taking lunch on the wing. When it spotted Shad in the skiff it swooped down in an effortless dive out of pure curiosity and whanged past his head, totally oblivious to danger. Shad ignored the bird, other than to realize he was hungry himself. In the bow of the skiff he had put a blanket and a large tin box containing his knife, a box of kitchen matches, firstaid kit, and three on four cans of food. When he reached the Neck he would land and treat himself to a feed.
There were more of the stumpy bays now, and paintroot and hurrah bushes, and the palmettos were thicker than the head of a new broom. The water shallowed, the bonnets and pickenelweed and never-wet leaves began clustering about the skiff, and he changed back from paddle to pole, stood up and balanced his body against the give of the boat and the heft of the stobpole. He worked his way around the Neck and entered a great secluded palm bog.
The towering battlements of vegetation seemed to roll up and over him like a great fibrous wave, and the mass of branches, leaves, creepers, festoons of moss threatened to squash anything as puny as man. He stobbed patiently through the maze, ducking and weaving as the trailing creepers came slowly at him. After he had his lunch he would pick up the trail he'd blazed and be on his way. He grinned as anticipation jacked up his spirits.
'Money Plane,' he whispered, 'I'm cold coming at you.'
And right then someone called.
'Hi, Shad! You ben looking fer us?'
Shad nearly lost the stobpole. He turned, crouching, the skiff wobbling dangerously underfoot, as everything in him tightened into startled suspension. It was like watching the mainspring of a nightmare coming at him to see Jort Camp and Sam Parks pole Jort's big gator-grabbing skiff out of the greenery.
He was one of those men about whom lesser men like to boast as though by merely exhibiting their knowledge of him they have a claim on him, on his astonishing powers, though in secret reality they are scared to death of him, and probably hate him as well. But he was the type of man whom little, vicariously living men (like Sam) can create legends around. And Sam and his breed have done well by Jort.
You come into the county thinking you'll visit Sutt's Landing to see some real swamp folk, and right off one of Sam's breed will try to impress you with the legend of Jort Camp – You ever heened of Jort Camp where you come from, stranger? Jort Camp? No, I can't say that I have. Is it an army post or a person? Is hit a – well, I should hope to hoppin God hit's the most stupyfyin person you'll ever meet! Oh? Well, who is he? Who is he? Who is he! Why he's the biggest, bestest, toughest, brawlin'est, gator-grabbin, bobcat-beatin, cadaver-maker you ever see! That's who he is! And you say, 'Oh,' and though you don't really believe that he is the biggest of all these wonders, or necessarily the best, your subconscious automatically forms a picture of Jort Camp and you decide that you definitely don't care to meet such a person.
But the Sam Parks type of man clings to your elbow and continues to dangle the legendary Jort Camp before you. He tells you that Jort can pick up a whisky barrel and drink it like you'd drink a bottle of been – a pint bottle, and that Jort can walk a ten-foot gaton out of a monas with one hand tied behind his back and a rock in his right shoe, and that Jort once took on the four Keeley boys singlehanded, and three Keeleys having knives and Jort having nothing but an old length of tire chain, and WHANG! BANG! ZIP and CLANG! and Keeleys all ankles-over- appetite, and Jort astandin' there not even breathless and the length of chain hangin' in his big fist, and him shouting, 'Well good gawd aw-mighty, is that all the fightin' we goan have? I ain't even got my arm unlimbered!' And that what was even more important (nudge, nudge in the ribs) was that Jort had had every girl in the county over fourteen, and that the daddies over to Crow County best watch out because Jort was startin' to cast his eye in that direction, and – and say, stranger, I bet a purty you don't got no man like Jort Camp where you come from, now do yen?
And you say, 'No – no; no one like that at all.' And you head back to your car rationalizing that you don't really have the time to spend visiting Sutt's Landing, just to see some 'real swamp folk' in their natural habitat. And if your daughter gives you any guff about it you shout, 'Get in the car and shut up!'
Jort knew his own legend (he should – he'd helped it with a story or two from time to time), but he didn't really believe in it any more than Shad did. He was a fun-loving, loud-mouthed bully boy. But he wasn't a fool. But still – where there was smoke- He
And girls now – well say, that had always been his speciality. Well – maybe some of 'em had had to be coaxed a bit, but they'd always said yes sooner or later. Yeah – let Shad sneer at the legend of Jort Camp if he dared. But let him try to build one half as big for himself. Just let him try.
Sam was sitting forward with a 12-gauge across his lap; Jort was standing aft working the pole. He was grinning like a fat boy over a surprise birthday cake.
'You didn't go forgit we-all was goan gator-grabbing together, did you, Shad?' Jort called. 'We missed you at the shanty, so we come on out here on our lone. Pure luck running into you thisaway'
So that's how it was going to be, Shad thought. They were going to play cat and mouse with the Money Plane. But still it didn't make sense. They had known he was long gone from the shanty, and in order to get out here before him they must have left the night before. Why?
He glanced at the Springfield on the floorboards but decided against it. Sam was too jumpy a man to startle, and a 12-gauge could scatter an awful lot of space. The safest course would be to play along-seeing that Jort wanted it that way-and wait for a better break. He tucked a smile in his face.
'Jort,' he said, 'I'm God ashamed of myself. I pureout forgot about us going gator-grabbing. I left the Landing night afore last to come out here'
Jort's big skiff came alongside Shad's with a
'What was your big rush, Shad?' he wondered, folding his huge hands over the butt of the stobpole and resting his chin on them. 'Looking fer more skins?'
Shad nodded as though none of it meant a damn to him. 'That – and looking fer Holly's body as usual.'
'Oh yeah,' Jort said quietly. 'Pore old Holly.' He looked up and around at the green roof crowding over head. 'Right easy place fer a man to lost hisself in,' he observed. 'I got to go nearly halves with Sam on my gators just to git him to come out here with me.'
Sam, hearing his name, started.
Shad stared at him. 'Something wrong, Sam?'
The little man flinched again. His head didn't come quite around as he said, 'Huh! No – no they ain't nothing a-tall wrong.'
Jort was offhand. 'Sam don't cotton to this air swamp much. Git him out a the woods and he feels like a Georgia hick in a cee-ment city.'
'Why you bring him?'
Jort's smile was wry. 'Tell you, Shad. I'm some like Sam here, and not a bit like you. I don't take to being out here alone myself.'
Shad nodded. 'Hit's not so bad,' he said. 'If you know where you're going.'
'Yeah.' Jort said, looking at him. 'That's what counts. Knowing where you're going.'
Sam was restless. He wiped his hands along the sides of his pants, pulled at his upper lip, and hunched first one way on the thwart and then another. He swabbed the front of his buckteeth with his tongue; didn't look at anyone when he suddenly spoke.
'Well, we just goan set us here all the blame day?'
Jort looked at him, his eyes narrowing. 'No,' he said thoughtfully, 'we're just waiting fer Shad to show us the way.'
That was getting closer to the brass tacks, Shad thought. Too God close.
'What size gator you got in mind, Jort?' Shad asked innocently.
Jort stared at him fixedly for a moment longer, then started smiling. He was enjoying this. This was what he'd been saving for nearly fifteen years. He could feel the payoff of the premonition coming and he sensed that he
