The Ridge: The Whisper of the Leaves - Chap. 11

Marshall leaned back against the trunk of what was left of a lightening struck oak as he watched and waited. The “coon” had disappeared into a rot-hole forty feet up a hundred year old hickory-nut tree. Marshall’s forehead light and rifle were leveled on the opening.

Buck, his blue-tick, was reared up on the trunk, eyes also raised, as stone steady as his master’s. Both knew sooner or later the coon’s curiosity would take over. Five minutes later, it did.

The young coon’s left ear suddenly peaked over the rim of the hole. On that cue, Marshall cocked his head just enough to slide the light six inches below the opening. Realizing it was no longer “in the spotlight,” the coon began inching it’s way out of the hole as he knew it would.

Marshall waited the prescribed two minutes, then swung the light up. As expected, the coon was halfway out of the hole, crawling away from the light source. When it felt the beam on its back, though, it whirled back toward Marshall and froze, temporarily mesmerized and looking for all the world like a “caught” sneak thief.

Waiting more than a second or two would have broken the trance. But, Marshall didn’t wait and his years of experience kicked in as he fired the split second the coon jerked its head around. For all practical purposes, the animal was dead before it had even focused its eyes.

As the shot echoed through the leafless forest, the raccoon began tumbling through the branches. It hit the ground beside the waiting Buck and the hound was instantly on it, just in case it had some life left, but there was none.

“Atta boy, Buck,” Marshall patted his dog on the back. “We got’im, boy.”

Buck pranced around as Marshall picked up the limp body and, as always, looked to see where the bullet had caught the animal. An almost invisible hole was just above the coon’s left eye.

“Not bad,” He mumbled, then tossed the kill into the burlap sack hanging at his side. “Let’s go home, Buck.”

Most small game hunters used eighteen or twenty gage shotguns, but Marshall refused wanting to make any hunt more sporting. Even with the .22’s limited ability, however, he was still lethal. He had hunted and killed every game imaginable, including birds, all usually brought down with lone shots to the head.

He could have gotten many more “coons”, but a pair was all his family needed so he stopped there. As he and his dog began the trek home he thought about the “sport” hunters he had encountered onTthe Ridge. He never even knew such hunting existed till he saw a picture in school one day.

“What’d they shoot ‘em for?” Twelve year old Marshall asked while looking at the picture of two men standing proudly over a brace of lions they had killed. “They don’t eat ‘em do they?”

“No, Marshall,” Miss Carson answered amid the titters from the rest of the class. “Men like this hunt just for recreation.”

“Recreation? Ya mean for fun?”

“That’s right, for fun.”

“Well that’s about the stupidest thing I ever heard of.” Marshall said, shaking a disgusted head. Five years later, that picture was still stuck in his head.

He ran across hunters like that every now and then. And they always looked the same: too many clothes, too much equipment, too big a gun and too much talk. He could usually hear them coming from a quarter mile away.

“Kill anything?” They invariably yelled when they would see him through the trees.

He would always try to act as if he hadn’t heard them, but sometimes, he couldn’t get away. It was then that he would have to exchange pleasantries and listen to their lies of near conquest. After only a couple of meetings with such people, he had learned very quickly that, depression or not, there seemed to be a lot of people around who had too much money and too little sense. Much to his relief, he and Buck had the trees to themselves that night.

When he emerged from the woods, he could see his house more than a mile to the west. He frowned because he shouldn’t have been able to see it at this distance. At least not with the sky as overcast as it was and not at 10:30 at night, the time that he guessed it was. The house should have been dark with everyone, but himself, in bed.

But, then Marshall remembered when he left around eight, his mother had said something about James not being home from town yet. He hadn’t thought any thing about it at the time, thinking it was just another case of a mother’s fretting. Now he wasn’t so sure.

Cummon, Buck,” The dog looked up at the mention of his name, then had to begin loping to keep up with his master as he began trotting down the dirt road that split the field in two. By the time Marshall got to where he could see three strange cars in the drive, he was running.

“Whatsuh-matter,” he yelled as he came over the railroad track levy still 50 yards from the house. He had run flat-out for more than half a mile. He was barely panting, though, when he jumped the fence next to the road and sprinted up the drive, rifle in one hand, coon-filled tow sack in the other.

“What’s goin’ on. What happened.” He asked Steve Frost and Jim Champion the two young deputy sheriffs who were standing on the porch.

“You part of the family?” Frost asked Marshall, instinctively resting his hand on his pistol when he saw Marshall’s rifle.

“Yea, I’m part of the family,” Marshall snapped. “What happened?”

Neither seemed ready to talk quickly enough to suit him, so he dropped the game beside the front door and strode inside still clutching the rifle.

Reverend Ray, who was sitting on the sofa, looked up when he heard the door open.

“Hello, Marshall,” he said with a nod and half smile.

