The Vigil For Johnny's Mission

By D.B. Dakota

The warlock, the foreman with the teen mistress, union honcho, pigheaded gambler … who's sabotaging, goofing off? Man by man the detective searches, fighting the main man's own superstition. Witchcraft trumps sweat anytime, and the wail of the banshee is the cue to knock off work.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613092057

Book preview

One

They’re rollin’ out the drums and guns,

Hurroo, hurroo.

They’re rollin’ out our coal again,

Hurroo, hurroo.

Sure and the banshee’s cryin’ again,

She wails for takin’ our sons and men,

But they’ll never be killin’ our kin again,

Johnny, I’m swearin’ to ye.

Not yet full daylight...storm clouds rolling in...Johnny stomps around outside the dealership, yelling, Where’s my car! ...seething, put out at the service department screw-up, mumbling over and over, Where, dammit? What have they done with my car! he thought. What did you do, sell it?

Overnight they’d fixed it—said they could, would. Pick it up at seven—yeah, right.

Staring through the showroom window...nose against glass, he watches shadows moving about on a distant wall, translucent yet—what? A fight? Eerie.

Man jabbing his fist. At what? Another guy...jabbing back.

Hey! Open up! Johnny shouts through the mail slot and rattles the door handle.

Nothing, no answer...dead quiet...shadow boxers vanish.

Johnny pecks on the glass—the rattle scared them off?

Earlier at the service shop he couldn’t rouse anybody either...just came from there...damn grease monkeys still in bed.

Someplace around is Johnny Dye’s brand new 1948 Fraser having its steering fixed so it’ll be safe to drive. But right now, no car.

And he has to report for work..new job, brand new job, another eerie thing. What’s eerie about a job, this job?

Answer: He doesn’t know what he’s in for, no idea. But he’s been warned.

The service manager hauls up at eight o’clock, spots Johnny slouching around, banging on doors and windows, in a daze.

The honcho hops out of his old Hudson, shaking his head. You’re mad as a hornet, I can tell, and I am too, Mr. Dye, seeing as how the fact’ry sent the wrong part. My mechanic tried ever’thing last night, over and over, to make it fit but—

This evening? Johnny barks, toting a box of office supplies, stuff for his paymaster job setup—if he ever gets there—and a coat. Would one more day be pushing it, huh?

I doubt it, no sir, not by tomorra, even.

That car your boss sold me is a bag of bolts, you know that?

Aw, no, my wife’s got a Fraser and...

Might that lemon be ready by Christmas? Johnny arches his long neck, swallows his distinct Adam’s apple, hikes it. How about if I come back in a couple of months?

Two days is the best I can promise. The manager fidgets, shrugs, wags his head.

Dye curls his lip. Think you might scrounge up a loaner?

Yeah, hey, good idy. Let me just go see. Darting into the service counter to the car-keys board, the manager finds nothing drivable and trots back out. I couldn’t find one, nothing you’d wanna be caught dead in—and you just might in our loaner. Needs fixin’. How’s about me driving you to work, then shaggin’ you home when—?

I’ll take you up on that, Johnny nods. Let’s hit it.

A LANKY, CHISEL-FACED thirty-two-year-old Irishman, the ex-WWII Military Police Sergeant had a Doberman voice, mean look...brown eyes, matching hair...thick, curly. The October day’s forecast for Shanter and vicinity was for warm and sunny, then rain. No matter, he was in his usual flannel shirt, long-sleeved, red plaid...two at a time often as not. Low metabolism or something, he’d been told by in-laws. Skinny had nothing to do with it. Or everything.

Where is it you wanna go to? the manager inquired, unlocking the passenger door of his own car.

To the poor-house if I don’t get to show up at my job.

We’ll make it quick. Where do you work at?

Heego. The place was seven miles away, down-river from Shanter, county seat, where two small rivers forked, the hub of regional coal commerce.

The manager slammed the door shut and stepped back. Huh-uh. Not me, Mr. Dye. I’m not going down there to that reservation. He made another remark which Dye didn’t understand.

