The Devil's Palm

by Bob Knapp

  In spite of the seriousness of their task, Cummings was in a jovial mood. Most of his spare time was spent hunting. He enjoyed Memphis's company, it was exciting to hunt with dogs for a change, and he was getting overtime pay.

  “They'll most likely tree a coon or run a fox clean to Pleasants County,” Cummings said. “Forget Michael.”

  “They's smart, you'll see, Big Al,” Memphis argued. “They's close hunters—come back and check on us. And they won't disappoint Sheriff Fowlkes.” The men pushed their way through the grass in the direction the hounds had taken.

  * * *

  As the sun hid behind the hills on the Ohio side of the river, the first pinpricks of starlight winked through the blue gossamer sky. On this November night a damp chill settled into the river valley. Hanover shivered and drew himself into a ball. He slept another fitful minute before the relentless cold forced his eyes open. He sat up, his heart and mind racing. What was he doing lying in the middle of a field at night? Recent events flashed back into his mind and shut out his physical distress.

  The melodious baying of hounds on a hunt drifted to him from somewhere up the river. On his own hunts he had always found the sound soothing. He'd stop to listen to their melody as the night sky washed over him—cleansing and uplifting. Now he breathed deeply, looking at the trees piercing the darkening sky, and tried to relax and decide what to do.

  It was a clear night; the temperature was likely to drop below forty degrees. He was already shivering as a stiff breeze evaporated the perspiration still lingering in his clothes. His shirt would not provide him enough warmth. His swollen wrist felt like it was in a cast.

  As Hanover stood, the Smith & Wesson semi-automatic slipped from his lap. In the darkness he patted the ground until he found the gun and tucked it under his back waistband. Stiff and clumsy from the cold, he stumbled in the darkness on the uneven earth toward the large wooded area a couple hundred yards away where he might find temporary shelter.

  Upon reaching the tree line, Hanover paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the increased darkness. Thankfully, his walk had warmed him and the woods obstructed the wind.

  Again the baying came, in full-cry, like that from hounds on the scent. Hanover smiled, visualizing the hunter picking up his pace, wanting to reach his quarry soon after his hounds had run it to ground or treed it.

  The baying came closer. Hanover played with the idea of a rendezvous with the coon, the dogs and the hunter. There was nothing like hunting. He shivered again. Better keep moving.

  It was so dark further into the woods that Hanover had to move carefully to keep from running into trees. He felt his way around a tree but was not certain of his course. It would be easy to wander in a ragged circle. He was learning what it was like to be blind. In addition, hunger, thirst and cold were stripping him of his strength and coordination.

  He had heard of people dying from hypothermia under relatively mild conditions. Shivering and movement generated heat, but the body had a limited supply of energy. When depleted, body temperature plummeted, vital organs would not function and death ensued. He pushed the idea out of his mind.

  The baying was loud and nearly continuous. By his reckoning, it was directly behind him. Was he, through some coincidence, on the same trail as that of the hunted animal? Although the dogs might attack him, his biggest concern was that the hunter would find and report him.

  Or was he the hunted animal?

  Calculating what he thought was the direction to the river; Hanover made a ninety-degree turn to the right and held this course for several minutes. If the hounds were finished dogs, they should stay true to the scent of their quarry and pass by his trail.

  Hurrying, he held out his good arm and felt for trees so he would not run into them. Low-lying bushes and fallen branches tore at his legs. He tripped over a large branch, pitched forward, and gashed his cheek on a broken limb. Hitting the ground, he slid on his belly and the heels of his hands until his head hit a tree. He lay stunned for a long moment, then checked for the gun—it was still there.

  The baying was less than one hundred feet behind him. He gathered himself up, instinctively reaching for branches to climb, but found none. He heard dogs in full chorus tearing through the brush next to him. Pulling the gun from his waistband, he fired twice in their direction.

  Blows from strong paws struck him in the chest like those from a prize fighter. As Hanover went down, he covered his throat and head.

  30

  Dogfight

  Memphis' eyes widened in alarm. “They was pistol shots! Listen—the dogs stopped.” The two stood silently.

  “That pea-headed Michael's gone and shot Doc and Pepper,” Cummings said.

