“Don’t need ’em. Ol’ Bell’ll get the scent and the dogs’ll follow her.”
“What’d you want us to do?”
“Nothin’,” Jim Ed called as he crossed a gully. “You hear me shoot twice with my pistol, you come runnin’.”
“Don’t you go shootin’ at that boy, Jim Ed.”
“I ain’t. Yo, Bell. Yo.”
Jim Ed and his dogs vanished into the swamp, a crashing, rushing mob of justice trumpeting its mission in a concert of yo-ing and chesty baying.
We stood and listened. Dover was tense. He leaned against the cab of his truck, his head down, and chewed on a twig. If Jim Ed’s dogs did not split and chase the trails we had planted, Dover was thinking, Freeman could be in grave trouble. Dover did not know, as Wesley and I did, that Freeman was miles away and had probably spent the afternoon wading in Beaverjam Creek. Freeman may have been in some danger, but he would not panic and if Jim Ed’s dogs did find him, it would be because he had relaxed and made a mistake.
“That’s ol’ Bell,” one of the deputies said, as a long, mournful howl rose up from the swamp. “Yessir, ol’ Bell’s got the scent.”
Dover walked to the edge of the oak shade. “Maybe that’s a rabbit they hollerin’ about,” he suggested.
“Rabbit? You don’t know nothin’ about bloodhounds, I reckon,” the deputy replied. “Ol’ Bell wouldn’t give a rabbit the time of day, if she’s on the scent.”
Dover’s face screwed tight in wrinkles. “She that good?”
The howl reached a higher octave: “A-muuuuurrnnrrrrrrh.”
“She’s that good, mister, and that’s God’s truth. I was on a chase with Jim Ed few years back, when I was workin’ down in Elbert County, and ol’ Bell tracked Asa Miller’s oldest boy right down the middle of Elberton on a Saturday afternoon. They wrote that up in some dog magazine.”
“Well, Asa’s boy must’ve been layin’ down some kind of stink,” Brownlee argued. “That hound can’t hardly walk. No way she can track.”
“This your first time with Jim Ed, Sheriff?” the deputy asked. “You must’ve been using Wilbur Sims’ pack.”
“Yeah. Too bad Wilbur died. Them was good dogs,” Brownlee answered.
“Well, you’ll see what I mean about Jim Ed,” the deputy promised.
*
Bell howled and the howl was echoed by Blue and Red and Sue and the others. Jim Ed’s voice was an excited shriek above the low baying of his dogs.
“She’s got it,” the deputy yelled. “Yessir. Go get ’em, Bell.”
Odell Boyd fumbled with his tobacco tin of Prince Albert. His small eyes were red. He turned and walked away toward the creek, the fearful sound of a dog pack hungry after his son thundering in his mind.
For a horrible moment, I thought Dover’s plan had failed. The dogs were moving together, following a single slim path, fighting for the lead. Then, suddenly, the dogs separated, and we could hear Jim Ed screaming for them to bunch and follow Bell.
“What’s happenin’?” Brownlee asked his deputy.
“They split. Goin’ different ways.”
“Split? He had ’em leashed.”
“He takes them off when they get hold of the scent.”
“What’d they split for?”
“Don’t know,” the deputy answered, fanning his face. “Maybe the boy walked in circles.”
The dogs were delirious, each coveting a different trail and baying for the rest of the pack to follow. They sounded like children quarreling over the lordship of a game. Jim Ed’s voice was now shrill and angry, a distant cursing maniac threatening to kick in the skull of every dog in north Georgia.
Dover smiled. Otis snickered and hid his face in his hands. Alvin and R. J. laughed aloud, and Wesley said, “I didn’t know bloodhounds would split like that.”
“Well, son,” the deputy began in a grave voice, “you can’t never tell about dogs of no kind, but I’ll lay you odds ol’ Bell’s still on the true scent. Yessir, that ol’ hound don’t need them others.”
Odell Boyd walked back from the creek. He was a changed man. He whispered something to my father and my father nodded. Then my father stepped close behind Dover and said, “You got more sense than I thought you had.”
Dover grinned and drummed his ringers on the hood of his truck. “Me’n Sam Spade outghta be partners,” he declared.
My father walked away with Odell Boyd and I asked Dover, “Does my daddy know what we did?”
“Sure, he knows. Odell told him this mornin’.”
