Later he sat on his porch and cleaned his old rifle. The standoff between himself and the Alligator King had become personal now. No longer would he go out on the water, no. From now on, he’d stay on the land. The water was the true domain of the gator. On the water, the advantage lay with the gator.
Gar Face rubbed the stock of his gun and smirked. “I’ll lure him onto the shore, and then . . .” He held the gun up to his angry face and looked through the scope.
• • •
In the Underneath, Ranger and Sabine sat close together. The bullet in Ranger’s front leg burned. But Ranger didn’t complain. Instead he licked Sabine on the top of her head and looked across the rancid yard and into the thick woods, where fireflies blinked on and off. The chain around his neck felt heavier than ever.
Just as the sun began to set, he saw something hovering right at the tree line, right there where the trees ran up to the edge of the yard. It was a tiny rainbow, bouncing up and down, to and fro. He blinked. A hummingbird?
He knew what a hummingbird meant. But whom had she come for? He licked his wounded leg. The bullet lodged there cooled down.
On the porch above, Gar Face saw the hummingbird too. He held his rifle against his sunburned cheek and looked through the crosshairs at the end of the barrel. He squeezed the trigger. BOOM!!! When he looked up, the bird was gone. He had no way of knowing whether or not he’d shot it. If he had, the bird would have evaporated entirely. There would be no trace left. He didn’t care. He wasn’t on the hunt for a hummingbird.
Below, Sabine cringed. She had not heard the crack of the rifle for a very long time. To her, the rifle meant that something had died, that a life had been robbed. She remembered the lessons of her mother and Ranger. She knew about the bullet in Ranger’s leg. She had seen the skins nailed to the porch railings. Do not get in front of the man and the rifle. Do not. It was a good rule.
93
PUCK FIGURED OUT that if he imitated the squirrel and ran quickly from limb to limb, he could get across the creek.
He had no trouble getting to the upper story of the tupelo tree. With his sharp claws, he had scampered right up. From his lofty perch, the creek looked very small to Puck now, as though he could simply skip over it. When he looked out, he could see other squirrels jumping from limb to limb, master acrobats. If he looked directly down, he could see the ground.
He should not have looked directly down. Yikes! Down was . . . very . . . far . . . away.
But he was also determined. Looking out from the top of the tree, Puck was more sure than ever that Ranger and Sabine were on the other side. He felt the gentle breeze slipping around him and beneath him. If he stepped out onto it he almost felt like he could fly.
But of course it was not the air that he needed to step onto. It was another branch, and then another and after that, yet another. But every time he moved toward the thin end of the branch in the tupelo, it started to bounce up and down, as though it was trying to buck him off. Each step caused a bounce, which made him back up to his spot near the trunk, where the branch was thick and sturdy. How did the squirrel do it? Race along the skinny branches without making them bounce?
He sat very still for several moments. Then he heard a familiar sound.
Chat-chat-chat-chat-chat!
The same squirrel he had seen yesterday was in the tree beside him, twitching his fluffy tail like a flag.
Chat-chat-chat-chat-chat!
Puck watched it again as it flitted from one branch to another, from one tree to the next. He paid attention to the way the squirrel scurried to the very end of a thin limb and then leapt across to another. The move was graceful and clean. And fast.
Fast! That was the key. It must be his slow that was making the limb buck up and down. He should go fast. Not slow.
He watched for a moment longer until the squirrel was once again lost in the foliage. Puck moved toward the end of his own branch, first one paw, then another. He took a deep breath and . . . fast.
Go fast.
Go, Puck, go!
But he only went a few inches. The branch bucked. He dug his claws into the bark. He waited for the branch to stop its up-and-down motion. Puck’s stomach felt queasy. He changed his mind about fast and decided to do slow again.
He inched along. The branch became thinner and thinner. He paused and looked at the tree next door. There was a waiting limb. It was reaching for him, holding out its leafy fingers. If he just took a running leap he could make it.