  Memphis sank to his knees. “I shoulda not let 'em hunt a man. They was like my children.” His chin fell to his chest. “Now what am I gonna do?” He put his hand over his mouth to suppress a sob.

  “I'm really sorry, Memphis. We'll get Hanover! Couldn't believe he'd really kill somebody—now I do. We'll get him, like Fowlkes said, dead or alive!”

  Deputy Cummings pointed his flashlight's beam at a group of trees slightly to their right. “Sounded like the shots came from that direction, Memphis.”

  Cummings pulled his police radio from its shoulder clip. It squawked and Cummings put it to his mouth. “Sheriff, we're a bit west of Route 2, in that big stand of trees across from Pleasants Run.”

  Cummings traded the radio for his Smith & Wesson. “Fowlkes is on his way with a state K-9 officer. If you'll meet Fowlkes up at the highway and show him where we are, I'll stay on Hanover's trail. Keep your head down and a sharp eye. In about fifteen minutes I'll shine my light on treetops to mark where I am,” the deputy said.

  Memphis pressed his lips together, turned on his heel and hurried toward the highway. The beam of his flashlight searched for the clearest route. Each boot step, shuffling the dry leaves, made a swishing sound and stirred up autumnal odors. Occasionally, a twig cracked underfoot.

  After pushing his way through the woods for three-hundred yards, Memphis caught glimpses of a lone street light, and after another hundred yards, saw the road. He zipped open his jacket to allow cool air to soothe his steaming body. He picked up his pace.

  As he approached the road, the gully in front of him swallowed the beam from his flashlight, turning his way pitch black. He stopped in mid-stride. Pleasants Run's steep banks nearly claimed a victim. Memphis sought a crossing and quickly settled on a gully that led to the creek's dry streambed. The roar of an approaching vehicle caused him to look up. Sheriff Fowlkes’ Mercury cruiser, followed by a West Virginia State Police vehicle, their blue and white lights flashing, zoomed past him as he climbed the steep embankment. The blast from their backdraft lifted the cap from his head. As Memphis bent to retrieve his cap, the wash from two Madison County deputies' cars speeding by floated the cap from his grasp.

  Memphis grimaced as the law enforcement officers stopped their cars where Pleasants Run turned back for a second stab at crossing under Route 2—several minutes' walk from him.

  Memphis shouted to them, but to no avail, and began trotting, his boot-encumbered legs protesting the forced double time.

  The big dog in the rear of the state trooper's car paced in circles as Memphis approached, then furiously attacked the window when Memphis stood next to the car. The trooper, standing next to his car with Sheriff Fowlkes, spoke a command and the dog sat.

  “Where's Hanover's position?” Fowlkes said, while shying away and wrinkling his nose. Memphis realized Fowlkes’ reaction was to his sweaty smell.

  Memphis scanned the trees for Cummings's flashlight beam and pointed back where he had been. “Back there,” but he did not see any illuminated trees.

  Fowlkes stared for a few seconds where Memphis indicated, then nodded toward Memphis. “This is Memphis Smythe. He's the fellow with the hounds.”

  The trooper, dressed in fatigues, reached out to shake hands. “Sergeant Leroy Jordan, of the State Trooper
K-9 corps,” he said. “Bubba, the big fella in the car, is my partner. Sorry he jumped at you. Running up on him gets him a little antsy.

  “You did a mighty fine job of tracking the suspect with those hounds of yours, Memphis.”

  “Think they's dead,” Memphis stated, with a steadiness that he didn't feel. He began snapping his jacket shut as the cold made its way to his skin.

  “Don't worry,” Fowlkes said, “soon as we get Hanover, Madison County'll get you another pair—any you want. The State kindly lent Sergeant Jordan and Bubba to us. Now, let's get going.”

  “We keep Bubba on a leash,” Jordan said, looking at Memphis. “Bubba'll backtrack on your trail, then pick up Hanover's after we give Bubba the scent from that apron.” Jordan opened the car door and snapped a leash onto Bubba's collar. The dog jumped to the ground and stood to Jordan's left. “He'll take us right to him. If Hanover doesn't surrender, and tries to run, Bubba will take him down.”

  Memphis stared at the dog, who was at least over one-hundred pounds. He looked like the typical German Shepherd—beautiful—and to a lawbreaker—fierce. “Hate to see Hanover kill that dog like he did mine.”

