off the seat to stand in the heat still watching. He heard a murderous low growl that reached cold fingers into his heart and found a big snarling hound crouchedwithin thirty feet of him, its tail tucked and all the hair on its back standing up. As he watched, another one joined it and they began to stalk toward him like lions, with their unwavering eyes fixed firmly on his.
âLord have mercy,â he said, and turned, trying to get back in the truck and almost falling, but he made a lunge and got in and pulled the door shut. He kept a pair of pliers on the dash to roll up the window but the spline gear of the window mechanism was worn from just that type of use and it slipped first in his hands and then under the pliers as he worked feverishly at it, the dogs up against the truck now, acting crazy and growling. He got it up halfway and then leaned across the seat and rolled the other window all the way up. It sounded like the dogs were circling the truck, making ragged sounds of wet rumbling in their throats. Heâd never seen dogs act so. Heâd been bitten by white menâs dogs and white men had been bitten by his, but he had never questioned it and even understood it. But there was something wrong with these two besides the fact that he was black. These two were ready to kill somebody. Anybody.
Maybe if he were younger, or maybe if he were younger and had a club. But two at once. Heâd never seen rabies but he didnât think it was that.
One of the hounds reared suddenly against the window and Clancy was faced with its terrible white fangs and maddened eyes and the drool it slobbered on the glass as it snarled and glared at him. He pulled back from it. He didnât think it could get in. It stayed there for a while and it began to whine a little, licking at the glass. After a bit it dropped back to the ground.
Clancy hauled out his pocketwatch and looked at it. Church was going to start in twenty minutes but that didnât matter now. He felt kind of embarrassed. More than anything he wanted to see Rufus walk out that front door that was standing so wide open and if he was drunk it wouldbe all right, heâd take him on home and put him to bed. Heâd done stuff like this himself a long time ago and a young man was entitled to some mistakes. Just as long as everything was all right. But the reason Rufus wasnât going to walk out that door was the reason the dogs were acting the way they were. He wondered if maybe he should just crank his pickup and turn it around and drive out of here, go over to Mr. Wylieâs store and use the phone to call the sheriff. And what would the sheriff do? Come over here and shoot these dogs? Or would he just hear an old fool babbling about some dogs keeping him in his truck at a white manâs beer joint and making him late for church and hang up on him? But it was simple, really: he couldnât leave and he couldnât get out. He had to do something. If something was wrong with Rufus, he had to do something. Rufus wasnât home so something was wrong with Rufus. The simplicity and the puzzlement of it played around and around in his head but he couldnât figure what move to make. The main thing was to see about Rufus without letting the dogs take him down, because if they did ⦠What was wrong with them dogs?
He couldnât even hear them now. He knew they had to be lying in front of the truck. Just waiting. He couldnât get out and he couldnât leave. If that log wasnât lying in front of the truck, he could turn the truck sideways somehow and get up close to the porch, maybe get in that way, make a jump for the door ⦠but the log was in the way. And the window was blown out.
Old fool, he told himself. Rufus in there and you got to do something. That window blowed out the way it was, Rufus probably dead in there. Do something, but what?
There was that jumble of things on the floorboard of the truck: a tattered
âLord have mercy,â he said, and turned, trying to get back in the truck and almost falling, but he made a lunge and got in and pulled the door shut. He kept a pair of pliers on the dash to roll up the window but the spline gear of the window mechanism was worn from just that type of use and it slipped first in his hands and then under the pliers as he worked feverishly at it, the dogs up against the truck now, acting crazy and growling. He got it up halfway and then leaned across the seat and rolled the other window all the way up. It sounded like the dogs were circling the truck, making ragged sounds of wet rumbling in their throats. Heâd never seen dogs act so. Heâd been bitten by white menâs dogs and white men had been bitten by his, but he had never questioned it and even understood it. But there was something wrong with these two besides the fact that he was black. These two were ready to kill somebody. Anybody.
Maybe if he were younger, or maybe if he were younger and had a club. But two at once. Heâd never seen rabies but he didnât think it was that.
One of the hounds reared suddenly against the window and Clancy was faced with its terrible white fangs and maddened eyes and the drool it slobbered on the glass as it snarled and glared at him. He pulled back from it. He didnât think it could get in. It stayed there for a while and it began to whine a little, licking at the glass. After a bit it dropped back to the ground.
Clancy hauled out his pocketwatch and looked at it. Church was going to start in twenty minutes but that didnât matter now. He felt kind of embarrassed. More than anything he wanted to see Rufus walk out that front door that was standing so wide open and if he was drunk it wouldbe all right, heâd take him on home and put him to bed. Heâd done stuff like this himself a long time ago and a young man was entitled to some mistakes. Just as long as everything was all right. But the reason Rufus wasnât going to walk out that door was the reason the dogs were acting the way they were. He wondered if maybe he should just crank his pickup and turn it around and drive out of here, go over to Mr. Wylieâs store and use the phone to call the sheriff. And what would the sheriff do? Come over here and shoot these dogs? Or would he just hear an old fool babbling about some dogs keeping him in his truck at a white manâs beer joint and making him late for church and hang up on him? But it was simple, really: he couldnât leave and he couldnât get out. He had to do something. If something was wrong with Rufus, he had to do something. Rufus wasnât home so something was wrong with Rufus. The simplicity and the puzzlement of it played around and around in his head but he couldnât figure what move to make. The main thing was to see about Rufus without letting the dogs take him down, because if they did ⦠What was wrong with them dogs?
He couldnât even hear them now. He knew they had to be lying in front of the truck. Just waiting. He couldnât get out and he couldnât leave. If that log wasnât lying in front of the truck, he could turn the truck sideways somehow and get up close to the porch, maybe get in that way, make a jump for the door ⦠but the log was in the way. And the window was blown out.
Old fool, he told himself. Rufus in there and you got to do something. That window blowed out the way it was, Rufus probably dead in there. Do something, but what?
There was that jumble of things on the floorboard of the truck: a tattered
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