He crept to the middle. The branch bounced. Up. Down. He dug in his claws and held on. Then he decided to count down . . . one . . . two . . . three . . .
BOOM!
The sound of a rifle split the air.
Puck let go.
94
EVEN FROM THE deepest bottom of the bayou, the Alligator King could tell that changes were nigh. Several nights had passed and the boatman had not returned.
He’ll be back, he thought. His kind always returns.
He floated to the top of the water and peered out with his bright yellow eyes. His nostrils broke the surface, and he took a deep breath. “Rain,” he said. “It’s coming.” And with that, he sank back down to the muddy, muddy bottom and fell asleep.
95
THE OLD LOBLOLLY pine, the one that stood by the edge of the creek, could also tell that rain was nigh. Now only twenty feet high or so at best, it could feel the storm brewing. Far to the south, the tree knew that this would be a good one.
Trees are always the first to know about storms. This storm, the one on its way from the Gulf of Mexico and up the wide and wandering Sabine, had started off the coast of western Africa, carried the warm winds of the Sahara all the way across the Atlantic Ocean. For a while, it lingered near Cuba and Jamaica before it scuttled over the Gulf. Now it was gathering up the warm waters of the Laguna Madre.
Soon this storm would blow through these piney woods. And it would pack a punch. Batten your hatches. Close your doors. Do not go out into that stormy night.
96
THE NIGHT WAS just rising, dark slowly filled in the spaces between the leaves. The stillness of it made Gar Face uneasy. He reached for the flask in his pocket and uncorked it. It was empty, like the dog’s food bowl.
Perhaps he could go a whole night without the bitter liquid, perhaps. But why should he? The night was still young. The dog could wait. Besides, why waste food on a dog who was doomed? He shook his head and spit at the ground.
Then he climbed into the old pickup truck resting above a pool of oil. It took several turns of the key to get it going, but at last the engine cranked to a rumbling start. He steered it out of the yard and turned it toward the tavern beside the hidden road.
Tonight, he would listen to them again. Tonight, he wouldn’t say a single word. But just wait. Soon, he would be the teller. Soon, he would land the Alligator King. Soon.
He shifted gears and drove off into the darkness.
The sound of the engine startled Sabine and Ranger. The crack of the rifle had been bad enough, but the truck’s engine always brought back memories. It reminded them of the day that Gar Face had carried the calico and Puck away. The fur stood up on Sabine’s back and she hissed.
Ranger waited until the sound disappeared, then walked out to his bowl. He sat down and licked it, even though it was already completely clean. His stomach rumbled. Sabine walked toward him and stretched. She was glad to get out from the Underneath at least. Over the last few days, Gar Face had been too close, hardly leaving the porch.
Sabine was hungry too. She rubbed against Ranger and walked toward the woods. But before she got there, she lifted her nose in the air. A change was coming. Rain. A lot of rain. A storm was on its way.
97
DOWN, DOWN, DOWN Puck fell, through the branches of the tupelo, which seemed to claw at him as he passed. Down, down, down, through the humid air. Down, down, down, onto the hard red dirt beside the Little Sorrowful Creek.
Thud!
; He landed on his feet, as all cats do, but he hit the ground with such force that it smacked all the air out of him. For a moment everything spun, the trees, the pine needles, the water beside him. His ears rang.
He blinked. Coughed. His sides ached from lack of air. He had a long, thin scratch along his right side. His legs felt as though they had been jammed into his spine. He didn’t think he could stand up. He rolled over onto his side. He could feel his heart pounding. He panted. Air. He needed some air.
He could hear the water from the creek. It echoed in his ears. Water. We must be near water. He coughed again. If only he could catch his breath . . .
If only he could get to the other side of the creek.
If only, if only, if only . . .
Promise you’ll go back.
More spinning. More echoes. The scratch burned. His legs burned. The lingering boom of the rifle burned. Night began to roll in, dark and silent. The trees whispered among themselves. And Puck, brave Puck, the tumbling creek rolling along beside him, passed clean out.
