Free The Witch's Grave by Phillip Depoy Page B

Deveroes?”

    â€œWhat the hell are you doing?” Andrews rasped at me. Stage whisper.
    â€œWho is it?” another voice shouted.
    â€œIs that Dover?” I yelled back. “Stop shooting at us. It’s Fever Devilin.”
    There was a flurry of conversation we couldn’t make out.
    Silence.
    â€œDr. Devilin?” Donny called innocently. “Is that you?”
    â€œDidn’t mean to startle you,” I said, walking their way, light still off. “I wanted to show Andrews the graveyard. You remember my friend Professor Andrews from—”
    Another shot spattered the clay inches from my right foot.
    â€œSorry, Dr. Devilin,” Donny said, genuinely apologetic. “We’re kind of in the middle of something here and we would rather have our privacy.”
    â€œI understand.” I looked back at Andrews.
    He sat up, trying to make out who else was in the grove.
    â€œWe heard someone yell for help,” he ventured from the ground.
    Another rustle of whispers.
    â€œDover. He fell in a muskrat hole.”
    Silence. Cricket, frog, crow, wind, breath—all kept still.
    â€œIs he all right?” Andrews managed, coming to a stand.
    â€œOh. Absolutely. Say something, Dover.”
    A thin, clear cloud slit the moon, moved on.
    â€œOw.”
    Andrews came to my side.
    â€œWe’ll go on back to the cemetery, then,” I said. “I was thinking of paying you a visit tomorrow; would that be okay?” I aimed the flashlight in the direction of the voices and switched it on.
    Bodies exploded in motion; I counted four before the next shot was fired, wrecking pine straw a foot to our left. Andrews did his best not to jump right.
    â€œTurn off that damn torch!”
    I did.

    â€œSorry,” I told them. “I don’t know this part of the mountain very well and it’s hard to see.” I handed Andrews the flashlight. “Catching snakes?”
    Silence.
    â€œYes.”
    I leaned close to Andrews’s ear. “Take the flashlight, shine it toward the cemetery, head back to the truck.”
    â€œWhat are you doing?” he whispered back harshly.
    â€œI’m going to find out what they’re up to. How many did you see?”
    â€œFour.”
    â€œAnd there are only three Deveroe brothers.”
    Before he could object I crouched low, lumbered to a nearby stump, waving him on his way.
    He took a second to consider his predicament, then turned away, switched on the light, and moved carefully back over the fence, into the knot of trees that hid my truck.
    Satisfied I had waited long enough, I moved, still low, toward the boys. They weren’t talking, but they made sufficient fuss cracking twigs, thudding the ground, tossing leaves, grunting. If I hadn’t known better, I might have considered they were wrestling swine.
    Their noise covered my movements; their activity distracted them. I was able to get within twenty yards, hiding behind the branches of a wild holly.
    The moon had difficulty breaking apart the shadows in the grove, but here and there a shaft of silver cut the night and I could make out all three brothers, rifles in hand, surrounding a fourth man. He had a gunnysack over his head pulled to his mouth, where the edge of it had been made into a gag. His clothes were in shambles, torn, rubbed with mud. His hands were tied loosely behind his back. He staggered, trying to get away, muttering through the cloth.
    It wasn’t until they put the noose around his neck that I realized what they were doing. Dover held one end of a length of heavy twisted hemp and Donny put the other end over their captive’s head.
    My heart doubled, I took a step past the holly before I could consider the consequences. They didn’t see me.

    Dover hauled the rope over the lowest limb of an older pine; Donny tightened the knot. All three brothers set their guns against the trunk, grabbed high, and hauled their victim into the