Did I hear you say, haunted?

Hants, yess’r, by banshees and Indians. Ghosts, hey, I’d not let on about ghost things, but... It’s too chancy down there for an outsider, and I sure am one to that place.

Hold up? Bad road? What? Johnny was exasperated. I’ve never been to the place.

I drove by it some, but not down in there, and I don’t plan to either. It’s not safe.

Neither is Hell, but that’s not where I’m headed. Johnny wheeled off toward the street. I’ll find a cab or hitch.

Wait a minute. Let me make a phone call, okay?

Johnny returned to the shop and waited while the manager hurried inside. After a few minutes the manager reported, I got hold of old man Brochimeer. He said to tell Starch—is that you?

That’s what he calls me, yeah—tell me what?

Said he wanted to apologize to you, and he’s coming right out and drive you to work his self.

As well as the regional Kaiser-Fraser franchise, Heego Colliery was Severn Brochimeer’s too. Sundry enterprises were under his control or surveillance. He was fortunate to land Johnny as paymaster and problem solver and deemed it wise to play taxi so his agent could get started. He’s all heart, isn’t he? Johnny scoffed. All right, I’ll wait. Maybe he’ll do this every day.

I wouldn’t count on it.

Brochimeer showed up, driving a Kaiser demonstrator, and offered his regrets. From the outskirts of town, they struck out on a narrow winding road running along and high above Cliff River, and headed for the colliery. A mite chunky, age forty-five, Severn was a natty dresser with charming ways, a reserved air, and formal...seldom smiled...liked to be called Captain. Heavy-rimmed spectacles hid the bags under his eyes. He still had his wavy blond hair.

Twirling the wheel this way and that along the slow rough road, he closed his eyes for a moment and said to his new-hire passenger, Starch, I’ve got to ask what you know about banshees and reincarnation, what you think of it. You do know what it is.

What I think is, I’d like to turn that indisposed Fraser into my old Plymouth. It ran.

It sold too, next day.

Incarnation? Starch Dye chuckled. It’s flip-flop, some kind of magic. I don’t mean tricks, like Houdini, say. But take Jesus. He was God. He said, anyway, being Jew, they said, some say—which was a pretty neat demonstration. A lot of people believe in incarnation.

In Heego they do.

Well, then, maybe there’s something to it. Why did you wait till right now to spring that on me?

I was afraid you’d back out and not accept the position. Captain Brochimeer swiped his face.

Over a little old miracle like incarnation?

Do you believe in it? Severn asked.

Well, if I witnessed it, I’d have to side with it. I’d have to face up to the marvel that a goat could turn into a man, if it did so in my presence. Pan did it, and Faun, those old-timey Satyr hornies. I haven’t heard of changeovers of any kind lately, though. People long ago had imagination. We’ve let science derail it. But if a ham redid itself into a pig with hands, say, or a statue came to life...

I want to tell you this, Starch, I am serious. There is some troublesome activity you’ll be dealing with in Heego.

Me? Let Tiggit deal with it. A.D. Tiggit was a business partner in the colliery with the title of mine superintendent.

I don’t want him to know about these matters, Severn asserted, shaking his head. He’s as superstitious as they come. He can’t handle it.

So you’re thinking it’s my duty, Johnny blurted.

Severn nodded. I think you’ve got the mettle to handle it.

By myself, I see. I’m vastly experienced in incarnations. Johnny pointed out the windshield toward wherever it was they were headed. But Mr. Tiggit down there knows those people.

I’m likewise a spy.

And another thing. Keep me posted on his exploits, please—after all, you’re my special agent, my sleuth-hound.

I am? Dye caught his breath. Gumshoe or something? he thought. I’m what you might say, a mole? A PI ...private detective?

As an aside Severn declared, Good, good. I prefer the term detective or—well, yes, operative. After all, you’re an MP Officer.