  “Don't worry. Bubba's well trained—knows what he's doing. One of his jobs is to stop a gunman. Besides, he sees well in the dark. Hanover won't know what hit him.”

  * * *

  A nose plowed its way under Hanover's arm. Feet trampled his body; a tongue lashed his forehead and found his ear.

  Relief flowed from Hanover in a flood of laughter as he attempted to sit up. A clatter of paws, wiggling bodies, noses and tongues pushed him back to the ground.

  Of course, my old friends, Doc and Pepper, Memphis's coon hounds! He tousled their ears before struggling to his feet.

  These dogs are finished dogs. They never stop tracking the desired game, Hanover reasoned. So, I'm the object of the hunt. Memphis knew somebody was hunting me down, wanting to help me.

  Hanover removed his belt, attached it to Pepper's collar and gave the dog the lead. The other hound danced beside them, urging them on. Hanover's fatigue lifted and strength returned to his legs. He no longer was miserably cold. Memphis would hide him until this whole thing could be straightened out.

  They walked for a quarter of an hour, making good time, as the dog, sensing that Hanover needed guidance, led him around obstacles.

  Hanover fretted as his thoughts turned to Becky. His mind's eye saw her frowning with worry and fear upon hearing that he was being hunted as a murderer. Or would she really care? Looming in front of him was Candy, slipping out of her white convertible—Becky never let him forget it. After that, the recriminations: how she baked cinnamon cakes for the store, his promise of the big city life in D.C. with plenty of money, the constant work, always arriving home late.

  And now this! Would she ever trust him again? She ought to know him by now. Maybe he didn't know who she was. Maybe marrying her was a mistake. After Candy appeared, all this came out; Becky had been sitting on her feelings. Doing so for him! Then she had loved him—gave herself. Had he given himself to her? But he saw her with Fowlkes! It was too late for amends.

  Pepper stopped, the hound's attention riveted by sounds inaudible to the human ear. The leash slackened and Hanover bumped into the immobile hound. His mouth hung open with words to urge her on, but he caught himself, realizing the dog had sensed some unseen danger. Patting his leg to beckon Doc to him, he felt for the male dog's collar.

  The hounds' tails began whipping his legs. They had led him back to Memphis! Hanover made out a small beam of light.

  “We know where you are, Hanover!” Fowlkes’ bullhorn bounced the words off the trees, startling Hanover.

  Hanover pulled the hounds to him and hunkered behind a large tree. Memphis is with Fowlkes?

  “You're surrounded; walk toward the light with your hands up,” Fowlkes said.

  Do they know my location, or are they bluffing?

  “It's me—Memphis. Over here.” Memphis's voice was at a distance to Hanover's right.

  Hanover's heart sank. So Memphis really is with Fowlkes.

  “Don't make no mule-brained moves, Michael.” Memphis said. “You're outgunned. Come outta this alive.”

  On hearing Memphis, the hounds lunged in his direction and howled. Hanover, in a crouch with his fingers wrapped around the dogs' collars, pulled them close to quiet them.

  “That was Doc! He’s alive. Michael didn't shoot 'em!” Memphis said. “Let them go, Michael,” he yelled.

  Doc and Pepper howled back.

  Hanover tugged at the dogs' collars to get their attention. “Shush, you two. Shush.”

  Contrite, they slopped at him with their tongues, planting their wet kisses on his hands.

  Hanover briefly contemplated a gun battle. If he had the opportunity, he was not certain that he could shoot a man. Then he would be charged with a murder that he had really committed! And he didn't know what the odds were, facing an unknown number of men.

  Fear lent speed to Hanover's legs as he struck out away from the lawmen, but in a new direction, hoping to circle around them and reach the road where he was not expected. To avoid obstacles, he allowed Pepper to pull him along, but was hampered by hanging onto Doc's collar and the frequent need to correct the lead dog's course.

  With distance, the lawmen's yells became fainter and could not be understood. From the bullhorn Hanover heard, “We know you're still trying to get away, Hanover. Come to the light! We'll give you five minutes. This is the last warning. After that---” Fowlkes paused. Hanover imagined Fowlkes smiling as he heard, “we cannot guarantee your safety.” Then silence.

