The back of the house was windowless. There was a door with no handle and a stovepipe that leaned from a hole hacked through the wall with an axe. There was no sign of stock, not so much as a chicken. Holme would have said maybe it was whiskey, but it wasn’t whiskey.
He went back to the man on the porch. That’s fine water, he said.
The old man turned and looked down at him. Yes, he said. Tis. Know how deep that well is?
No. Fifty foot?
Not even fifteen. It’s actual springwater. Used to be a spring just back of here but it dried up or sunk under the ground or somethin. Sunk, I reckon. Year of the harrykin. Blowed my chimley down. Fell out in the yard and left a big hole in the side of the house. I was settin there watchin the fire and I blinked and next thing I was lookin outside. Come mornin I went to the spring and it weren’t there. So I got me a well now. Don’t need all that there pump but I chancet to come by it. Good water though.
Yes it is.
Seems like everthing I get around runs off in the ground somewheres and I got to go after it.
You live here by yourself?
Not exactly. I got two hounds and a ten-gauge double-barrel that keeps me company. They’s lots of meanness in these parts and I ain’t the least of it.
Holme looked away. The old man tilted forward in his chair and stroked his beard and squinted.
Live by yourself and you bound to talk to yourself and when ye commence that folks start it up that you’re light in the head. But I reckon it’s all right to talk to a dog since most folks do even if a dog don’t understand and cain’t answer if he did.
Yes, Holme said.
Aye, said the old man. He tilted his chair back against the side of the house once more. It was very quiet. The hounds lay like plaster dogs in a garden.
Well, I thank ye for the drink, Holme said.
Best not be in no rush, the man said.
Well, I got to be gettin on.
Whereabouts is it you’re headed?
Just up the road. I’m a-huntin work.
I doubt you can make it afore nightfall.
Make what?
Preston Flats. It’s about fourteen mile.
What’s between here and it?
The old man gestured toward the woods. Just like you see. More of it. They’s one more house. About two mile down.
Who lives there?
They don’t nobody live there now. Used to be a minktrapper lived there but he got snakebit and died. Been snakebit afore and thowed it off. This’n got him in the neck. When they found him he was kneelin down like somebody fixin to pray. Stiff as a locust post. That’s about eight year ago.
They Lord, Holme said.
Well. The old man recrossed his legs. I never did like him much anyways. Poisoned two of my dogs.
How come him to do that?
I don’t know. Mayhaps he never meant to. He used to poison for varmints. They said they had to break ever bone in his body to get him laid out in his box. Coroner took a sixpound maul to him.
Holme looked at him in dull wonder and the old man looked at the steaming woods beyond the road. He lifted a twist of tobacco from the bib of his overalls and paused with it in his hand while he consulted pockets for his knife.
Chew? he said.
I thank ye, Holme said. I ain’t never took it up.
The old man pared away a plug and crammed it in his mouth. Do ye drink? he asked.
I’ve been knowed to, Holme said.
I’d offer was I able but I ain’t. Ye ain’t got nary little drink tucked away in your poke have ye?
I wisht I did, Holme said.
Aye, the old man said. Clostest whiskey to here is a old nigger woman on Smith Creek and it ain’t good. Sides which they’s genly a bunch of mean bucks lays out down there drunk. Got knives ye could lean on. Last time I was down there you couldn’t of stirred em with a stick. Makes a feller nervous. He shifted the cane to the other knee and spat. Don’t it you?
I expect it would.
Listen yander, he said, tilting his head.
What’s that? said Holme.
Listen.
The dogs lifted their long faces and regarded one another.
Yander they go, the old man said, pointing.
They watched a high and trembling wedge of geese drift down the sky with diminishing howls.
Used to hunt them things for a livin afore it was outlawed, the old man said. That was a long time ago. Fore you was borned I reckon. You ain’t no game warden are ye?
No, Holme said.
Didn’t figure ye was. You ever see a four-gauge shotgun?
No. Not to recollect it I ain’t.
The old man rose from his chair. Come in till I show ye one, he said.
He led the way into the house, a two-room board shack sparsely furnished with miscellaneous chairs, an iron bedstead. It smelled stale and damp. On the lower walls grew scalloped shelves of fungus and over the untrod parts of the floor lay a graygreen mold like rotting fur. There was a rattlesnake skin almost the length of the room tacked above the fireplace. The old man watched him watch. I ain’t got nary now, he said.