“And he’s not mad?”
“Colin, you don’t give your daddy credit. No, he’s not mad. He thought it was a good plan; didn’t think it’d work, but he liked the idea.”
We settled in the shade of the oak and listened to the confusion of bloodhounds chasing the phantom of Freeman’s scent. In an hour, the dogs were miles apart and hopelessly bewildered.
My father had walked home, permitting Wesley and me the privilege of staying until Jim Ed Felton returned, and our presence annoyed the sheriff. He slouched against the oak, scowling, and he waited for the two telltale pistol shots from Jim Ed.
At sundown, Laron Crook arrived, walking up from the road. One hand was wrapped in gauze and he carried his Bible in the other. His Boy Scout canteen was strapped over his shoulder.
“Sheriff,” warned Dover, “that man comin’ up yonder is a preacher of sorts. Reckon we better watch our language.”
“I won’t cuss unless he starts to preachin’, and then I’m gonna be a ravin’ mad man. What’s his name?”
“Laron Crook. Him and his daddy run a mule farm.”
“Crook?” Brownlee repeated, checking his memory for the name. “That the same Crook from down in Bio? Same one that got took at ol’ Preacher Bytheway’s revival?”
“That’s him,” Dover said.
“Same man that goes around baptizin’ dogs?”
“One and the same, Sheriff. One and the same.”
Brownlee breathed deeply and sighed. “I’m not believin’ this day. Well, I’m goin’ off in the swamp to look for Jim Ed. If that fool preacher’s around when I get back, he might wind up in jail.”
“Don’t worry, Sheriff, I’ll take care of him,” Dover said. “I know how to handle Laron.”
“You better. And tell him I’m already baptized. He throws any water on me and I’ll put a size ten in his tail.” Brownlee left for the swamp, stepping in great strides.
Laron walked up and pushed his straw hat up on his forehead. His eyes were glassy. “Praise the Lord,” he declared.
“Praise the Lord,” Dover responded. “C’mon, Brother Laron. Sit a spell.”
“Bless you, Brother Dover. How’s Bark?”
“Bark’s fine, Laron. Just fine,” Dover answered. “What happened to your hand there?”
“One of God’s creatures bit it. You know creatures don’t know nothin’ about not bitin’ the hand that’s feedin’ it.”
“That old mule didn’t learn nothing, huh?”
Laron clucked sympathetically. “Time, Brother Dover. Time. It takes time and patience to calm God’s creatures.”
“You know about Freeman?” asked Alvin.
“I do,” Laron answered, turning to Odell Boyd. “I been prayin’ hard for his soul, Brother Odell. And for you, and Sister Rachel.”
“I’m appreciatin’ it,” Odell Boyd said solemnly. “I do, Preacher. I sure do.”
Odell Boyd and the two deputies moved away from the fire and out of the reach of Laron’s influence. Laron’s reputation had become well known.
Dover told Laron about the bloodhounds and Jim Ed, and about the accusation by Dupree that Freeman had slipped the twenty dollars from the counter in Hixon’s General Store. Laron listened and nodded, twitching in holy pain as Dover flavored the story with details of how Freeman was alone and hungry and frightened.
“Praise the Lord,” Laron thundered at the conclusion of the story. He caught Wesley by the arm and close
d his arms. “O Good God in heaven,” he prayed, “listen to these poor, sinnin’ servants—say amen, Wesley…” Wesley mumbled an amen and Laron continued. “Just as you took care of Daniel in the lion’s cage, well, take care of Freeman in Black Pool Swamp. Amen. And just as you fished Jonah outa the briny deep and the whale’s throat, we want you to pluck Freeman outa the quicksand of trouble…”
Otis giggled and Dover covered it with an amen that had a driving finality.
“That’s good prayin’, Laron,” Dover said quickly. “That right, Wes?”
Wesley cleared his throat and nodded agreement.
“Thank you, brothers. I been practicin’ hard and it makes me feel good to know my prayin’ is bein’ heard by folks as well as the Lord God Almighty Jehovah,” Laron declared.
“Well, them’s upliftin’ words,” Dover assured.
Laron hugged his Bible and began to sway in his squatting position, clucking in his throat, trying mightily for a visitation of the Holy Tongues.