  Hanover turned and stared at the light flitting through the trees. He was dead tired and cold to the bone. He knew Fowlkes would not give up. His world had become his own shuffling steps and those of the dogs kicking through dry leaves.

  I need help. What was Becky doing? Would she help me, or hope that I'm caught? Maybe I could trust Candy.

  He knelt and pulled the hounds to him for their warmth, but only enjoyed the comfort momentarily. To make himself a small target, he had been walking in a crouch, one finger around Doc's collar. Now he rose to his feet to ease his back and cramped legs. He listened for his pursuers. He had five minutes to come out. Or he had five minutes head start.

  * * *

  “Let the dog go, Jordan. We should have released him when that hound howled and pinpointed him,” Fowlkes said.

  “But you said five minutes. Five more doesn't matter to Bubba—he'll find him.”

  “Hanover's not coming out. Send the dog. We're losing him.”

  * * *

  Doc trotted well up on his toes, his head held high. He would have pranced, but felt restrained by the man's anxiety. In the woods there always had been other dogs and men with guns following him. But this was his first hunt in which he had been asked to run down a man, a man who had talked to him kindly, had roughed up his ears and had brought him treats, who was called “Michael” by men.

  Finding Michael was better than treeing a coon; there was more excitement and there would be more to come when his master arrived. Now, when Michael released his collar, he accompanied him voluntarily.

  Behind him, Doc heard the padding of a dog's feet and caught the dog's scent. The scent was intense—much different than that of the hounds he had hunted with. The man urged Pepper and him on, unconcerned about the strange dog, seemingly ignoring it although its presence was obvious.

  The strange dog's tread was heavy and powerful. Doc could hear the creak of a leather harness, like that he had observed on some working dogs. The dog, now nearby, focused on the man. Doc turned his head and whined a warning, but Hanover, intent on escape, ignored him. The big dog moved in behind them, first closing, then falling back and closing in again, looking for his chance. Doc dropped back, checking on the dog. They reached a small open space. The dog behind them came alongside and paused. Doc heard the kicking of leaves as the dog leaped. A shadow, with white teeth
strangely visible in the dark, hurtled toward the man.

  Doc sprang, slamming into the big dog's loin. The attacker's teeth snapped together as he was knocked from his target. The dogs' bodies, twisting in mid-air, bumped into Hanover and slammed him to the ground. The big dog struck at the man, leaving his own neck exposed as Doc, snarling, closed in with his teeth seeking the jugular. Doc missed, but held the big dog's windpipe with all his might. Pepper, her leash having been dropped by Hanover, dove at the entangled intruder and snapped at flailing legs. From his back the powerful dog, pushing with his legs and gnashing his teeth, drove Doc off, gaining his feet.

  Doc and the big dog lunged at each other, snarling and fangs clashing. The big dog tore Doc's long ear as Doc slashed his shoulder. Doc grunted as the big dog rammed his shoulder into him, knocking him from his feet, throwing his weight upon Doc and clamping onto his neck. The big dog spread his legs for leverage and snarled as he shook the hound like a rag doll.

  Pepper struck at the intruder's hocks, found a hamstring and tore through it. The maimed dog stood on three legs and hung onto Doc. Pepper bore into the crippled flank, pushing him onto his side. As Pepper tore through his soft underbelly, the big dog released Doc and cried out, then turned onto his stomach to take a defensive position, his powerful jaws snapping when either hound attempted a frontal assault. Doc and Pepper snarled as they worried the big dog from both sides with slashes to his back and haunches.

  * * *

  Hanover pulled his pistol, but had no chance to aim at the dark form as he was twisted to the ground. The angle and force of the blow wrenched his previously injured knee, the NFL injury that had forced him from the league and changed the course of his life. Stunned, he pulled himself to his feet as the dogs grappled. It sounded to Hanover as if the hounds were fighting another dog, a dog, he suspected, that had knocked him to the ground. Fear of striking a hound stayed his gun hand.

  The consequences of getting into the middle of the melee rather than fleeing flashed through Hanover's mind. The dark had him at a great disadvantage. He would risk injury to himself and be a hindrance to the hounds. If the third dog disabled the hounds, it would be free to hunt him down.