In winter, the hollow stank of woodsmoke and slurry mud slid down the clay bank onto the road.
Grady eased along in low-low. These ruts could snap a leaf spring clean in two.
Grady’s house was a Ten-Wide mobile home with an addition built on back. The addition was fairly well insulated. Grady’s three youngest slept in the Ten-Wide because they had better circulation than Grady or his wife.
The Ten-Wide was pale green. The addition wasn’t painted any color. Somebody had the radio on inside, and Hank Williams, Jr., sang, “I got a shotgun and a four-wheel drive and a country boy can survive.”
Grady’s dogs set up a clamoring. Eight dogs bayed welcome and alarm. One gray bitch lay inside a chain-link yard, chin in the dust, indifferent.
Nop was struggling to get where he could see what kind of dog pack was hollering and Lester was batting at him and Dixie slithered across the floorboard trying to get somewhere bombproof and she got a paw under the accelerator pedal and Grady had to kill the engine though he felt like stamping down, once, hard, like he would with a bug.
“Shut your mouth!” he hollered and his dogs fell quiet. Despite Lester, Nop was at the window and his teeth were bared in a snarl and his tail was tucked and if Lester hadn’t a good grip on his collar, Nop was coming out the window where he would see what was what.
Bear dogs was what. Some of Grady Gumm’s dogs were purebred foxhounds, some were coonhounds and a couple carried the thick ruff and distinctive markings of Norwegian elkhounds. Some of them hunted coon. All of them hunted bear, just harried at the bear and snapped at him until Mr. Bruin was confused, turned around and stopped dead in his tracks. Then Grady would walk up and put a bullet right through the side of Mr. Bruin’s head where it wouldn’t ruin the pelt which brought three hundred, sometimes three hundred fifty dollars.
The gray bitch stood up. She stretched. Hounds have long jaws and she had a long jaw for a hound. It would have suited an alligator better, rows and rows of teeth and they were all yellow, sharp, perfect.
When she spotted Nop, she growled her welcome. “Thou scat,” she said. “Thou piece of turd, thou mousehead, thou sack of dead kittens bobbing in the creek.” She yawned. Nop’s mouth dropped.
Sourball—for that’s how she was named—was undisputed top dog of Grady Gumm’s pack. A four-year-old bitch, she’d been in on some rough bear hunts and never once turned tail. Sometimes, she’d go without eating for two or three days at a time, just lie on her chair chewing her toenails, neglecting the slops when the other dogs ate. Her eyes were yellow and deep.
“Come here, thou scat,” she whispered. “Thee and me, why, we’ll have fun.”
“You are the female,” Nop said.
“I am chief of the bear pack,” she said. “I am a good chief. I hunt the black bear. Tell me black-and-white dog, do thou hunt?”
“I work woolies.” Even as he spoke Nop saw her sneer broaden.
“Hey,” Lester said, “listen to him growl. I believe this gent wants to tangle with Sourball. Ain’t that a laugh.”
“Lester, will you reach down here and get this dog out from my feet?”
And Lester did and two dogs struggled for purchase on the uncertain terrain of his knees and lap.
Grady climbed out of Big Foot and stretched. Somebody had strung a piece of plastic baling twine across the window of the Ten-Wide. The single plastic word NOEL dangled from the twine. Grady thought about the John Denver song. The one where Denver says his old farm seems like a long-lost friend.
Sections of hollow gum tree served his dogs as dog-houses. Slap a couple boards across for a roof and it stayed more-or-less dry. Sourball had the big enclosure to herself. Six by twelve feet of chain link, with a good gate in the middle. It had often served as pit for dogfights.
Sourball paced. She didn’t look at Grady. She never did. He’d had to take a stick to her a couple times, but she knew enough to mind.
Sourball had fought a couple money fights and won them though she wasn’t really a match for a good pit bull. Sourball was an elkhound.
Grady thought he could probably sell Nop as a sparring partner. Depended if the stockdog showed spunk. No use in a fighting dog that’ll just roll over and die.
“Lester, you bring those dogs over here.”
Grady looped a short lead of brace wire through Nop’s collar and paraded him back and forth before the gate. Lester hunkered down with his fingers through Dixie’s collar. Grady yanked at the chain link and shook it and said, “Brr, brr. Huh, huh, huh,” to excite the elkhound.
