Read Online On the River Styx by Peter Matthiessen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Peter Matthiessen
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solitude. Inert, half-buried, Traver mourned a blues.
Black river bottom, black river bottom
Nigger sinkin down to dat black river bottom
Ain’t comin home no mo’
Ol’ Devil layin at dat black river bottom
Black river bottom, black river bottom,
Waitin fo’ de nigger man los’ on de river
Dat ain’t comin home no mo’ …
At dark, inch by inch, circuitously, Traver came ashore. He knew now he must track the man and kill him. His nerves would not tolerate another day of fear, and he took courage from the recklessness of desperation.
Again the cabin was lit up, but this time he smelled coffee. The man’s shadow moved against the window, and the light died out. The man would be sitting in the dark, rifle pointed at the open door.
The hunt ended early the next morning.
T RAVER BELLIED ACROSS a clearing and slid down a steep bank which joined the high ground to the marsh. His feet were planted in the water at the end of Red Gate Ditch, and on his right was a muddy, rooted grove of yaupon known as Hog Crawl. The hunter was some distance to the eastward.
Traver had a length of dry, dead branch. He broke it sharply on his knee. The snap rang through the morning trees, and a hog grunted from somewhere in the Crawl. Then Traver waited, peering through the grass. He had his knife out, and his rabbit club. Lifting one foot from the water of the ditch, he kicked a foothold in the bank. Below him, the scum of algae closed its broken surface, leaving no trace of where the foot had been.
The man was coming. Traver could feel him, somewhere behind the black trunks of the trees. The final sun, which filtered through the woods from the ocean side, formed a strange red haze in the shrouds of Spanish moss.
Out of this the man appeared. One moment there was nothing and the next he was there, startling the eye like a copperhead camouflaged in fallen leaves. He moved toward Traver until he reached the middle of the clearing, just out of Traver’s range, facing the Hog Crawl. There he stood stiff as a deer and listened.
Traver listened too, absorbing every detail of the scene through every sense. The trap was his, he was the hunternow, on his own ground. The cardinal song had never seemed so liquid, the foliage so green, the smell of earth so strong.
The white man shifted, stepping a little closer. The hog snuffled again, back in the yaupon. Traver could just make it out beneath the branches, a brown-and-yellow brindle sow, caked with dry mud. Now it came forward, curious. It would see Traver before it saw the white man, and it would give him away.
Traver swallowed. The sow came toward him, red-eyed. The white man, immobile, waited for it also. When the sow saw Traver, it stopped, then backed away a little, then grunted and trotted off.
Traver flicked his gaze back to the man.
He was suspicious. Slowly the rifle swung around until it was pointed a few feet to Traver’s left.
He gwine kill me now. Even do I pray, O Lo’d, he gwine kill me now.
Traver was backing down the bank as the man moved forward. Beneath the turned-down brim, the eyes were fixed on the spot to Traver’s left. Traver flipped the butt of broken branch in the same direction. When the white man whirled upon the sound, Traver reared and hurled his club. He did not miss. It struck just as the shot went off.
Traver had rolled aside instinctively, but this same instinct drove him to his feet again and forward. The man lay still beside the rifle. The hand that had been groping for it fell back as Traver sprang. He pressed his knife blade to the white, unsunburned patch of throat beneath the grizzled chin.
Kill him. Kill him now.
But he did not. Gasping, he stared down at the face a footfrom his. It was bleeding badly from the temple but was otherwise unchanged. Pinning the man’s arms with his knees, he pushed the eyelids open with his free hand. The eyes regarded him, unblinking, like the eyes of a wounded hawk.
“Wa’nt quite slick enough fo’ Traver,
Black river bottom, black river bottom
Nigger sinkin down to dat black river bottom
Ain’t comin home no mo’
Ol’ Devil layin at dat black river bottom
Black river bottom, black river bottom,
Waitin fo’ de nigger man los’ on de river
Dat ain’t comin home no mo’ …
At dark, inch by inch, circuitously, Traver came ashore. He knew now he must track the man and kill him. His nerves would not tolerate another day of fear, and he took courage from the recklessness of desperation.
Again the cabin was lit up, but this time he smelled coffee. The man’s shadow moved against the window, and the light died out. The man would be sitting in the dark, rifle pointed at the open door.
The hunt ended early the next morning.
T RAVER BELLIED ACROSS a clearing and slid down a steep bank which joined the high ground to the marsh. His feet were planted in the water at the end of Red Gate Ditch, and on his right was a muddy, rooted grove of yaupon known as Hog Crawl. The hunter was some distance to the eastward.
Traver had a length of dry, dead branch. He broke it sharply on his knee. The snap rang through the morning trees, and a hog grunted from somewhere in the Crawl. Then Traver waited, peering through the grass. He had his knife out, and his rabbit club. Lifting one foot from the water of the ditch, he kicked a foothold in the bank. Below him, the scum of algae closed its broken surface, leaving no trace of where the foot had been.
The man was coming. Traver could feel him, somewhere behind the black trunks of the trees. The final sun, which filtered through the woods from the ocean side, formed a strange red haze in the shrouds of Spanish moss.
Out of this the man appeared. One moment there was nothing and the next he was there, startling the eye like a copperhead camouflaged in fallen leaves. He moved toward Traver until he reached the middle of the clearing, just out of Traver’s range, facing the Hog Crawl. There he stood stiff as a deer and listened.
Traver listened too, absorbing every detail of the scene through every sense. The trap was his, he was the hunternow, on his own ground. The cardinal song had never seemed so liquid, the foliage so green, the smell of earth so strong.
The white man shifted, stepping a little closer. The hog snuffled again, back in the yaupon. Traver could just make it out beneath the branches, a brown-and-yellow brindle sow, caked with dry mud. Now it came forward, curious. It would see Traver before it saw the white man, and it would give him away.
Traver swallowed. The sow came toward him, red-eyed. The white man, immobile, waited for it also. When the sow saw Traver, it stopped, then backed away a little, then grunted and trotted off.
Traver flicked his gaze back to the man.
He was suspicious. Slowly the rifle swung around until it was pointed a few feet to Traver’s left.
He gwine kill me now. Even do I pray, O Lo’d, he gwine kill me now.
Traver was backing down the bank as the man moved forward. Beneath the turned-down brim, the eyes were fixed on the spot to Traver’s left. Traver flipped the butt of broken branch in the same direction. When the white man whirled upon the sound, Traver reared and hurled his club. He did not miss. It struck just as the shot went off.
Traver had rolled aside instinctively, but this same instinct drove him to his feet again and forward. The man lay still beside the rifle. The hand that had been groping for it fell back as Traver sprang. He pressed his knife blade to the white, unsunburned patch of throat beneath the grizzled chin.
Kill him. Kill him now.
But he did not. Gasping, he stared down at the face a footfrom his. It was bleeding badly from the temple but was otherwise unchanged. Pinning the man’s arms with his knees, he pushed the eyelids open with his free hand. The eyes regarded him, unblinking, like the eyes of a wounded hawk.
“Wa’nt quite slick enough fo’ Traver,
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