98
IT STARTED AS an oh-so-gentle sprinkling of drops, so fine it might have been only a heavy dew or a thin, thin mist.
Near the tilting house, Sabine hurried back to the Underneath. She had had little luck on her hunt. All of the prey that she depended on had scurried for shelter at the impending storm. Her belly gnawed at her, and she knew that Ranger was even hungrier. All she had to show for her hunt was a small green lizard, hanging from her mouth.
At home, Ranger waited for her, his long ears drooping over his paws.
Meanwhile, at the ratty tavern, Gar Face sat in his dark corner, a bottle of rum on the table in front of him. He leaned back in his chair and smiled. He paid no attention to the sound of the raindrops, small whispers, as they tapped on the tin roof over his head. All he could hear were the tales of the men at the other tables. He soaked them in, stories of fifty-pound catfish, anecdotes of trapped black bears and huge raccoons. But what he wanted to hear about most were the alligators.
Soon, he thought, he’d be the most revered trapper in the piney woods. Gar Face, a man who refused to remember the name his parents gave him, the one he left behind on the wharves of the Houston Ship Channel, left on the floor of his childhood home, right next to his drunken father. Soon the name Gar Face would be known to everyone. Soon. He’d show them.
He took another pull from the tall bottle and sank down into his chair. Outside, the rain came down, harder and harder.
• • •
Grandmother spun in her cell. There was a storm on the way. She could tell. Her eyes flashed in the darkness. Lightning flashed in the clouds. Sssssoooooonnnn . . .
99
AT LAST GAR Face had his fill of other men’s stories of bravado and skill. He handed the barkeep a couple of muskrat pelts and walked out to his waiting truck. The rain dripped off the branches of the overhanging trees. He climbed in and drove back onto the overgrown road. Before he drove to the tilting house, however, he veered off in a different direction. Eventually he came to a small meadow, where he pulled over and rolled the window down. The humid air of the night settled on him. From the glove compartment, he pulled out another bottle of rum and set it on the dash in front of him. He leaned back in his seat and smiled. He barely noticed the drops of rain pattering on the windshield and the truck’s roof over his head.
He didn’t come to this meadow often, his “victory meadow,” the place where he had felled the deer when he was just a boy. He had never told anyone about the deer. Who would believe him? Who would care? But he would tell everyone about the alligator.
The meadow was also the only clearing large enough to see stars. When he was a boy in Houston, there were stars aplenty, dim above the city lights. He remembered them. Of course, tonight there were no stars, only rain. It didn’t matter. The scattering of drops on the dusty windshield left their own star-shaped imprints. He took a deep draught from the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. His face was still itchy from his morning with the mosquitoes. But the rum helped to deaden the pain.
It was only a matter of time now; he’d catch the Alligator King. Gar Face. Soon, everyone would know this chosen name, chosen for him by strangers, people who had laughed at him, sneered at his misshapen features. Soon, they’d say that name out loud. Soon.
He chugged back another swallow from the bottle and sank down into his seat. All around him the rain came down, harder and harder.
100
ALONG THE BANKS of the creek, Puck stirred. The cold rain pelted down on him and brought him to attention. He stood up just as—Craaaacckk! A bolt of lightning split the air. His wet fur stood up. His head felt thick from his earlier fall, and every muscle ached. He looked around. All he could see was the solid night. He felt the pouring rain soak into his coat. He scratched his ear with his back paw. He licked his side. There was a long scratch from his front paw to his back. He could tell it wasn’t deep, but it was sore nonetheless.
Crrrrraaaack! Another bolt of lightning lit up the woods around him, lit up the tall tupelo tree. All at once, Puck remembered his fall. And so did his sore body. He stretched. He didn’t think anything was broken.
And then, as if the lightning were a zipper in the clouds, it opened them up and let the water out. Buckets and buckets of cold rain, sheets of it. Rain that had traveled for thousands of miles, stored in the heavy clouds that now hovered over the piney woods.
