The Orchard Keeper(42)

The old man squinted his milkblue eyes against the glare. Hiram Pulliam’s grandson. He grinned and waved them up and they came, toiling on the slope, bowlegged for a better grip in the snow, the Pulliam boy leaning on his rifle and the other one sliding and waving the skunk about in the air.


They sat around the stove with their shoes off, their socks steaming. The old man wrinkled his nose and laughed.

I believe you must of fit that there polecat hand to hand, he said.

Can you smell it? Warn said. I cain’t smell it myself.

He had to crawl back in a hole to get him out, John Wesley said.

I crawled past where he was at, Warn said. I thought he was way on back and then I come to see the wire and it went off into a little side-hole, but I was already past it then. I was all hunkered up down in there and couldn’t hardly turn around, but directly I got to where I could poke my pine knot in the side-hole there and I seen his eyes. I got my rifle turned around and aimed the best way I could and when I shot, it like to busted out my eardrums.

We could hear him shoot, John Wesley said. It sounded like a little old popgun or somethin from on the outside.

Well, when I shot he cut loose too. I mean it really steamed things up in there. I come scootin out hind-end first and we waited a while and then directly I went back and got holt of the wire and come draggin him out and he’s shot between the eyes.

The old man laughed. That puts me in mind of a coon hunt I was on one time, he said. Feller with us shot a coon in a tree and it hung in a limb. So I helt the light and he went up after him. Time he got to the limb where the coon was at it come to life and made at him. He figured purty quick he didn’t want no part of it, but stead of comin down he scooted up another limb and there he set. Ever time he made like he was comin down the coon’d go at him, growlin like a bear. Well, directly he got mad and he decided he’d come on down anyway. So here he come. He was goin to kick the coon off of the limb is what he hollered down to us. We had the lannern on him and could see purty good. He made two or three swipes at the coon and about that time the old coon latched on to his foot. I never heard the like of hollerin. He commenced swingin that coon around on the end of his toe and he got so took up with it he kindly eased up his holt on the tree. Well, wadn’t but a few minutes one of us hollered to Look out! and here they come pilin down out of the tree. He hit the ground like a sack of feed and jest laid there and the dogs piled on to the coon and they commenced walkin all in his face and fightin till we got em kicked off. We thought he’s dead, but directly he begun to breathe a little and his eyes to flitter some and we seen he wadn’t hurt, jest the wind pooched out of him and scared purty bad. We all laughed considerable and he set there and cussed us, but he was a purty good old boy and I reckon he never helt it against us. I remember he used to tell it on his own sef for years and years and laugh jest like anybody.

The old man sighed. Used to be good coon huntin hereabouts, he said.

What about painters? Warn asked. Was that a painter was hollerin around here one time?

The old man leaned back in his rocker, a wise grin settling among his sagging skinfolds. Well now, he said. Shore, I remember that right well. Been about ten year ago I’d say. There followed a moment of silence in which he seemed to be contemplating with satyric pleasure some old deed. Then he crossed one knee over the other and leaned forward. Shore, he repeated, I heard it. Many’s the time. Had folks stirred up and scared all of one summer. Yessir, stirred up a blue fog of speculatin,

What’d it sound like? the boy asked.

Oh, purty fierce …

Well, you reckon it was a painter?

Nope, the old man said.

After a minute Warn said, What was it?

The old man had begun to rock gently, a benign look upon his face, composed in wisdom, old hierophant savoring a favorite truth … He stopped and looked down at them. Well, I’ll tell ye. It was a hoot-owl.

He studied their fallen faces, the hopeful incredulity. Yep, he said, a hoot-owl. One of them big’ns, screechin and a-hollerin on this mountain of summer evenins like any painter. They’s folks said painter, folks said not. But I knowed what it was right along. So I let em do their speculatin and arguin … I recollect one evenin I was at the store gettin some things, late summer it was and nigh dark, bout eight o’clock I reckon, when it commenced hollerin. Well, I never said nothin. In a little bit it come again. Boys, I mean it got quiet in that store to where you could hear the ants in the candy jar. Stit I never let on nothin and after a while Bob Kirby—he’s there—he hollered at me and he said, Hey! Uncle Ather. You fixin to walk crost that mountain tonight?