“I bought him,” Leonard said, closing the door and leaning against his truck.
“Pa traps ’em.”
“Uh huh.”
“Where’s Pa?”
“He got a little tired. He’s up on the hill there, resting.”
“In the dirt?”
“He was sort of overcome with exhaustion.”
“You hit him didn’t you?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Sometimes he hits me. He knocked me out oncet with a shoe.”
“Just consider that one for you,” Leonard said, “and call it even.”
“He ain’t so bad sometimes,” the little girl said.
“You ought to tell someone about the hogs. Haskel shot ’em.”
“He does that sometimes,” said the little girl. “When they get big.”
“Well, they ain’t gonna get no bigger.”
“Reckon not.”
Leonard gave the little girl a pat on the head and drove us out of there. When we reached the main road, we saw Haskel’s two boys walking. They had cane fishing poles on their shoulders and sullen looks on their dirty faces. They didn’t wave at us.
When we had gone a few miles down the road, Leonard pulled over to the side, got the cage out of the back of the pickup and walked into the woods, set it on the ground, and opened it.
The armadillo sat quietly, looking at the open space. Lovebugs buzzed around our heads and caught in our hair and clothes.
“Go on and git,” Leonard said.
The armadillo did not go on and git.
Leonard picked up a stick and poked at the armadillo’s rear end, but the beast didn’t seem any more ready to leave. Leonard picked up the cage and gently poured the armadillo onto the ground. The armadillo landed on its feet and turned its head and sniffed the air. It appeared to be in shock, and considering what had happened to his relatives, I couldn’t blame him.
“Now, you go on and stay out of trouble,” Leonard said.
The armadillo moved slightly so that it stood next to Leonard’s leg. It made a snuffling sound, as if smelling Leonard’s socks, or maybe working up to a good cry.
Leonard picked up the cage, and we went back to the truck. When Leonard put the cage in the truck bed, we looked up to see the dillo had followed us to the edge of the woods.
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” I said.
“No, me either. I reckon the little fella don’t know he’s comin’ or goin’.”
Leonard went around and got in the truck, started up, and drove off. I looked in the side mirror, said, “He’s standing in the middle of the road.”
“Dammit,” Leonard said. He found a spot to pull around, went back and parked, got out and grabbed the cage. He opened it and set it on the ground in front of the dillo. The beast ambled into the cage and lay down. Leonard closed the cage and put the armadillo in the truck bed and got back behind the wheel, paused to pull lovebugs from his hair and toss them out the window.
“Damnedest thing I ever saw,” Leonard said, rolling up the window. “Couldn’t leave him though. He’d probably end up caught again, target practice for Haskel.”
“Probably. Think Haskel is going to hunt us down and kill us?”
“You destroyed the record.”
“Haskel could have memorized our names.”
“Let him come see us, then.”
“That was one hell of a punch you hit Haskel with.”
“Actually, I must be getting old. Skin on my knuckles scraped worse than usual.”
“Can you still get your pecker up?”
“I can hang an American flag on it and wave it.”
“Then you’re not getting old.”
“What’re you snickerin’ about?”
“Your dillo.”
“What about him?”
“Neat,” I said. “You’ve got an heir.”
