Land of a Hundred Wonders

that it was a trout pulled straight out of the lake this afternoon by my peg-legged-fishin’-cowboy-whittlin’-bird- watcher. “It’s just… I’m so worried about Grampa and Mama isn’t resting in peace and-”

“I know, I know.” Clever won’t straight out apologize for her part of the spat, ’cause that’s not her way, but she is making a peace offering when she says, “All this chasin’ and jailbreakin’ and drownin’ and birthin’, this is just like one of our western movies, isn’t it, Butch?”

What she really means is, it’s just like OUR western movie. “Only difference is this story is true and that one’s made up,” I remind her.

“There’s no way you’re tellin’ me Mr. Paul Newman and Mr. Robert Redford are not the best of friends. ’Course they are. Tried and true. No matter how dumb one of ’em gets actin’.” Firing off an ornery look at me, she says, “Cooter, why don’t ya go ahead and tell us what ya think Mr. Buster’s motive was to drown Georgie?”

'Y’all know anything ’bout politics?” Cooter asks, showing off his college.

I don’t believe I do, so I say, “Uh-uh.” So does Clever. Billy is keeping his lips padlocked. He is being awfully excellent at that this evening. What’s troubling him?

Cooter says, “Well, right before Georgie died, that was about the time Buster’d begun to talk about throwin’ his hat into the ring.”

Clever and me give him our huh? look.

“Throwin’ your hat in the ring is another way of sayin’ ya want to get involved in politics,” Cooter explains. “And when ya do that, ya gotta make folks want to vote for ya by makin’ sure that you’re lily white.”

I say, “Everyone already knows that ya gotta be white to be governor.”

“Lily white-it don’t mean white on the outside, like your skin. It means you gotta be clean. Without a bad mark in your morals,” Cooter says, warming up to the subject. “You cain’t have nuthin’ goin’ on with you or your family that folks might consider not right. Like rumors goin’ round about breedin’ up your own sister? That might not go down so smooth with the upstandin’ voters.”

For the millionth time, I am left simply breathless by what I don’t know.

“So what you’re sayin’ is, ya think Mr. Buster drowned Georgie so he could get some more lily white votes ’cause he was desirin’ to get elected for something?” I ask.

“That’s ’zactly what I’m sayin’,” Cooter says. “Once Georgie was dead, Buster had himself what ya call an out-a-sight-out-a-mind situation.”

This is the most bastardly idea I have ever heard!

Bringing his plate up to his mouth, Cooter licks the last of the beans off. “And then everything just fell into place even betterfor Buster when Miss Lydia developed, ya know, mental area problems. That way nuthin’ she said about her havin’ her own brother’s chil’ would be held up like truth.”

I guess Cooter feels about Miss Lydia same as Grampa and, truth be told, a lot of the other folks in Cray Ridge. Miss Lydia’s gifted ways frighten them so they say she’s got problems in her mental area and tap their temples. I’m used to that. I even understand it. Miss Lydia has taught me that people are always ascared by what they don’t understand.

“Oh, Mama…,” Clever wails, balling up again.

I lean behind her back and whisper to Billy, “Seems like they’re comin’ faster now. Ya sure we shouldn’t take her to the hospital?”

“We can’t do that. The sheriff knows she’s ’bout to have a baby. The posse might be watchin’ for us. They could come down on us. Take Cooter back to jail. Or worse.”

Thoughtfully, he left out the part where they would take me away, too. Not hang me, I don’t think, but I wouldn’t put anything past the sheriff at this point. He’s already ticked off at me for breaking Cooter out of his jail and stealing back my pictures of dead Mr. Buster. And he’s probably gonna blame me for pulling that stunt on the road when he got knocked out with that limestone rock. (Getting outsmarted by an imbecile who’s dumb as anthracite coal ain’t exactly a boost to your manhood, is it now?)

Wiping off the beads of sweat that keep popping up on Billy’s forehead, I ask, “You feelin’ all right?”

“I’m fine,” he says, looking up at me, but then turnin’ his attention back to his watch. Not fast enough. I saw his lyin’ eyes. Mr. Howard Redmond in his chapter entitled Determining the Guilty Party explains that one of the things guilty people do, besideslie and fidget, is they perspire a lot. Though my man is well-muscled, he is quite sensitive, so earlier this evening I thought it might be all the sad reminiscing about his old pal Georgie that was makin’ Billy damp. Or the Brandish Boys comin’ for us, that’d make an ice cube sweat. But I was mistaken. He definitely had the means. True, I have no idea what his motive might be for murdering Mr. Buster, but he certainly had the opportunity. He’s always prowling around, sight unseen. I also understand now why he was the only one believed me right off about finding Mr. Buster dead on Browntown Beach.

Oh, my sweet, sweet Billy. What have ya gone and done?

Sunup

At first light, Billy shakes me awake. I only drifted off for a bit, worryin’ like I was about Clever, who spent the whole night groaning, moaning, wishing for her mama to magically appear with a heart full of caring. And my guilty Billy, I fretted about him, too. A whole heap. “Gib, get up,” he says, tense.

Groping for the.22, I ask, “Is it the Boys? Have they come for us?”

“It’s Clever. She’s burnin’ up with fever.”

I glance over at the two of them entwined near the back of the cave, the coolest part. Clever’s face looks like it might burst into flames. Cooter is dabbing the sheen off her with his kerchief.

“Gotta get her to the hospital,” Billy says, reaching for his boots.

“But they’ll get us. Just like you said, they’ll have the hospital staked out.”

“I know what I told ya, but I gave this all some thought through the night. The truth is,” he says, “they’re not really coming for Clever. Or me.”

Not yet anyway. But once Cooter is let off from murdering Mr. Buster, they WILL be coming after you, my honey bunch. Somebody’s bound to notice how Mr. Buster’s neck was about twisted off. Somebody will remember your Oriental neck choppers. And how your army knife could do a fine job making those four holes in his chest. Like I said, I don’t know why he murdered Mr. Buster, but knowing how Billy feels about killing people in general, he musta had a damn good reason. (And you, my dear friend, knowing me the way you do by now? You gotta know that I CANNOT let the law cart off my man. I just got him back. No. He and me will head to the border. We’ll send for Clever and Cooter and Rosie once we get settled in the rolling hills of Bolivia.)

“I want you and Cooter to stay put. I’m gonna ride Clever back to the cottage and call my daddy. He can take us to the hospital, ” Billy says, taking charge. “I’ve got the pictures of Buster dead on the beach and I’ll also make sure he gets them into the hands of Judge Larson. Once the judge sees those snapshots, he’ll know the sheriff is up to no good and he’ll call off the hunt.”

Judge Larson is older than Cumberland Mountain, but has always been fair. He’s a checkers- playing friend of Grampa’s.

“Wait a minute. Isn’t your daddy gone? Flyin’ Grampa to Texas for his operation?”

“He’ll be back by now,” Billy says, pulling on his other boot. “That don’ take that long.”

I think on it all for a minute. “So the plan is you’re gonna take Clever to the cottage and call your daddy, who’ll take her to the hospital and make sure Judge Larson sees those pictures of Buster on the beach, and ya want Cooter and me to stay here until the coast is clear?”

“That’s good rememberin’,” Billy says, admiringly.

I say thank you with a kiss on his cheek. Keeper does the same.

Billy lifts his powerful Vietnam binoculars out of his pack and hands them to me. “Once we head down the trail, get outside the cave behind the rock, and if you see the posse comin’… we sh… sh… should go while it’s still a little dddark.”