Sourball’s lips drew back, her eyes smoked and she froze, trembling, as the black-and-white dog was paraded past, just beyond her reach.
Dixie was whimpering in terror. This wasn’t puppy stuff. If Lester hadn’t held her collar she would have run away fast as she could.
“Black-and-white: thou scat, thou cat’s anus, thou scrap of guts the vultures reject!”
“Bear dog, thy life is a bore, tied up far from freedom and thou art a bore too, with thy rage and no real work to do.”
Grady shook the fence until Sourball rushed at it, clicking her teeth just shy of the heavy steel wire.
Grady’s blood was up and he wore a grin stretched across his jaw.
Dixie whimpered.
Lester said, “If that stockdog’s worth three hundred bucks, Grady, how come you’re fixing to feed him to Sourball?”
Grady’s hand on the latch. Dixie wriggled over to him and squatted and submissively peed.
Grady looked at the wet spot on the toe of his boot. “Well, ain’t you the one,” he said, softly. When he opened the gate, instead of Nop, he threw Dixie into the pen.
Dixie yelped.
A normal dog won’t hurt a puppy. It’s one of the commandments of dogdom. Sourball wasn’t normal and, to give her some credit, the fight was over before she knew who she was fighting.
Something alive flew at her and before Dixie could submit, Sourball had her by the neck and flung her out, sideways, her long puppy legs like a pendulum. Broke her neck.
Dixie Rebel Yell felt no pain; only surprise. Her eyes flared and faded, her tongue flopped out of her slack jaw, her nose picked up one last whiff of air, “Ah,” she whispered, “Nop … the beautiful scent …”
Nop didn’t know Dixie was dead when he jerked the wire lead through Grady’s hands. He heard the yelp and crashed the gate.
Like most dogs, Nop fought symbolically, to establish dominance. Like a few dogs, Sourball fought to kill. She weighed eighty pounds, he weighed forty. From his everyday work, he had condition, speed and endurance. She had strength and fighting skill.
Nop nipped and she slashed. She flayed his ear to the skull and the wet blood flew. She fastened her teeth in his ruff and jerked him over. He came back, low and snarling, perfectly balanced and scored her flank as she turned to meet him.
Nop fought as a counterpuncher, provoking her into a move and punishing her for making it.
In the open, where Nop had plenty of room to maneuver, the outcome might have been different. Inside that close cage, it was just a matter of time until the heavier dog crushed him against the fence.
She cut him. She bled him. She ripped his leg open so the white tibia bone showed through a flesh tear. Nop fought low on his hocks where, three-legged, nipping, he couldn’t be upset.
When Dixie was tossed into the ring, Lester was stunned. Mentally, he’d already spent her price on his car payment. She wouldn’t bring anything now, the dust settling on her beautiful slack body.
Systematically, Sourball was killing the stockdog. Maybe Grady was fooling about the three hundred but the stockdog was worth at least twenty as a sparring partner. He’d last three or four fights before the pit bulls killed him.
Every time Lester looked at the dead puppy his heart was sick. “Sourball’s gonna kill that dog too,” he said.
Grady Gumm was entranced. Though the smaller dog was losing, sure enough, he was all game, coming back at her slashin
g and drawing blood.
“Thou dead thing,” Sourball snarled. “Thou creature smashed on the road.”
The blood pounded behind Nop’s eyes. His leg didn’t hurt him but it destroyed his balance. When Sourball lunged, he dropped down and raked her chest. The shock flipped him on his side, but he flailed back to his feet before the heavier dog could seize her advantage.
He was about to die. It didn’t occur to him to quit. He snarled his deathsong.
A tremendous jerk on the lead pulled Nop off his feet and a kick crashed into Sourball’s neck. Lester lifted Nop clean off the ground before hurling him out of the pen. He jerked the gate closed as Sourball crashed into the chain link, howling her disappointment. The black-and-white dog was hers. Legitimate prey!
Lester said, “We already lost a week’s pay when you threw that hound in there. If this one’s worth a nickel, I mean to have my share.” Little Lester was puffed up with fury, so mad he walked funny.
Grady Gumm had to laugh. “All right,” he said. “Take it easy, Lester.” Grady shivered. It was always like that once the fighting was over. He always felt cold.
