal as she ushers her Mamma up the porch steps, but it’s obvious that’s what she’s doing. I lean to the right, peer around to the front of the cabin, see her take a final peek at the woods before she opens the door and goes inside. My knees crack as I shift position and settle back on my heels. Without looking at him, I can tell the wolf is tense and eager to be on his way. He quietly clears his throat, spits into the undergrowth.
Get yer fucken hide out of here, I think, hoping the cowboy will pick up on my vibe and skedaddle. Pins and needles is stabbing my legs, but I gots to hold still and keep out of sight so long as he’s nearby. Gingerly, I reach a hand out to the pickets and twist my body to ease the ache in my gams. Inch by inch I drag my right leg straight. The wood creaks as I lean my left shoulder against the fence, waiting for the blood to circulate proper again. The Marshal still ain’t paying me no mind, so I take a risk and stand. Staying well away from the window on this here side of the cabin, I hold onto the posts for balance as my legs come back to life. The wood is sturdy, some of it freshly hewn. I rub my palm across its rough grain, enjoy the scent of sap and oil the motion dredges. Looking at the space Lola Mae just vacated, it occurs to me that Trick ain’t built this barrier just to keep the wildlife out. It were to keep his family in.
All men is wolves when it comes to plucking a lamb like that girl. Don’t have to be a wolfboy like that sorry Marshal to know the best way to hurt a man is through his women. Through his young.
Lola Mae comes to the window, signals patience to the wolf outside. I shake my head. She ain’t never learned that lesson: she don’t know what such a man wants, what he needs—how he can use her to get it. No, she ain’t wicked.
I lick my lips.
Not yet.
“What you doing out there? Snuffling ‘round my yard like a bloodhound.”
“Jesus Christ!” My heart near busts out my chest at the sound of Annie’s voice. I look to the grand old oak tree: cowboy’s gone. With a sigh of relief, I turn to face the cabin, and Annie. The window screen makes her fair skin look grey; the roof’s eaves cast a diagonal shadow across her face. Her mouth is hidden in darkness, but her eyes is bright. Feverish, like she’s seeing something more than what’s there. I straighten my shirt, brush the dirt from my pants, then move closer. “You just shaved ten years off my life, woman.”
“Wolves is going to git you sooner than that if you ain’t careful, Simon Doolittle.” I can’t tell if she’s smiling. Don’t really look like she is. “How come you ain’t come up to the front door, anyway? Paid me a proper visit.”
I tilt my hat and look down, hope my beard’s thick enough to hide the flush in my cheeks. “Don’t mean no disrespect—”
“Them sniffer-dogs of yours got loose again, ain’t they?” Annie gestures at the squirrel’s leash in my hands. ‘Why can’t you just hang onto them, Doo? Why you always gots to chase them over here?”
I shrug and check to see where the squirrel’s got to. “Can’t say.”
“Serve you well to hold tight to them’s that’s under your care.”
“You ain’t got to tell me that twice,” I say. The twine twitches as the squirrel runs for a sapling and starts scaling its trunk. I slam my foot down on it, hear a rustle and thump in the undergrowth as the critter falls back to the ground. “Look, I best be getting back—”
“Stick to the path, Doo. Them wolves is fierce—they gone and took my Retti and now they gots my Jaybird. Such good little’uns they was, such sweethearts. Wolves is going to eat up all of my young, gobble them all up. Gobble, gobblegobble—”
I can’t stand to hear any more. “Get off the shift, girl. Like as not, Jaybird’s down the quarry scaring up tadpoles, or over at Pa Mason’s shooting raccoons. Stop and think about it for a tick.”
“Oh, them teeth—chomping chomping chomping. My poor Retti; poor, poor little Retti—”
“Enough! The Good Lord took that child from us years ago, remember?” Annie continues babbling, so I gots to yell: “Remember?”
But she ain’t listening no more. She’s well on her rant now: ain’t nothing going to stop her short of Lola Mae weaving her up another hit of shift. The girl’s magics ain’t as strong as Trick’s, but they’s good enough to bring wicker babies to life, to convince Annie she ain’t lost none; to thread spiderwebs around the furniture and the rafters, in so doing lets her mamma see a golden palace ’round her instead of a one-room shack in the woods; to knit shackles around Annie’s heart and mind, saving her feeling any regret, any pain. But they ain’t so powerful that the spells is permanent—’round here only Trick’s strong enough for them sorts of conjurings. And when Lola Mae’s latest shift starts wearing off, reality rushes in, so fast Annie’s poor mind can’t always keep up.
