The haunted hound; (25 page)

The man from Georgia laughed. "Good thing he isn't here. I'm kind of partial to those hounds of mine."

A hound giving tongue cut off the talk like a knife.

There was nothing else in the world like it. It came booming up out of the big chest and went rolling, filling up everything around there. The men around the fire forgot the pipes in their mouths and sat as though they were growing there, listening to Pot Likker speak to the line.

caboose. The brakeman kept saying how sorry he was for holding the lantern too low, but Jonathan hardly heard him.

Then, in the late night, Mr. Duncan drove him to the apartment.

Jonathan turned the key in the lock and slowly pushed the door open. No lights were on so he turned some on and went up the stairs to his father's bedroom. At the door he knocked, but when no one answered, he opened the door and went into the dark room.

"Dad,'' he said softly. ''Dad."

He knew then that no one was there, but he turned on the light anyway. The bed was still made up.

Jonathan slowly leaned back against the wall while the world fell down on him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Jonathan didn't know how long ^^ ^ lJ he had been walking along the

lonely moon-white road. A long time ago he had stopped trying to hitch a ride because the cars just swerved far around him and went on.

It didn't make much difference how long it had been. Nothing made any difference to him. Somewhere, far down the long road, the Farm was lying under the moon, the big house empty and silent. A good place, he thought, for him. There, he might be able to cry some; might be able to get over this feeling he had.

It surprised him when the truck stopped, brakes sighing in the darkness. It was a huge truck—tractor-trailer rig— and lit up like a Christmas tree. The driver leaned out of the high window and said, ''Want a lift?''

'Thanks,'' Jonathan said, climbing up into the seat.

"Where you going, kid?" the driver asked, shifting the gears silently and getting the truck rolling again.

"Just down the road a few miles."

"Shucks," the driver said. "Wish you were going some-

where. I get lonesome in here all by myself/'

*'No, just a few miles/' Jonathan said. 'Til show you.''

The truck went fast. Jonathan watched the speedometer needle go up as high as seventy on the down grades, and it cruised at around sixty all the time.

At the Farm, Jonathan thanked the truck driver and got do\\n. The dry smell of Diesel exhaust swept around him as the truck ground away.

At last Jonathan could see the house among the pines. As he walked slowly toward it, his feet dragging, his arms limp at his sides, he knew that soon the death of Pot Likker was going to hit him. It was going to knock him down. It was going to be terrible.

He thought for a moment of just sitting down in the moonlight on the wide porch steps, but then he changed his mind. He wanted to go inside the house. He still had the key, he remembered.

He worked the key the wrong way the first time and had to unlock it all over again. At last the tall grav door swung open, letting the moonlight flow down the empty hall all the way to where the staircase started curving upward.

Jonathan could feel his grief coming closer and closer with each slow step he took.

The moonlight made the bare floor look almost as though there was snow on it. Because of this it was a long time before Jonathan noticed the slit of yellow light under the library door. When at last he did see it, he stopped short, staring at it.

27^

I

There was something in the hbrary making hght. For an instant Jonathan was scared, thinking of burglars, then he reasoned that burglars would not make a steady light like that.

It must be Judy, he thought. For some reason she was here in the house.

Jonathan walked on slowly to the door. It swung open silently and he saw one of the eandles Judy had left for him. It was in a saucer on top of the desk.

The light of the candle was feeble, for moonlight streamed through the tall windows, filling the whole room with its paleness.

When Jonathan looked past the candle, he saw a man standing in front of the empty fireplace, his back to him.

''Dad,'' Jonathan said.

His father turned around.

Then something broke inside Jonathan. Like a dam or a storm which he could not control. With his hands over his face he stumbled forward toward his father.

Hands caught his shoulders, steadying him, and Jonathan dropped his own hands to his sides. 'Tot Likker's dead,'' he said.

"No!"

"The train ran over him."

The hands on his shoulders were strong and gentle, too, and he leaned a little against them.

"Oh, son," his father said quietly, "I'm sorry."

Another storm of crying swept Jonathan and passed. "He

won the last race he ran, though/' Jonathan said, memory of Pot Likker's voice warm in him.

''I heard him/' his father said.

Jonathan looked up at his face.

"I was on W^idow's Hill/' his father said. ''I saw you behind your tree, son/'

''Did you?"

'Tot Likker ran a race that will be remembered for a long, long time. He was a great hound, Jonathan, and for him to love you is a thing you can always be proud of."

"I will be/' Jonathan said. Then, slowly, he raised his head and looked at his father's face, clear in the moonlight. ''I guess he had to die, didn't he?"

^'What?"

''As long as he lived there wasn't anything I could do but take care of him, was there?"

''No, son, there wasn't. It took me a long time to understand that, but I do now."

"Now that he's dead it doesn't make any difference where I live any more. Nothing makes any difference."

His father's hands tightened for a moment on his shoulders, then dropped away. "It's late," his father said. "Will you come back to the apartment with me, son?"

Jonathan nodded. Then he turned and walked back toward the door.

His father followed him, picking up the candle as he came. "Can you help me in the morning?" his father asked behind him.

"Yes. What do you want me to do?"

"Help move. The vans are coming in the morning."

"Move where?"

"Here," his father said.

Jonathan spun around.

His father was smiling a little, the candlelight flickering on his face.

"Really, Dad? Really?"

His father nodded. "You were right, son. Memories don't just wait for you to find them in these woods and fields and

in this house. Memories are only in your mind. I wish Vd found that out a long time ago.''

''You won't be sad here?" Jonathan asked.

''No, son. We'll both be happy here."

"Will Mamie come, too?"

His father laughed. "She's already packed and ready."

Jonathan turned toward the front door, but his father said, "Wait a minute, son, I want to check the kitchen."

Jonathan followed him to the kitchen. When he opened the door, Jonathan heard something stir.

Then the candlelight fell on a dog lying beside the stove. She was a Trombo hound and around her there were five little puppies. They were all black and white.

"This is our dog Maude, son," his father said. "Who do the pups look like?"

The storm broke in Jonathan again as he wailed, "Pot Likker!"

"He's their father. So he isn't really dead, son. Like Blue Moon and Blue Streak, who live in Mister Blue, Pot Likker lives in these children of his."

Jonathan went down beside Maude, rubbing her head gentl}' and touching the puppies. The hound licked his hand and wearily put her head down.

When he stood up at last the crying was o\'er, for good.