Nop lay on his side in the dust, bleeding and gasping for breath.
Grady said, “Clip that chain around his neck. Give me his collar.”
And Grady took wire pliers and cut Nop’s identification tags and tossed them into the woods. He tossed the collar to Lester. “That blue tick hound of yours needs a collar,” he said. “This one’s good leather.”
They fastened Nop to a hollow gum. Though Nop desperately needed water, Grady’d already watered his dogs that morning.
The yellow collar Lester held was worth all of ten dollars. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Lester nodded tersely and stalked away.
Grady inspected Sourball. He poured a mixture of pine tar and kerosene into her wounds.
When Grady kicked Nop in the ribs, he raised his head, his eyes cold. Grady poured the remedy onto the stock-dog’s hurt leg. Grady was distracted. Grady was upset. Grady Gumm had a hard, unpleasant task before him.
Grady Gumm put it off until next day but, finally, he had to come to it. He had to write a letter.
To get the spelling right he had to let his children read the letter. Directly, everybody in Sally Gap heard about Grady’s unusual letter and what it said.
Grady’s wife took the letter into the post office at Ottobine where the postmaster ticked his teeth with a pencil while he looked up the zip code in the big book under the counter.
Grady’s letter went into the Charlottesville bag where it was sorted into another bag, a larger canvas bag, that was trucked out to the Charlottesville airport and wrestled into the belly of a Piedmont Airlines turboprop. It snowed during the flight and snow clung to the bags on the luggage cart at the Cincinnati airport.
The post office van carried it downtown where another sorting routed it into the bag labeled WESTERN SUBURBS.
First thing next morning that bag traveled to Monte Verde Heights. The mailboxes were far apart in the expensive suburb and it took the mailman a good while to make his route. It was nearly five before the envelope found a mailbox. It lay inside the quiet gray aluminum box with circulars from Brooks Brothers, Neiman Marcus, Gumps (of San Francisco), telephone and gas bills, an angry notice from Englehardt’s Menswear and appeals from Father Flanagan’s Boys’ Town, the Indian Mission in South Dakota (free gift enclosed) and Disabled American Veterans.
Nobody bothered with the mail. The next afternoon, again just about five, the harried mailman slipped in more circulars (Post-Christmas Sale! Big Reductions!) and an envelope from Paine Webber. The Paine Webber envelope was printed inside so you couldn’t tell from holding it up to the light whether it contained a check.
The next day (Friday) was New Year’s Eve and the mail was later and scantier than before and the mailman cursed as he stuffed more circulars and bills into the overstuffed box.
Three A.M. The sportscar stopped just beyond reach and the woman had to open her door to get to the mailbox. “Hey,” she said. “How often you empty this thing?”
The driver of the De Lorean mumbled an answer.
She said, “You hold this in your lap while I get the rest. There’s a ton of junk in here.”
“Don’t take all night.”
The car bucked down the drive and grazed a couple garbage cans just outside the attached garage.
The girl asked, “How’m I supposed to get out of this thing? You got me wedged in here, Charlie.”
“Doug.”
“Back up so I can get out. I’m not gonna crawl over the transmission.”
The De Lorean hiccupped in reverse.
“What’s that barking? I hope you don’t keep guard dogs. Those guard dogs give me the shivers.”
Doug bellowed, “Shut up!” The barking stopped.
The girl laid the mail on the kitchen counter. After they had drinks, they did some kissing and went into the bedroom.
Once their lovemaking stopped, the house was quiet—just the sounds of servomechanisms doing their duty: the freezer, the thermostat, the electric clock burred.
Five-thirty A.M. Doug Whitenaur padded back into the kitchen wearing blue bikini shorts. He leaned against the counter, laid his head in his hands, moaned. He washed six Excedrins down with a warm Coca-Cola, belched.
MISTER DOUG WHITENAUR
1412 Blandings Road
Monte Verde Heights, Ohio 45204
The penciled envelope caught his attention. His dogs must have heard him padding around because they started barking again. He opened the back door long enough to holler and they shut up which was fortunate because his shout was throbbing behind his temples. He wasn’t in any shape to get out and teach them a lesson. The Coke sloshed in his gut. He didn’t want to be sick.
