old stump will catch afar from lightnin’ or something down there in my bottom timber. By God, they never miss her, neither. They come oozin’ out of the bushes from every direction like young’uns to a fish fry.”
He took another drink out of the jar, and kind of chuckled. “Other day there was an old rotten log a-burnin’ down there, and you know some careless idiot must of left twenty, thirty sticks of dynamite lyin’ around pretty close to it. Probably been shootin’ stumps, or something. Anyway, just about the time all these courthouse far-eaters come a-chargin’ in through the bushes she started lettin’ go. Damned if them fellers didn’t just about clear off a whole acre of new ground for me, gettin’ out of there. Never seen men could tear down so much brush tryin’ to get their feet headed in the same direction.”
Pop took another drink out of the jar. “Sure gives a man a comfortable feeling,” he says, “to know his law officers is on the job like that, looking after things.”
“That’s right,” Uncle Sagamore says. “Matter of fact, they’ll be down here any minute now.”
Just then there was a loud racket up the hill where the wire gate was. It sounded like a car had run through the gate without bothering to open it first. Then we saw the car. It was plunging and bouncing down the hill like Nashua running over cheap horses in the stretch. There was a big cloud of dust boiling up behind it, and every once in a while it would hit a bump and go three feet in the air. They sure was in a hurry.
“Been meanin’ to take a fresno and smooth that road down a mite for them boys,” Uncle Sagamore says, watching them buck down the hill. “Sure is hell on us taxpayers, the way they tear up County cars gettin’ in and out of here.” He stopped and shook his head. “Just never seem to get around to it, though, with all there is to do.”
While he was talking he reached the jar back in through the door and traded it for the one that was inside. “Guess the boys might want a little dram with us,” he says. He handed the new jar to Pop, just like he had the other one. “I’d be careful about lettin’ any of her go down,” he says, “She might have a little croton oil in her.”
“Oh,” Pop says. He tilted his head back and took a swig, but he didn’t seem to swallow. I asked them what croton oil was, but when they didn’t say anything I remembered Uncle Sagamore didn’t like to answer questions.
Just then the car put on its brakes and the tires screamed. It slid about thirty feet and come to a stop under the tree. Uncle Sagamore looked up like he’d just noticed it for the first time, took the jar away from Pop, and put it down on the floor to one side of him where it was out of sight from in front. The two men that had been looking for aeroplanes got out and started towards us. The smell hit ‘em and they started to sputter and choke and wave the air with their hats, but they kept coming, kind of grinning at each other.
Uncle Sagamore reached out a hand and moved the shotgun a little, like he didn’t think it had been standing just right before. “Come on up and set, boys,” he says.
They come on up the steps. The gold-tooth one was tall and skinny and had a nose nearly as big as Uncle Sagamore’s, and a long jaw, like a horse. His hair was kind of a buttery color, clipped off close along the sides of his head and real long on top and slicked down with hair oil. The other one was skinny too, but he wasn’t as tall. He had dark wavy hair and one of them fancy moustaches that look like they’d been painted on your upper lip with a fountain pen. His sideburns come way down on his jaw.
They both had wise grins on their faces.
They fanned the air with their hats, and the gold-tooth one says, “Sorry we broke down your gate, but we was in a hurry to get here before you could drink any more of that well water. Wanted to warn you there’s been a lot of typhoid going around.”