Puck hurried for the warm den at the base of the old pine tree. Soaked, he shook off the water and eased his body into a prone position. He ached all over, from nose to tail. Outside, the rain fell and fell and fell some more.
But Puck was safe, safe in his small, dark den. You’ll be safe in the Underneath. A flood of relief washed over him, but soon enough, the steady beat of the rain whispered into Puck’s sore ears . . . Promise. Promise. Promise.
And deep beneath the little lair, another creature stirred too. The daughter. I’ll take the daughter.
So many promises.
Only a few feet away, the creek began to rise.
101
WHAT SABINE NOTICED the next morning was the sound of the old truck, returning. Next, she heard Gar Face’s heavy footfalls as he clumped up the wooden porch steps. She recognized the slam of the screen door. The floor above her head creaked under his weight. These were sounds she had lived with her entire life. They were predictable; they formed a pattern that she used to time her comings and goings.
She listened some more. Turned her ear toward the front of the house. Waited. There! The slam of the screen door again. That meant that Gar Face had remembered to feed Ranger. She relaxed. This would be a good day.
She watched as Gar Face set the bowl of chow in front of Ranger. Ranger cowered as the man approached. Often the bowl of food was accompanied by a hard kick and a yelp. She held her breath. The man walked away. He did not kick him or sneer at him or shout at him. Simply set the bowl down. Sabine exhaled.
Yes, today will be a good day.
As soon as she heard Gar Face walk back up those steps, heard the door slam, she moved toward the edge of the house. First she slipped her pink nose, little whiskers twitching, into the open. Ahh, the rain, soft and fine, last night’s storm made everything feel new and clean.
Old Ranger saw her slipping out. He moved over and let her join him at his food bowl. There wasn’t much there, just some stale dog food, the cheapest brand, but he was glad to share it with this small sister, this little gray cat, this daughter of his old friend. The food, the misty rain, the cool air. Despite the weariness that he had recently worn like an old coat, he thought, Today will be a good day.
Neither one of them noticed that Gar Face stood on the top step watching them. The slammed door had been a trick. “Bait,” he said under his breath. And the Alligator King swam through his thoughts, all one hundred feet of him.
102
FOR SABINE, THE rain was a good thing. She stood beside her friend, Rang
er, while he chewed on the food in his bowl. It was the sun that was dangerous. But today there was no sun, only this steady rain. Sabine felt it fall softly on her thick fur. It felt fresh and cool. She stood up and shook. This soft rain would loosen the dirt that clung to her from the Underneath. The yard was littered with trash, including old boards. There was one right next to Ranger’s food bowl, a board that served as an island in the muddy yard. She sat on it, licked her back right paw. As soon as she was satisfied, she started on the other. This day was starting out just right. A bowl of food for Ranger. The sighing rain.
Soon she was completely absorbed in her personal bath, concentrating fully on licking every strand of her silver fur. She cleaned her paws, including in between her toes. She reached over and licked her narrow back. She tucked her head and cleaned her soft-as-velvet belly. And every few minutes, she stopped and licked Ranger’s long ears. He loved it when she did that.
Ranger finished eating the meager meal and rolled over on his side. There in the rain, he rolled onto the muddy ground next to his bowl while Sabine sat next to him on the board. For a moment she felt completely happy. The rain, the food, her old dog. Sabine knew how to catch small moments of happiness, and this was one.
How could she know that Gar Face had not gone into his house, that the slammed door was only a ruse? How could she know that he had seen the Alligator King on the swampy land that rested between the Bayou Tartine and the Petite Tartine? How could she know that his lust for that alligator was bigger than the gator himself? How could she know that he needed fresh bait, a live animal to tie to a rope and set on the bank of the lazy bayou? How could she know that she was perfect? Perfect bait? How could she know that Gar Face had waited, had watched her while she sat next to the old hound, watched her until she curled her legs beneath her body and closed her eyes, so he could sneak up behind her and grab her by the neck, until he had his rough hands around her neck, strangling her, choking her, grabbing her?