Free Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1952 by Wild Dogs of Drowning Creek (v1.1)

without
somebody leading you, for fear you’ll fall off a ledge or down a slope? I had
to come to some place where it’s flat, here in the lowlands, so I could make a
bluff at taking care of myself.”
                 “And
you do take care of yourself,” Randy said.
                 “I
get my farm rent, and I ship my pottery back to shops in the mountains, that
will take all I make to sell. I pay those Indians who run errands for me. I
make it worth their while. Here around this cabin, I know my way. I’m not
beholden to anybody.”
                 “Of
course not,” agreed Randy, closing the book. Tasman started at the slight noise
of the covers coming together.
                 “Maybe
I shouldn’t say that much to you, Randy,” he relented. “I’m much obliged for
your reading to me.
                 Jebs
got up. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Tasman, I’d like to see some of your pottery.”
                 “Well,
come inside,” invited Tasman, and they followed him in.
                 The
cabin’s interior was dim, and they moved slowly. But Tasman, sightless as he
was, moved around it with the assurance of complete familiarity.
                 In
one corner, a cot was neatly made up with patchwork quilts and a pillow.
Opposite stood an oil stove. Tasman stepped past his potter’s wheel and touched
with his hands a tier of shelves against the wall.
                “Here’s a batch, almost dry enough
to glaze and bake,” he said.
                 There
were rows of cups and saucers, vases large and small, sugar bowls, cream
pitchers and plates.
                 “Do
you get your clay around here?” asked Randy.
                 Tasman
shook his gray head. “No, I have it shipped to me from near where I used to
live. I still have that much of mountain soil here around me.”
                 “You
said you baked this pottery, Mr. Tasman,” said Jebs.
                 “There’s
a little kiln out behind the cabin.”
                 “How
do you know when a batch is ready to come out?”
                 Tasman
smiled his tense, tight smile. From the lowest shelf he lifted a big, cheap
pocket watch and held it out. The crystal was missing.
                 “I
touch the hands to tell time,” he said. “And I can judge the right heat by
holding my hand close to the kiln. My sense of feeling is like my sense of
hearing—mighty sensitive, more sensitive than the feeling of sighted folks. For
instance,” he added, “I know that it’ll be raining before sundown. You two had
better get started for home.”
                 “We’ll
do that thing,” agreed Jebs. “It’s been nice talking to you, sir.”
                “And I’ll bring the book and read
some more,” promised Randy.
                 “ Thanks, do that. Good-bye.”
                 They
started for the trail. Now that Tasman had mentioned it, there was a close,
heavy feel to the air around them, and the clouds overhead shut out the sky
like a great dull sheet of gray lead.
                 “He’s
completely blind, all right,” Randy said to Jebs when they were out of hearing.
“I almost bumped him in the nose with this book, and he didn’t know it. Too
bad, when he loves nature like that.”
                 “If
he wanders out at night and those wild dogs rally round him, he may lose some
of his love of nature,” replied Jebs. “And speaking of wild dogs, here comes
one that isn’t wild. Hey, Rebel!”
                 As
on the previous day, Rebel had come part way to meet them. He elected himself
an escort party of one to convoy them back to New Chimney Pot House.
                 They
saw that Driscoll had brought the jeep back for it stood in the front yard.
Driscoll was down by the brook, helping Sam