Was...honorable discharge, over and done with. And here I thought I was your paymaster. You mean we’ve got crime down there?

Only an insider can find out. Keep the police out of it. I want you to keep an eye on Bo too. Bo Toulec ran the company store, and it housed a post office. I don’t trust that frog.

All right, and about those marvels: If I uncover one or two, Johnny frowned, what should I do, take a picture for our files, or report them to the newspaper?

Oh, no, not publicity. No, you deal with them. And I don’t want to hear about them. Severn reached into an inside jacket pocket, pulled out an envelope and shook it at Dye. I want you to take this letter and read it. And keep it to yourself. I want you to think about it from time to time. It’s from Eddy the constable and has to do with what we’re talking about.

Reincarnation!

Yes. Or it might be tomfoolery.

Johnny read the letter. I don’t see anything in here worth a second thought. He’s advising you to watch your step, that’s all.

And wants me to take a lawman along when I go down into that outpost.

Aw, Cap’n, it’s the constabulary fawning for endorsement, comes election time, that’s all. I’ve met the man and aside from him looking like Sir Walter Raleigh on the tobacco can, I saw nothing wrong with him.

Eddy says he’s heard of a concoction of ashes down there that’s liable to be dumped on me if I show up. He doesn’t mention the banshee there, but he told me about it, says people have been hearing the banshee. Sick. Read it again.

I did and just now committed it to memory. Johnny stuffed the letter into his pocket. He doesn’t know who’s got the concoction, where it is, if it’s cursed or not, as some are saying, or what it all means. Don’t tell me you’re superstitious too?

Me, into the occult? Severn puffed. Of course not. I’m trying to keep you abreast. Sorry I brought it up—well, no, I’m not, I want it solved.

Don’t worry about it. If they’ve got hobgoblins down there, I’ll flush ’em out.

After a few miles of treacherous back-road jostling, Johnny asked, Cap’n, for Pete’s sake, where are you taking me? All he could see were trees above the road and trees below, and mist. Might I ask that? Don’t you have fog lights?

They began to traverse a switchback, descending a steep hill where the fog thickened even more. Not far now, Severn declared with a cough; every few seconds he hit a pothole. I’ve spoken to the county about this road.

Think they’ll fix it?

As soon as our coal operation gets some steam up, they’ll do repairs, they said. I think they first want to make sure Dewey gets elected president and not Truman. But steam is our big problem. Our output’s down, way down, as I’ve told you. And our quality, too, not what we need to have. You might find the work crews are slacking off. In fact, they are, or might be. You’ll be hearing rumors that Heego’s going to die...the banshee disturbance, I suppose. Perhaps you’ll find that it’s one man to blame for slowing us down.

This is one odd-ball piece of detective work, Dye thought, flicking his cigarette at the ash tray ...missing because of a jolting bump. He glanced at his chauffeur. Sorry. I’ll have to memorize these chuckholes, won’t I? The fat Kaiser rounded a sharp curve. Watch it! Johnny barked. Severn tapped the brake, but too late. Hidden from view was a gully of mud issuing down the mountain and onto the roadway. He didn’t try to swerve. The car’s bumper plowed into the slide.

Shucks. Severn sighed and pointed into the fog. We’ve had too much rain. Look, another slide on down the road—see? They got out and surveyed the situation. I’d better turn around, Severn mumbled.

And leave me stranded here in the woods?! I can’t see a popeyed thing. Johnny felt shabby and foolish. He glared at the driver, said nothing, for the car had enough room to go around, both slides.

Almost there. Heego is around the bend here. Actually, we are there. The community is below us on the left, under the road, so to speak. You might walk the rest of the way—would you mind?

Without having made the trip before, I can innocently say I don’t mind, Dye heaved with a teasing grin, thinking of himself as a guinea pig. I’ll just grab up my items and feel my way along. Maybe this slide is a good thing. After all, presidents don’t escort flunkies.