It was well into darkness when Brownlee returned from the swamp, his pants covered with cockleburs and beggar’s lice, and stained pokeberry purple. He mumbled something about Jim Ed coming in with his dogs and started to curse fate when he realized Laron was sitting near the fire. “Uh, sorry, Preacher,” he said. “It’s been a long day.”
Laron blessed Brownlee with forgiveness and asked if the dogs had found Freeman.
“They didn’t find nothin’, Preacher. Them dogs went in a dozen different directions. Jim Ed’s been roundin’ ’em up for a couple of hours.”
“Dogs is strange creatures,” Laron empathized. “No way to figure ’em. Mighty strange.”
“I can’t understand it,” Brownlee said. “That ol’ Bell Jim Ed was braggin’ about got stuck in some fox hole few miles down and wouldn’t leave it for nothin’.” He scanned the woods. Lightning bugs blinked pinpoints of light against the deepening blackness.
Laron amened and announced that God had selected him to be a missionary to animals. Dogs digging in fox holes was like man digging in sin, according to Laron. He began a fascinating parable about a mule team. Mules were either pullers or pushers, Laron explained, and you had to be careful not to match two pullers or two pushers. “Takes one of each,” he said. “That way there’s a balance. The pullers don’t kill themselves and the pushers don’t go to sleep on you. Same with men. Takes all different kinds, don’t it, Sheriff?”
“Well, yeah, I guess you right about that, Preacher,” admitted the sheriff. “I don’t know much about mules, but—hey, yonder come the dogs.”
Jim Ed had his six dogs on leashes, yanking and kicking and cursing the whimpering, bewildered animals. Laron was seized with a holy calling; he tried a Laying On of Hands on the bloodhounds and Red bit him on the leg. Jim Ed threatened to take a stick to Laron if he interfered again, and Brownlee warned Jim Ed about acting the fool in the presence of children and preachers. Laron began praying in a gasping frenzy and Jim Ed called him a crazy man. Brownlee pushed Jim Ed against his truck and vowed to arrest him if he didn’t behave. Otis began petting Blue and Blue began yapping. Suddenly, we were surrounded by dogs, sniffing, braying, leaping.
“Uh-oh,” exclaimed Dover. “Get outa here, boys.”
“Wait a minute,” ordered the sheriff. “What them dogs goin’ crazy for?”
Jim Ed leaped into the middle of his dogs. “They got the scent, that’s why. They got the scent they been chasin’ all day.”
Bell was at my feet, head lifted, howling. “Aurnrrrrrrrrh.”
“What’d you talkin’ about, Jim Ed? These boys been right here,” the sheriff said. “Right here.”
“I don’t care where they been, my dogs know what they smell and they smell them boys.”
Dover raised his hands to calm the storm. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. There’s got to be some sense in this.”
“Then somebody better start makin’ it,” the sheriff commanded.
“Well, now, there might be a lot of truth in what Jim Ed’s sayin’,” Dover began. “Fact is, me and the boys has been out in the woods.”
“Doin’ what?” Jim Ed demanded.
“Doin’ what? Well—uh—we was checkin’ out rabbit paths for settin’ rabbit boxes. Just messing around. These boys are all over them woods, and you know it, Sheriff. They live around here.”
“That don’t explain nothin’,” declared Jim Ed. “Lookin’ rabbit paths? This time of year? Who’s gonna believe that?”
Dover began to play with the cottonseed in his ears. He was angry. “Who says when you can or can’t check out rabbit paths? We was lookin’ which way the REA was comin’ and just started checkin’ paths, and that’s that. Anyhow, what’s them dogs doin’ barkin’ up our tracks? It’s Freeman they supposed to be after.”
Jim Ed lowered his voice. “I’ll tell you why, Mister. Dogs trail what scent’s on the ground. And I know exactly what y’all done. Y’all got some of that boy’s clothes and drug them along the ground, that’s what. I seen that trick a dozen times. Keeps the dogs confused, makes ’em wonder what they supposed to be doin’. Well, you ain’t gettin’ away with it.”
“Bless these poor, barkin’ dogs,” Laron shouted, flinging his arms in the air.
“Jim Ed, you better watch what you’re sayin’ or I’m gonna throw you under the jail,” the sheriff hissed. “Don’t go givin’ me no such line as that. You tryin’ to get me to pay you for a nothin’ day, and I’m not fallin’ for it, buddy. I guess I’ve seen a trick or two in my time, too. Wilbur Sims told me there was worthless bloodhounds everywhere you looked, and I’m guessing he knew what he was talkin’ about.”