“I gots to mosey,” I say, waving the limp rope where Annie can see it. “Ain’t none of my hounds over here. What say I drop by the station, see if there’s word of Jaybird’s whereabouts? And you let me know soon as he turns up, you hear?”
At the sound of her son’s name, Annie’s eyes focus. “You watch yerself out there, Doo. Watch yerself.”
“Yes’m,” I say, tipping my hat. Then I circle ’round to the back of the cabin and start reeling the squirrel in. He wriggles and resists with all his might. “Let me go! Let me go!” I cuff him upside the head. Not hard enough to knock his stuffing out, mind; I can’t afford to rattle his pea-brains than they already is. But I whack him ’til he shuts his gob.
“Listen here, Chip,” I say. I take the dagger from my belt and wrap the leash around the blade, knotting it tightly just below the hilt. “I gots to get me some supplies at home before I can venture out.” I stake the knife into the ground, leaving just enough rope to let the squirrel negotiate a path to the windowsill. “There’s a handful of peanuts and a whole apple in it for you if you keep an eye on them ladies in there ’til I get back.”
The squirrel hushes as greed overwhelms his self-preservation instincts. I can almost hear the rumble in his belly, see the drool on his buck teeth. His cheeks puff in and out as he says, “After that, I’m done?”
I take a look at the bits of twig and hay already wearing holes in his elbows and knees, and the blades of grass sprouting from his tail, and reckon he ain’t got long for this world one way or the other.
“Sure,” I tell him. “Keep watch and keep quiet. This’ll be over before you know it.”
Between bites, the squirrel’s talking bullshit.
“So the girl—”
“Lola Mae,” I say, gesturing for him to keep his voice down. It’s unlikely they’ll hear us, far as we are now from Trick’s cabin, but I ain’t taking no chances.
The squirrel nods, scoffs down another peanut, swallows. “Lola Mae takes the Potpie,” he gulps and stuffs his cheeks full of apple. Annie, I think. Her name’s Annie. ‘To the rocking chair, sits her in it. The girl runs her fingers through the Potpie’s hair, rocks her back and forth ’til she closes her eyes.”
I take the fruit away from him. “Go through the next bit again, and slow it down this time. What you’re jabbering just don’t make no sense.”
The squirrel runs his paws down his cheeks, scrubs apple juice into his mouth. He smacks, eyeballs the core I’m holding just out of reach. He starts again: “She takes a shiny stick out her apron—not a stick. A pin. No, it gots a thin piece of floss dangling from it, so it ain’t just a pin.” His nose twitches and he unconsciously licks his chops. Clearly, he reckons this insight is worth a peanut. But I keep the apple and the bag of nuts firm by my side—’round these parts folk don’t get no reward without working hard for it.
“The girl leans over the lady,” he continues, beady eyes locked on the food. “Leans right over her face, says, Rest now, settle now.
This here’s for your own good, and coos like a mourning dove ’til the Potpie shuts her peepers. How ’bout we get us a mourning dove? So fat, so slow, so fun to chase!”
“Concentrate, you little shit.” I pull the twine—it’s fraying a bit now, but it’s still holding. “Forget about the fucken birds. Tell me about Lola Mae.”
The squirrel rubs his throat. Grass pokes out where the rope has chafed. “The girl flicks the needle in and out, up and down. Back and forth, back and forth. Tangles that floss through the lady’s eyelashes and leaves bits of red behind with each pass. Then she snaps the thread with her teeth. Kisses the woman’s forehead and whispers something what makes the lashes grow and grow ’til they wrap like a blindfold around the lady’s head.”
“And you’re sure Annie ain’t done nothing about it? She ain’t complained or nothing?”
“Nope.” The squirrel scratches his belly ’til his fur peels away in places, revealing the dirt and hemp Lola Mae used to build him.
“Stop that,” I say, and pass him the apple to keep his hands from tearing a hole in his guts before he’s told me everything I gots to know.
“Nope, she weren’t making no fuss. She asked for a blanket so the girl gave her one. Then she snuggled down and dozed off while a little kid turned into a key.” The squirrel licked his paws, ran them over his ears. “Nuts.”
“What?”
“Nuts. Now. I been good.”
I take a deep breath, sucking in the smells of damp leaves and wet earth, then exhale. Wait for the critter to gorge on another peanut, then prod him with the sharp end of my boot. “Who was it she shifted? Lilah? Or one of the twins? Was it Mabel or Twig? What did she say, again?”
“Peanut.” The squirrel holds out his scrawny arms.
“Fuck the peanuts!” I toss the whole bag to the ground, whip the apple at the rodent’s head. “You trying to tell me that Lola Mae’s sewed up Annie’s lids, and is shifting her kin into keys?”
Bluegrass Symphony Page 16
