Saving Shiloh (7 page)

“They don't even know the exact day. It was about the time of Judd's accident, but it could have been a week before or a week after.” He looks at me. “I think we better turn that boot over to the sheriff.”

I swallow. “I don't have it,” I say.

“Where
is
it?”

I'm so miserable, my stomach hurts. “Judd said it was his, so I gave it to him.”

David slides down in the seat, can hardly believe it. “We could've been on the witness stand, Marty!” he says. “Maybe we could have solved the case!”

“Just be quiet about it,” I say. I'm feeling low enough as it is.

David don't tell the other kids what I did, but he is sure disgusted.

At school, Miss Talbot's wearin' something new she got for Christmas, too. It's a diamond ring, and all the girls got
to gather round her desk and make her turn her hand this way and that, see the diamond sparkle. She's engaged to a high school teacher over in Middlebourne.

Soon as the kids start talking about Judd Travers being guilty, though, she puts a stop to it. “This class is not a courtroom,” she says, and we know that—ring or no ring—she means business.

At home, Dad won't let us talk about Judd being the murderer, either.

“That Ed Sholt!” he says. “Shootin' off his mouth . . . !” Dad kicks off his shoes and sinks down on the sofa. “Saw him at lunch today in Sistersville, and he's worked out the whole thing in his head—all the different ways the man could have been killed, and he's got Judd doing the killing in every one of 'em. ‘Pipe down, Ed,' I tell him. ‘A man's innocent till proven guilty, you know. He's a right to his day in court, it ever gets to that.' But he says, ‘You're the one who should worry, Ray. You live closer to Judd than the rest of us. If it were me, I'd get a good strong lock for my door and keep a gun handy.' ”

I swallow. “You talk to the sheriff yet?”

“Yes, and he's guessing Judd's not the one. They can't tell when the man was killed exactly, not when a body's been dead this long, but they figure he probably died sometime after Judd's accident; somebody thinks he may have seen him later than that, anyway.”

I'm wondering what it's like to have everybody suspecting you of a crime you didn't do—just when you're tryin' to be better. Maybe you think, what's the use? If everybody figures you're bad, might as well go ahead and be bad. But if Judd gives up now, those dogs of his, when he gets 'em back, are going to have a worse time of it than before.
Judd'll hate everything and everybody, includin' his dogs. On the other hand, what if he
did
do it? What if he really is a killer?

I try not to let myself think on that. The only thing I can see to do—for Judd's dogs, anyway—is to get Judd Travers a fence. Once I do something for
all
Judd's dogs, I can stop feelin' so guilty about saving only the one. So I say to Dad, “You know anybody got some old chicken wire stuck away that we could use to fence in Judd's yard for his dogs?”

Dad turns the TV down and looks at me.
“Chicken
wire? You got to have somethin' stronger than that, Marty! You need regular fencing wire and metal posts, and nobody I know has a whole fence just sittin' around, I can tell you.”

Seem like everything I think of to do has got a hitch to it.

All week the weather stays mild, and the snow's disappearin' fast. “January thaw,” Ma says. Tells us that for a few days most Januarys, it seems, there's a mild spell to give us a promise of spring before the next big snowfall.

The sun shines on into the weekend, and Saturday afternoon, after I get back from the vet, I decide that I'm going about this fence idea all wrong. If nobody's going to keep an old fence around after they take it down, then I got to find somebody with the fence still up that he'd just as soon wasn't there.

I walk over to Doc Murphy's, Shiloh frisking alongside me, tryin' to get me to run. I'm thinking how last September, when I was helpin' Doc in his yard, he'd said now that his wife wasn't there to garden anymore, he wished he didn't have a fence around that vegetable plot, just a nuisance when he mowed.

Doc's got a couple of men patching his roof and cleaning
his gutters, and he's out there scattering grass seed on all the bare patches of lawn. Shiloh goes right over and waits for Doc to pet him. I wonder if in his little dog brain he remembers that Doc saved his life after the fight with the German shepherd.