Jim Ed exploded. “You heard him say they was out there.”
“And it makes sense to me,” the sheriff said firmly. “Makes a lot of sense. These boys live around here. They bound to spend time in the woods.”
“Well, you think what you want to. I’m charging for me and my dogs and you’ll pay, or I’ll see you in court or in front of Satan, one of the other.”
“Don’t push me, Jim Ed. Them hounds you got are as worthless as the day is long and you know it,” growled the sheriff. He whirled and yelled to his deputies, “Get them dogs in them cages, now. Right now.”
Dover motioned us to his truck, grabbing Laron by the arm as Laron struggled to unscrew the top of his Boy Scout canteen. “C’mon, Brother Laron, we’ll give you a lift,” he whispered. “C’mon, Odell.”
“In time, Brother Dover. In time,” answered Laron. “I’m about to do some baptizin’.”
Dover pulled on Laron and began to drag and guide him to his truck. Laron was jerking in his shoulders and water was sloshing from the canteen. He began to babble incoherently, as Dover and Alvin lifted him over the tailgate.
“Amen. Brother Laron. Amen,” Dover chanted. “Say amen, boys?”
“Amen,” bellowed Otis.
“Amen,” echoed R. J.
“Lord, Lord, forgive them,” Laron shouted, flinging water.
We drove away as Sheriff Brownlee and Jim Ed Felton began to shove one another. Laron was spraying the barking, following dogs with water, admitting their souls to God’s glory. Dover was laughing uncontrollably as we crossed the caved-in culvert and pulled onto the dirt road. “They never gonna find Freeman,” he predicted. “Never. Them dogs is so mixed up they don’t know doodley-squat about Freeman. Y’all just keep quiet if anybody asks you anything. Tell ’em you’re too little to answer questions to the law.”
12
FREEMAN BOYD’S ESCAPE became an emotional Dare-You line dividing Emery, a Dare-You line overlapping the gray concrete of Highway 17. The split was between Good and Bad, Right and Wrong, Yes and No, Guilt and Innocence.
Freeman’s crime—alleged crime—was incidental. Anger was not applied to the deed itself, but to the attitudes toward that deed. If it had been Dupree who was accused of stealing twenty dollars, or two thousand dollars, it would have been ballyhooed as a mistake in bookkeeping, and D
upree would have been crowned a martyr.
Because it was Freeman, and Freeman was of the Other Class (“Not like everyone else,” was the phrase), the accusation became a drama of class distinction. It was an argument of ugliness and anyone with grit willingly took sides.
To those of us who watched it from that inquisitive perspective of less than five feet, five inches, younger than fifteen years, it was the fight at Emery Junior High School, the Georgia Power Company versus the Rural Electrification Administration, Our Side versus the Highway 17 Gang.
But the adults did not have such imagination.
Two days after Freeman escaped into Black Pool Swamp, there had been three fights over the matter. Freeman’s defenders went 3-0, partly because the insult to them was great and partly because they were considerably meaner in a conflict of honor.
Yet, in the frenzy of Freeman’s supposed crime—the serious debate of serious men and women in serious disagreement—a curious effect developed: Freeman, the person, was ignored; Freeman, the symbol, became a competition of words, some said to be heard, some said in private.
In the debate of Freeman, there was a general agreement that he would simply walk in from the swamp one day, and that would be that. Everything else seemed to sway in the winds of politics, as Dover called it.
Indeed, politics made an appearance in many forms. Sheriff Brownlee, embroiled in re-election gibberish, realized the folly of insulting an entire segment of the population by pursuing the fugitive Freeman Boyd, a minor; it would be wiser to remain clear of internal conflicts. It was also Dover who made a wise observation: “Sometimes in politics, not being seen is better than kissing babies.”
Thus, it happened that Homer Dove, a deputy for twenty years, was assigned the duty of finding Freeman. Homer Dove was recognized by Eden County citizens as one of the laziest men in the western world, and Homer disagreed only mildly; it wasn’t laziness, he explained, it was patience. He lived by the motto: Be not the first by which the new is tried, nor yet the last to lay the old aside.
Homer began his search for Freeman by sleeping all day in his patrol car, parked in the shade of young sweet gums near Black Pool Swamp.