Gertie, Earl & Endicott 4

Dawn crept up the next morning, turning the buildings along Main Street a ghostly grey. Earl walked sleepy-eyed to the library where the guys were already waiting for him, outfitted each with ruck sacks for the march - all except for Jimmy who, on account of his cast, had to stay home. They plodded along in silence, past the bakery where Eartha Smiley was in the back kitchen stirring a big bowl of corn meal. Past the gas station, empty except for James Friedle’s pontiac up on hydraulic lifts. Past the fire station, where all but one of the Whites were sleeping soundly. Gertie watched them through the office window, and then slipped quietly out of the station behind them.
Before we go on with the story, I feel I should say a word about Mr. Carson. I just wish it could be a good one. My mamma used to say, if you can’t say nothing nice about a body, then come sit by her. Well, you’d be next to her in a jiff, if you were speaking about Lyle Carson. Never a meaner, more crotchety man ever lived. His only saving grace was that he hated people and so kept hisself far removed from them. Even Earl’s daddy didn’t like going up Carson way to get the garbage. If Old Man Carson’s shotgun didn’t scare you off, then one of his eight hound dogs would. The boys claimed they weren’t scared to head his way, but maybe they should have been. Maybe they should have been.
It was roughly seven o’clock in the morning when the boys hiked their way through the pines to the edge of a clearing. In the center of that clearing was an ancient crumpled woodsman’s cabin hanging on to verticality by spit and a shoeloace. Despite the day promising to turn into a Georgia scorcher, a thin trickle of smoke rose from the chimney pipe that poked out of the rusted tin roof. Old Man Carson was awake, then. Mount St. Henry rose up behind his house like crouched troll with hunched shoulders and a mean stare. Two sleeping dogs were chained to a tree. Who knew where the rest of them were?
The boys crouched down in the underbrush and pulled out their canteens and snack bars. Earl didn’t have either, so he had to settle for a swig of water from his dad’s old Thermos and a slightly-bruised apple. He kept his momma’s cold fried chicken for lunch.
“See that stand of scraggly pines out yonder?” Connie said quietly, pointing to the grim face of the mountain.
“Yeah.”
“Deacon said the tunnel was about there. Said the trees and stuff looked like they had been burned up a ways back and was just now growing back. Said it raised the hackles on his neck to look on it.”
“I see it!” cried Remi. The boys shushed him quickly. One of the sleeping dogs twitched its ear.
“No you don’t numb nuts,” hissed Conrad, narrowing his green eyes beneath fuzzy red-gold eyebrows. “It’s too far away.”
“We’ve got to move closer,” said Todd. “Earl, you first.”
“Me?” Earl gulped. The shadow of Old Man Carson passed in front of one of the dirty cabin windows. Todd shrugged. “Sorry, my friend. Flouder’s got to go first. Rule of the jungle,” he said, a sheepish grin on his face.
Earl shot him a dirty look and shouldered his pack. They heard a crack of underbrush from the woods behind them.
“What was that?” asked Remi.
“Dogs, probably,” hissed Todd. “Move it!”
They trotted off as quietly as they could, skirting around the clearing slowly. The creature in the underbrush followed them at a discreet distance. It wasn’t one of Carson’s dogs, though. It was actually Gertie White. Carson’s dogs were coming at the boys from the left hand side where, down wind, they had caught the promising scent of sweat.
The boys stopped about half-way around the circumference of the clearing, so that they were now directly behind the cabin and the two chained dogs. They peered across the way to the gap in the trees that led to the mountain face. Between the blackened, twisted stumps of pine new foliage grew in garish shades of bright lemony green. Just beyond, a dark smudge marred the red dirt on the volcano's side.
“I think I see it!” Earl whispered.
“Yeah,” agreed Todd.
At that moment, several things happened. Gertie White, hot, tired and hungry, got fed up with skulking along behind the boys. Whatever it was they were up to, she was sure it was no good and liable to get them in trouble. It was time, in her estimation, to put an end to it.
Down wind, Bumper, Old Man Carson’s bloodhound, let out a howl that was like to wake the dead. It caught Mr. Carson, who had just sat down with his second cup, by surprise so that he spilled hot coffee on his overalls. He cussed loudly and pulled Bessie (his shotgun) down from the breakfast buffet. Sasha and Cohen, the two dogs tied to the tree, woke up immediately and began to bark.
“Earl Crawford, y’all better get your butt back home or I’m telling!” Gertie said as she stepped out from behind the tree where she was hiding.
The front door of the cabin slammed open and Lyle Carson rounded the corner.
“Who’s there?” He called out, brandishing his shot-gun in the air.
“Run!” hissed Todd.
Sasha barked. Cohen growled. Bumper crashed through the underbrush, followed by Killer, Flea-bag, Spike and Dirty Harry.