They Don't Dance Much: A Novel by James Ross Page B

said. ‘He made an “O” out of his mouth and tried to blow smoke rings, but didn’t do much at it.’
    ‘How come him to do it this time?’ I said.
    ‘Well, I tell you. He been on a long drunk like he use to git on before his liver got mortified on him. He been drunk for the most part, for six months this here time I’m talkin about. And one evenin to’ards sundown I was over to his house to see about gittin a mule the next day to bust out middles with. I come up to the back door and frammed on it. I frammed and I called and finally, lo and behold! Here come a shotgun bar’l pokin out the door at me. Just a Long Tom shotgun bar’l. Well, sir, the day had been ungodly hot, but I tuk and had a chill right then. I was mawtally froze, I was so skeered. Then I see Mr. Bert behind the gun bar’l. He was white as a bed sheet and the draps of sweat standin out on his face like draps of water on a greased watermelon. “What you want, you devil outen hell?” he says to me. I was too skeered to speak right off, but atter awhile I kinda whispered: “Lawd God! Mr. Bert, I don’t want nothin!”
    ‘He seen who I was then and he says to me: “Well, it ain’t nobody but Catfish Wall. I swear to God I thought you was Tom Flake.” Now, Mr. Jack, I don’t know no Tom Flake and never heered tell of him. “Yes, sir, I thought you was Tom Flake come to git my money.” That was what he said.’
    ‘That wasn’t telling you he had thirty thousand dollars buried,’ I said.
    Catfish spat. ‘That ain’t all,’ he said. ‘Wait till I git through. He made me come in the house and gimme a drink of powerful strong yaller liquor. He kept that there gun lyin acrost his lap all the time. I seen it was cocked too. “He’s been a-hangin around here,” Mr. Bert says, “a-tryin to git me to tell him where I got my thutty thousand dollar buried. But I ain’t a-goin to tell him.” Then Mr. Bert would laugh like some crazy woman. “I’m goin to give the son-of-a-bitch a bate of birdshot,” he says. “Come by the money—it don’t make no difference how—and now it’s my money. I’ll fight for it to the death,” he says.’
    ‘He was just drunk,’ I said.
    ‘Cose he was drunk. He was havin delicious trembles. But that don’t make no difference. He done got money and he got it buried.’
    ‘How’d you manage to get away from him that night?’ I said.
    ‘By settin there half the night, till he passed out cold as a cucumber. Atter the first two drinks I wa’n’t in no special discomfort. That was hellish strong liquor Mr. Bert was drinkin.’
    ‘He didn’t tell you much about his money,’ I said.
    ‘He talk about it right much that night, off and on. Always say the same identical thing. Thutty thousand dollar. Buried.’
    ‘He never did say where it was buried, though, did he?’
    ‘Well, not exactly. Ever time he start to git off on that he git to cussin and complainin about the snakes and alligators and such truck.’
    ‘What snakes and alligators?’
    ‘Confound if I ever do know. He claim the room was full of snakes and such varmints. He’d say: “Catfish, git this here dang pilate offen my year. Knock this cottonmouth out from under the cheer,” he’d say. “Look at that there alligator sneakin up the side of the wall. But I can’t shoot him,” he’d say. “I got to keep my gun loaded for that there Tom Flake.” I went over to where he was settin, but I couldn’t see no snakes. I humored him, though; I batted round with my hands and tuk the broom and knocked on the wall and acted like I was sweepin the snakes outen the room. That was some time we had that night!’
    ‘I’ll swear!’ I said. ‘Does he go on drunks like that now?’
    ‘Not that long,’ Catfish said. ‘His liver won’t stand for it now.’
    I sat there thinking about Bert Ford and wondering if he told Catfish the truth, or if Catfish was just yarning. I quit talking to him, and finally he got discouraged and went out and