The Boar by Joe R. Lansdale Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joe R. Lansdale
running so hard his front and back legs were nearly knocking together.
Roger hadn’t been chasing anything. It was chasing him.
As he disappeared into the shadows and brush on my side of the trail, the thing that was chasing him came into view, and even before I could see it, I could smell it. It was an odor like three weeks of spoiled laundry, dead animals and angry skunks. A wall of stink so strong and thick you could darn near drive a nail in it.
Then it broke trail. I got only a glimpse before its chest hit the pitch pine and sent it spinning and smoldering into the dirt, but I knew what that huge, dark, red-eyed shape had been.
It was the boar. Old Satan.
I was so startled I forgot the gun. By the time I remembered it, Old Satan had pounded through the brush after Roger and was gone.
My heart was beating so hard I thought the buttons would pop off my shirt. I lowered the hammer on the .22 and went after the pitch stick Old Satan had trampled into the trail.
I had to light a match to find it, but when I did, and had shook the dirt off, I saw that there was a little red bead of fire on it. I whipped the stick through the air a few times until it blazed up, then I went over to where Roger and Old Satan had parted the brush like a barber’s comb.
The brambles and vines were so thick on that side, there wasn’t any going around them. If I was going to follow, I’d have to go the way they went, and be sure that my torch didn’t catch the tangle on fire. If it did, I’d be a goner, not to mention maybe half the Sabine bottoms.
There was only one way. I took a good long look down that brambly tunnel, then put the pitch torch under my foot and crunched it out. I clutched the .22 tight, began to crawl forward, the vines and brambles and brush clutching at and catching my hair and clothes till I thought I’d scream. It was like being inside a cave, it was so dark in there, and I kept thinking, What if Old Satan decides to come back this same way? I could just imagine looking up any minute to see two red eyes coming down on me like a twin lighted locomotive.
But that didn’t happen. I finally came clear of the bramble patch and out into a clearing where I could stand. There weren’t any branches touching together overhead, and there was enough moonlight for me to see pretty good, if there had been anything to see. The wind rustled through the limbs and undergrowth and churned up some leaves that flowed in a quick circle and fluttered to the floor of the clearing like singed moths.
Roger yelped.
Across the clearing from me, from behind a patch of brambles; he flew up, straight up, like a strong man had grabbed him and tossed him as high as he could.
When he came down it was at the edge of the clearing, one of his hind legs partly in the brambles. Then came a sound from the underbrush like I hoped never to hear again. An ear-ringing squeal like a wild laugh caught in a madman’s throat. And when the squeal died off it was followed by a bunch of gruntings and crashings, the sound of Old Satan moving invisibly, but loudly away.
Twelve
Roger was dead. Old Satan had used those tusks like bowie knives.
I sat down beside Roger, put the .22 across my knees, and let out a scream to match the squeal Old Satan had made. Then I cried.
Finally I looked off in the direction Old Satan had gone and said aloud, “You’re mine, you old devil. All mine.”
There wasn’t anything left for me to do. I couldn’t trail Old Satan in the dark, and if I did, I wouldn’t have much chance against him with a .22. I’d have to keep my promise to that bull hog later. Only thing left to do was for me to go on home.
Roger was too heavy for me to lug back to the house, so I put him in the fork of a hickory tree so nothing could bother him. Later I’d come back and give him a proper burial here in the clearing.
I worked my way through the brambles again, and when I got to the trail, I pulled another stick of pitch pine out of my
Roger hadn’t been chasing anything. It was chasing him.
As he disappeared into the shadows and brush on my side of the trail, the thing that was chasing him came into view, and even before I could see it, I could smell it. It was an odor like three weeks of spoiled laundry, dead animals and angry skunks. A wall of stink so strong and thick you could darn near drive a nail in it.
Then it broke trail. I got only a glimpse before its chest hit the pitch pine and sent it spinning and smoldering into the dirt, but I knew what that huge, dark, red-eyed shape had been.
It was the boar. Old Satan.
I was so startled I forgot the gun. By the time I remembered it, Old Satan had pounded through the brush after Roger and was gone.
My heart was beating so hard I thought the buttons would pop off my shirt. I lowered the hammer on the .22 and went after the pitch stick Old Satan had trampled into the trail.
I had to light a match to find it, but when I did, and had shook the dirt off, I saw that there was a little red bead of fire on it. I whipped the stick through the air a few times until it blazed up, then I went over to where Roger and Old Satan had parted the brush like a barber’s comb.
The brambles and vines were so thick on that side, there wasn’t any going around them. If I was going to follow, I’d have to go the way they went, and be sure that my torch didn’t catch the tangle on fire. If it did, I’d be a goner, not to mention maybe half the Sabine bottoms.
There was only one way. I took a good long look down that brambly tunnel, then put the pitch torch under my foot and crunched it out. I clutched the .22 tight, began to crawl forward, the vines and brambles and brush clutching at and catching my hair and clothes till I thought I’d scream. It was like being inside a cave, it was so dark in there, and I kept thinking, What if Old Satan decides to come back this same way? I could just imagine looking up any minute to see two red eyes coming down on me like a twin lighted locomotive.
But that didn’t happen. I finally came clear of the bramble patch and out into a clearing where I could stand. There weren’t any branches touching together overhead, and there was enough moonlight for me to see pretty good, if there had been anything to see. The wind rustled through the limbs and undergrowth and churned up some leaves that flowed in a quick circle and fluttered to the floor of the clearing like singed moths.
Roger yelped.
Across the clearing from me, from behind a patch of brambles; he flew up, straight up, like a strong man had grabbed him and tossed him as high as he could.
When he came down it was at the edge of the clearing, one of his hind legs partly in the brambles. Then came a sound from the underbrush like I hoped never to hear again. An ear-ringing squeal like a wild laugh caught in a madman’s throat. And when the squeal died off it was followed by a bunch of gruntings and crashings, the sound of Old Satan moving invisibly, but loudly away.
Twelve
Roger was dead. Old Satan had used those tusks like bowie knives.
I sat down beside Roger, put the .22 across my knees, and let out a scream to match the squeal Old Satan had made. Then I cried.
Finally I looked off in the direction Old Satan had gone and said aloud, “You’re mine, you old devil. All mine.”
There wasn’t anything left for me to do. I couldn’t trail Old Satan in the dark, and if I did, I wouldn’t have much chance against him with a .22. I’d have to keep my promise to that bull hog later. Only thing left to do was for me to go on home.
Roger was too heavy for me to lug back to the house, so I put him in the fork of a hickory tree so nothing could bother him. Later I’d come back and give him a proper burial here in the clearing.
I worked my way through the brambles again, and when I got to the trail, I pulled another stick of pitch pine out of my