“Hello there, Marty,” he says, scratchin' Shiloh behind the ears. “I'm getting a jump on old man winter. Figure if I can get this seed in the ground before the next snow, it'll be the first grass up come spring.”

“Too bad that fence is still there, or you could plant right over the postholes,” I tell him.

“I was thinking the same thing,” says Doc. He lets Shiloh go, and scoops up another handful of seed from his bag.

“I could maybe take it down for you,” I offer.

He gives this little laugh. “That's not a job for a kid. Lot of wire there, and those posts are heavy.”

“I bet I could. Would haul it away for you, too.”

Doc studies me over the rim of his glasses. “Your dad wants this fence?”

“It's for Judd Travers. To keep his dogs happy when he gets 'em back. He won't let 'em run loose, 'cause they're his hunting dogs, but John Collins says they wouldn't be half as mean if they weren't chained—if they had a yard to play in.”

Doc Murphy don't say anything for a minute. Just turns his back on me and goes on scattering that seed. Finally he says, “Tell you what: I'll have Joe and Earl there”—and he nods toward the men on the roof—“take that fence down if you can have it off my property by tomorrow. I don't want a pile of fencing sitting around here. Then I can get the whole place seeded in this warm spell. Deal?”

“Deal,” I say. “Dad and me'll come pick it up in the morning.”

I don't even have time to be happy, because I realize Judd Travers don't know a single solitary thing about any of this. You don't just show up at a man's house and start fencing his yard.

Only thing I can think of to do is walk on over to Judd's and ask. I'm not real eager to go over there by myself, though. I mean, what if that boot we found
did
belong to the dead man, and Judd knows that I know what it looked like? Where it was found? 'Course, why would Judd kill a man, leave his body by the river, but bury his boots someplace else? That don't make a whole lot of sense, either.

I walk back up the road and my mind's goin' around and around, first how Judd must have done it for sure and then how he didn't, like to drive me crazy. I cross the bridge, but when I head for the brown-and-white trailer, Shiloh turns back. I get to Judd's about the time he's sittin' down to lunch.

Any other man would ask me to come back later or invite me to share his food. Judd Travers invites me in to watch him eat, I guess, 'cause I sit at his table and he only offers me a pop. And right off he says:

“What you want? Everybody else seems to think I killed a man. That what you come to say?”

“No,” I tell him. “ 'Course not.” Already my heart's knockin' around beneath my jacket.

“Then what were you doin' snoopin' in the back of my truck last time you were here?”

My breath seems to freeze right up inside my chest. One thing about Judd Travers, he don't forget. I decide to tell it straight. “Trying to figure where that other boot of yours was,” I tell him. “To match the one I found.”

“Why should you care?” asks Judd, his narrow eyes on me.

I shrug. “No particular reason. Just wondering, that's all.”

“Well, I threw it out,” Judd says. “When you think you've seen the last of one, not much use for the other.”

Wonder just how far Judd trusts me; about as far as I trust him, I guess. I talk about somethin' else: “When do you suppose you'll get your dogs back?”

“Soon's I can get around without this cast,” he says. “Doc's taking it off next Wednesday. I'll still be hobblin' around on crutches, but I figure I can at least tend to my dogs.”

“You know,” I say, “the way I hear it, the happiest dogs make the best hunters.”

“Don't know about that,” says Judd. “My pa always said to keep 'em lean and mean.”

Can't help myself. “Maybe your pa wasn't always right,” I say.

Judd pauses, a piece of macaroni on his fork. He looks at me for a minute, then puts the fork to his mouth, don't say nothing. I figure that don't get me no points.

“All I know is what I learn from Doc Collins, that chainin' up dogs is one of the worst things you can do,” I say.

“Well, that's just a pity, because I don't have no money for a fence,” Judd tells me, and takes a big swallow of water, wipes his hand across his mouth, and hunches over his plate again, like his macaroni and beef is a chore he's got to wade through.

“What I come to tell you is that Doc Murphy's having his garden fence took down this afternoon, wants if off his property by tomorrow. First come, first get. I asked him not to give it to nobody till I'd talked to you.” I pray Jesus this isn't a true lie, just a social conversation.