“Doug? Doug? What you doin’, honey?”
Doug made a face. He owned one of those slightly perfect male faces that good childhood nutrition and an excellent orthodontist can provide. At present, his good looks were smudged.
“I’ll be there in a sec,” he said.
“What? Dougie!”
He didn’t have more to say. He held the envelope under the stove light and tore it open.
MISTER DOUG. I DONE LIKE WE TALKED ABOUT WITH MR. LEWIS BURKHOLDER’S SHEEP DOG. LEWIS WON’T TRIAL THAT DOG NO MORE. SEND THE THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS YOU PROMISED TO STAR ROUTE B, BOX 18, OTTOBINE, VIRGINIA. SINCERELY YOURS, GRADY GUMM.
Doug said, “Ohh,” and pressed the heels of his hands into his aching eyes. Grady Gumm? Grady Gumm?
It had been in some dive. Some country beer joint in northern Virginia. Doug had stopped there after Lewis Burkholder beat him at the Innisfree Stockdog Trial. That trial. He’d lost his temper that time. Dog wouldn’t do anything right. Just ran around and around the pen making Doug look like an idiot. When the Innisfree trial was done, Doug needed a drink, but it was a redneck joint: beer only. No tequila, no rum tonics, just beer.
Grady Gumm was the guy with the Elvis Presley hairdo. Rat-faced guy. Grady Gumm. Ugly name for an ugly man. Grady never bought his share of the beers, either. Doug Whitenaur remembered that fact too.
Doug Whitenaur pushed Grady Gumm’s penciled letter under the light. Gumm had printed it with child’s block printing. Had Doug really given that creepy hillbilly his home address? God he’d been drunk. Next morning he woke up in a motel, not remembering how he got there, just grateful he hadn’t wrecked the trailer with his ten-thousand-dollar dog.
Ten thousand dollars for a Bit O’ Nothing. His expensive imported dog, “Bit O’ Scot—Bit O’ Nothing.” That’s what Doug had said. And Grady Gumm had bared his tobacco-stained teeth in a friendly smile.
Doug Whitenaur had leaned over close enough to smell Gumm: bitter sweat, beer, woodsmoke. Grady Gumm kept one hand clutched around his beer like it’d fly away if he let go.
Grady Gumm was a dog man too, or so he bragged. “I don’t fool with stockdogs, myself. I’ve hunted coons and fox and bear. Got
down in the fighting pit with dogs.”
Drunk, Doug Whitenaur weaved on the bar stool. “It’d be worth something to me if that dog of Burkholder’s never trialed again.”
And so sweetly, Grady Gumm had smiled. And wetly shone his brown teeth. “Three hundred dollars?”
And a chill ran down Doug Whitenaur’s spine from top to bottom. “Yes.”
Had he really said that? Really? What was Burkholder’s dog called? Nip? Nap? A young dog with brown feathers behind his ears.
“Doug honey? Come back to bed. Dougie?”
So. This morning was the first morning in a brand-new year and headache as usual. But Lewis Burkholder wouldn’t have a dog to run on the trial circuit this year. Gee, what a sad thing to happen.
Doug Whitenaur grinned with his mouth and pained eyes. He took this as a sign—a good omen. He crumpled Grady Gumm’s painstaking epistle and tossed it in the garbage where it belonged.
THREE
Country Fears, Country Pleasures
“Take a couple those dry extinguishers inside,” Lewis said. “The big ones. Our pump is froze up.”
The big red-and-yellow light on top of the fire truck: flick, flick, flick. Two White Post VFD trucks, and Luray VFD had sent its brush truck. Most of the firemen leaned against the trucks swapping lies. Heck, it was only a chimney fire.
The fire shot out of the preacher’s house, whooshing like one of those firework cones, noisy, hot as hell but, so long as the chimney was sound, not particularly dangerous and no reason at all for three fire trucks.
Luray’s chief ambled over, blowing on his cold hands. “You think you boys can handle it now?” he asked.
“I expect. I don’t know why the fool called two departments. It makes a lot of driving for you fellows coming all the way out here.”
“That’s true. But there wasn’t too much doing at nine o’clock on a Thursday night, except watch the thermometer drop. How cold you reckon it is?”
“It was five below when I left home. Cold enough to freeze our pump solid.”