Marshall nodded in return, then noticed Carl also on the sofa. The preacher’s bulk had momentarily obscured his smallish father. Marshall thought his daddy looked even smaller at that moment.

Carl was leaned forward, head down, hands clasped, an almost consumed cigarette poking out from his right hand. He looked up long enough to see Marshall, then dropped his head again.

Marshall heard a sob to his right and looked through the living room into his parent’s bedroom. His mother was laying on her bed, a wet cloth on her forehead. Her sister, Bessie Lambert, was sitting beside her, holding and petting her hand. Neither one noticed him.

“Daddy, what’s wrong?” Marshall asked when he turned back to his father. His voice was steady.

Reverend Ray looked a Marshall a moment, then leaned over and whispered something into Carl’s ear. Carl nodded a response then the preacher stood up.

“Marshall, let’s go outside.” He gently took the boy by the elbow, but Marshall jerked away.

“No,” His voice was firm. “Tell me what’s goin’ on right here.”

The preacher took his arm again, just as gently and said, “Please Marshall.”

Marshall eyed the man, then his father and then his mother. Finally, he turned and walked out into the cold followed by the Reverend. He stepped off the porch into the front yard, then whirled and stood eye to eye with the bigger man.

“What happened?”

Marshall was so calm and direct with his question, that the preacher felt compelled to respond with an equally direct answer.

“James is dead.”

In over twenty-two years as a preacher, he had broken news like this many times. And though he had never gotten used to doing it, he had become adept at judging potential reactions. He instinctively knew Carl would silently hold the emotion in, but that Edna would temporally collapse. But he also knew they were the sort of people who would be back in control within a day. They would do whatever was necessary to hold their new, smaller family together.

But, Marshall was hard to read and the preacher didn’t know what to expect. So he watched him carefully after he broke the news……but he saw nothing. No tears, no wobbling, no clearing of the throat, not even a blink. The only response was a momentary hesitation. Then Marshall repeated his first question.

“What happened?” His voice was flater now.

“Someone killed him.” The Reverend said. “They found his body in the alley beside Mitchell’s. He’d been hit from behind. Doctor Jennings said he probably didn’t feel anything, thank God.”

Marshall, who was still holding the rifle, now raised it and cradled it in his folded arms.

“Any clues?”

“Just what they think was the weapon, a coal poker. It was there with ‘im.”

Marshall stared for a long moment then slowly nodded. He dropped his head in thought for a split, then looked toward the house and gazed at it for a moment. He then turned back to the Reverand and reached out his hand.

“Thanks, Brother Ray,” He said as he pumped the preacher’s hand. “We appreciate it.”

The preacher watched as Marshall walked toward the barn, head down crossing through the car lights. After a moment, he had disappeared into the dark. Brother Ray sighed and walked back into the house.

“Carl,” He said. “I just told Marshall what happened.”

“How’d he take it?” Carl asked.

“Fine. He took it fine.” The Reverand said, then added. “He’s a strong boy isn’t he.”

Carl’s mouth curled slightly up at one corner as he nodded.

“Yessir” He croaked, wistful eyes staring at nothing. “Not much “boy” there anymore, though.”

Brother Ray nodded. Suddenly Carl stood and faced the preacher.

“Preacher,” He said quietly. “Uh.......I ain’t been to church in a while. You know that. But, I also want ya to know it ain’t nothin’ against you. I just don’t like crowds an’ people pushin’ an’ proddin’ an’ whisperin’ things and all that. Just don’t like it. So, I figure it’s best for me just to stay home and let Edna and the kids do the church-goin’ for me. That way nobody’s bothern’ nobody.”

“Carl,” Brother Ray said placing a hand on Carl’s shoulder. “I appreciate ya honesty. When all this is over, I wish you’d let me come talk to ya. Just you and me, with no one ‘prodding’ you. Will ya let me do that?”

Carl sat back down and after a moment, looked up at Brother Ray.

“We’ll see,” Carl said after a moment of thought. Just then, Deputy Steve Frost came in, hat in hand.

“Mr. Bentwood,” He said. “Is there anything else that Jim or I can do for ya?”

“No, son,” Carl said. “I appreciate you and the other fella comin’ out here and helpin’ the preacher tell me ‘bout my boy, ‘bout James. Both ya’ll go on home now, it’s gettin’ late.”

“Well,” Frost said. “If ya need anything else, just let us know.”

Frost started toward the door, but then turned back.

“By the way,” He said. “Chief Lampkin said the State Police was sending a couple of investigators to look at the kil.... at the case. Said they’d get in from Little Rock sometime tonight.”

“Ya think they can find who did this?” Carl asked.

“I’d say there’s a good chance,” Frost answered. “They’ve had a lot’a experience.”

“Hope ya right, son.”

To Be Continued........