“What's the catch?” asks Judd.

“Nothin'. He wants to plant grass seed over the post-holes during this warm spell.”

“Well, I got the strength of a ninety-year-old man right now, and Doc knows that. I can't be fooling with a fence.”

“Dad and me can bring it by. Put it up for you.”

Judd gives this half smile and a “
Huh!
Nobody does nothing for free,” he says.

“We're not askin' anything, Judd! Just see a chance to do a little something for those dogs.”

“Why? They're not your dogs. You got Shiloh. You got an eye on them, too?”

“No! What you talkin' about? We're just bein' neighborly, that's all.”

“Well, my dogs'll get along fine without you,” says Judd, and goes on eating, and my stomach does a flip-flop.

I stand up. “If you don't want it, I know folks who do. What's the name of that man with all those hunting dogs over in Little—those really
fine
dogs? He knows they need a place to run, and he'd like that fence, I'll bet.” I am stretching the truth so far I can almost hear it snap. Don't even know a man in Little.

I wait for two . . . three seconds, but Judd don't say a thing. I push my chair in and head out the door.

A
ll the way home I am chewin' myself out. What am I, some kind of fool? Judd Travers don't care about his dogs any more than I care about mushrooms. Couldn't get that man to change if you was to hold his feet to the fire.

And now I feel a rage buildin' up in my chest that's almost too much for me to handle. All I am trying in this world to do is make life a little easier for Judd Travers's dogs, and what do I get? Trouble up one side and down the other. Bet he
did
kill that man from Bens Run. Judd's got enough meanness in him to do most anything.

Right this very minute Doc's got those men takin' down his fence. I cross the bridge and can look way down the road, see where one is digging up those posts, and the other is winding up that wire. And tomorrow morning my dad, who don't even know it yet, is to drive his Jeep over and pick up a whole yard of fence that Judd Travers don't want in the first place.

I am too mad to go inside our house. Too mad to look myself in the mirror. Shiloh comes out to meet me and I don't even say hello. Just march on by and head up the path to the far hill, Shiloh running on ahead, bouncing with pure joy.

“It's all because of you,” I tell him, knowing all the while I'd do it again, even so. It's true, though. If it weren't for Shiloh, Judd Travers would be just somebody to stay away from when we could, say your howdys to when you couldn't. But because I got Shiloh, I am smack in the middle of all Judd's problems.

I'm remembering it was up here I saw that gray fox last summer with the reddish head. Suppose somebody's shot it by now, with all the meanness around. Every minute of every day there are folks like Judd Travers bein' born; every minute of every day they are thinkin' up ways to be worse than they were the day before.

What do I care what happens to Judd? I ask myself. What do I care what happens to his dogs? I am turnin' myself inside out to be nice to a man who hasn't an ounce of kindness in his whole body, and who's probably a killer, too.

All afternoon I stomp and storm around our woods and meadow, pickin' up every limb I can find and whackin' it so hard against a stump I send splinters every which way. Every log becomes a Judd Travers I got to kick and whack, till my feet and arms are tired.

Finally, when I been gone so long I know Ma will worry, when even Shiloh's laid down to rest himself, I turn around and start back. I get home about the time Dad's coming up the drive in his Jeep.

“You look like you been hiking some,” Dad says as I follow
him into the house where Dara Lynn and Becky are watching TV.

“Wondered
where you were, Marty,” Ma calls from the kitchen.

I throw my jacket on the floor. “I don't want to have anything more to do with Judd Travers the whole rest of my life!” I say.

Now Dad's lookin' at me. “Marty, I don't think I want you going over there alone,” he says. “Didn't have a fight with him, did you?”

“No, I didn't have no fight!” I say, a little too loud, and grab a box of cheese crackers from the cupboard like they was out to get me. Lean against the counter and stuff 'em in my mouth, hardly even tasting. I think again how that fence is waiting over there at Doc Murphy's, and figure I'm not just mad, I'm crazy. Whatever Grandma Preston's got wrong with her mind, I got it, too.