A Ride on the Short Dog

A Story and a Poem by James Still A Ride on the Short Dog by JAMES STILL We flagged the bus on a curve at the mouth of Lairds Creek by jumping and waving in the road and Dee Buck Engle had to tread the brake the instant he saw us. He wouldn't have halted unless compelled . Mal Dowe and I leaped aside finally , but Godey Spurlock held his ground. The bus stopped a yard from Godey and vexed faces pressed the windows and we heard Old Liz Hyden cry, "I'd not haul them jaspers." Dee Buck opened the door and blared, "You boys trying to get killed?" We climbed on grinning and shoved fares to Roscoe into his hand and for once we didn't sing out, To Knuckle Junction, and Pistol City, and Two Hoots. We even strode the aisle without raising elbows to knock off hats, having agreed among ourselves to sort of behave and make certain of a ride home. Yet Dee Buck was wary. He warned, "Bother my passengers, you fellers, and I'll fix you. I've put up with your mischief till I won't." That set Godey and Mal laughing for Dee Buck was a bluffer. We took the seat across from Liz Hyden and on wedging into it my bruised arm started aching. Swapping licks was Godey's delight. The bus wheezed and jolted in moving away, yet we spared Dee Buck our usual advice: Feed her a biscuit and see will she mend, and, Twist her tail and teach her a few manners. The vehicle was scarcely half the length of regular buses—The Short Dog" everybody called it. It traveled from Thacker to Roscoe and back twice a day. Enos Webb occupied the seat in front and Godey greeted, "Hey-o, chum. How's your fat?" Enos tucked his head, fearing a rabbit lick, and he changed his seat. He knew how Godey served exposed necks. Godey could cause you to see forked lightning and hear thunder balls. Though others shunned us, Liz Hyden gazed in our direction. Her eyes were scornful, her lips "A Ride on the Short Dog" copyright 1951 by the Altantic Monthly. "Early Whippoorwill" copyright 1954 by the Nation. Both used with permission of the publishers. 136 puckered sour. She was as old as a hill. Godey and Mal couldn't sit idle. They rubbed the dusty pane with their sleeves and looked abroad and everything they saw they remarked on: hay doodles in Alonzo Tate's pasture, a crazy chimney leaning away from a house, long-johns on clotheslines. They kept a count of the bridges. They pointed toward the mountain ahead, trying to fool, calling, "Gee-o, looky yonder." But they couldn't trick a soul. My arm throbbed and I had no notion to prank, and after a while Godey muttered , "I want to know what's eating you." "We'd better decide what we can do in town," I grouched. Roscoe folk looked alive at sight of us. And except for our return fares we hadn't a dime. The poolroom had us ousted. We'd have to steer clear of the courthouse where sheriffs were thick. And we dare not rouse the county prisoners again. On our last trip we'd bellowed in front of the jail, "Hey-o, you wifebeaters , how are you standing the times?" We'd jeered and mocked until they had begged the turnkey to fetch us inside, they'd notch our ears, they'd trim us. The turnkey had told them to be patient, we'd get in on our own hook. Godey said, "We'll break loose in town, no two ways talking." I gloomed. "The law will pen us for the least thing. We'll be thrown in amongst the meanest fellers that ever breathed." Godey screwed his eyes narrow. "My opinion, the prisoners scared you plumb. You're ruint for trick-pulling." He knotted a fist and hit me squarely on my bruise. My arm ached the fiercer. My eyes burned and had I not glanced sideways they'd come to worse. "Now, no," I said; but Godey's charge...