“Looks like fun,” Weezy said. “Can I try?”
Mrs. Clevenger gave her a long look, then handed her a stick.
“I like you, young lady. But be careful where you step. Nasty things, these.”
Jack grabbed one of the already sprung traps and worked its anchor free from the ground. Then he tossed it into the spong where it splashed and sank.
“You threw them in there a few days ago,” Mrs. Clevenger said. It didn’t sound like a question—she seemed to know. “A good thing, but in the end, only
a temporary solution, as temporary as springing the traps. The trapper simply fishes them out and resets them. Al we accomplish by what we do here is a
respite for the animals and an inconvenience for the trapper.”
Jack said, “That’l have to do, I guess.”
Her eyes narrowed. “For now, yes. But someday he may do harm to creatures that must not be touched. Should that happen, he wil pay dearly.”
Her tone chil ed Jack. For some reason he found himself very glad he wasn’t that trapper.
“Oh, and we anger and frustrate him as wel ,” she added, “so don’t let him catch you at this.”
Weezy looked up. “What do you think he’d do?”
Her expression was grim. “A man who sets these traps for unsuspecting animals coming to the spong to ease their thirst? What
Jack looked over at her dog who hadn’t moved from where it sat. He feared it might be a touchy subject but he had to ask.
“Did he …” He pointed to the dog. “Did a trap do that to him?”
Mrs. Clevenger looked at him and smiled. “No, he chose to have only three legs. Perhaps in sympathy for the animals hurt in the traps, perhaps for
another reason. He’s never said.”
Jack could only stare at her. What on Earth was she talking about? It made no sense.
“What’s his name?” Weezy said.
She turned toward Weezy, and as she did, Jack craned his neck to see if he could catch a glimpse of a scar beneath her scarf, but it was wrapped too
tightly.
“He’s had many names, and he has none. He simply is.”
More weirdness. Mrs. Clevenger seemed to like to speak in riddles. Weezy took a step toward the dog. “Can I pet him?”
“He would rather you didn’t. He prefers not to be touched.”
Jack looked around for a car or even another bike, but found none. “How’d you get here?” he said.
She smiled at him. “The usual way.”
Jack realized then that he might never get a straight answer from this old woman, so he bent to the task of ripping the traps from the ground and tossing
them into the spong.
After springing the last trap, Weezy joined him. Mrs. Clevenger and her dog watched until the last trap was in the drink.
Jack was panting a little from the effort, as was Weezy. A sweat sheened her face and arms.
“Good,” the old woman said. “I am proud of you both. But it’s time for you to go.”
“Why?”
“Because I hear the trapper coming.” Jack listened but heard only the incessant bug buzz of the Barrens.
“You sure?”
The old woman nodded. “Clear as day. He’l be very, very angry when he finds what we’ve done. So go now. Quickly.”
“Are you staying?” Weezy said.
She shook her head. “No. Though I don’t fear him, it’s best he doesn’t see me. I’l fol ow soon.” “It’s an awful long walk.”
“I’l return the way I arrived.” She made shooing motions with her knobby, veiny hands. “Now get. Get!”
They got.
They rode side by side along the firebreak trails, talking about Steve’s father and
Mrs. Clevenger and this and that until they connected with the end of
Quakerton Road in Old Town. They crossed the bridge, cut right onto North