You’re not any such thing...you’re my undercover agent and Heego’s get-up-and-go. Brochimeer stepped over to his universal handyman, smiled and extended his hand. Good luck, young man, and here’s what’s most important: Shape that place up. I’m counting on you to break the record. That’s your mission.

I thought you said... Right off I’m a troubleshooter too?

Ordinary detective work, I’d call it. I like your spunk; I know you can do it—and Starch? I’m doubling your salary right now to make it worth your while.

Why, fantastic, thank you, thanks so much. Johnny almost whistled at all that money. I appreciate the confidence, really do, and the raise. He grinned, sort of.

Call it hazard pay. The captain’s face was blank except for a skewed smile, a simper.

Like in the army? Johnny reeled back. You mean combat pay?

Aw, it’s not like war zone duty. You’re on your own, Starch—and report to me, not A.D. Listen, tell him I said to drive you home.

Sure will. Johnny gathered his supplies, latched the door and stood aside. Thanks for the lift.

I’m glad you’re on the roster, very grateful. Be careful. Severn got back in, backed up, freed the bathtub-car, turned around and pointed it back toward his hometown. He waved and drove off.

Detective, huh? Johnny thought, operative—stool pigeon? Plus the payroll and keeping the books? And renovator and philosophers’ stone? That’s a responsibility, but I kinda like the shadow part. Unpack my twelve-gauge and go huntin’.

Shrugging, twisting his neck around, already he felt like he’d put in a day’s work, what with the tag-on duties. Now the bribes made sense: First, a lucrative trade-in deal on the Fraser, then double pay—talk about incentive. Instead of a double salary, why didn’t Severn hire an additional man? Was Johnny all that unique, or might it be that no one else would take on Heego? He had been dumped off into the middle of a crisis; that’s what was going on, he decided, and Severn was postponing something, and very likely frightened.

Although skittish about the load he’d been saddled with, given the way he was, Johnny felt a twinge of excitement over the dark mission lurking ahead. Tenacious and driven, he got a boot out of adventure. His wife had thought he was nuts and told him so.

Alone, Detective Dye started off down the road. Lower altitude fog, dense now, confined the departed car’s exhaust fumes close to the pitted, ragged asphalt. The stench made breathing uncomfortable. Facing him were fragments of a collapsing mountain, the slides, in a realm of nothing but wilderness. The aura was inspiring to a poet, say, or photographer. How about a greenhorn hell-bent on a career in coal? In that case I guess I’m in the right place. Or should he thumb a ride back out of those lonesome pines, that oily, white soup, foreign territory where he would ride herd on apparitions and figments? He spat. Naw, pulling down that kind of dough, I’ll stay with it no matter what they throw at me. The audacity of Severn, though, never mentioning those tacked-on duties until the last minute...makes me suspicious of motives like that. Some logic is missing. What else hadn’t he been told about Heego and its ways? He’d just have to settle in down there and find out for himself. At the turn of events, he shivered in disbelief, but with some relish.

Slipping on his Mackinaw, he puffed and stepped off, toward what, he was curious to find out. With office supplies underarm, he headed toward the sound of a scraping noise: coal being dumped into the tipple somewhere in the distance, he figured. A breeze kicked up, fog set in, he stopped walking and stepped over to a roadside overlook to survey his destination.

A path slanted downhill, suggesting a shortcut, he started that way, saw something or somebody move way down at the river. Halting right there at the edge of the road, he hid behind a bush and took a seat on a boulder to watch.

A BLOB OF DENSE, GROUND-hugging fog surged upriver, rammed into a tree-high waterfall and got shown where to go—back down the holler to the swamp.

Feel that, Oggy? a passing horseman asked his mount. They never sprayed clouds on us before. We can’t see—whoa. Stranded midstream, not even the shallow crossing was visible.

This is Paw Paw Falls, Oggy. Right there is where the banshee lives. Back in there behind all that water coming down. They told us to stay away from here. But I guess I got mixed up.

Nearing home, the travelers had taken an unfamiliar trail, figuring to add it to their treasure-trove—they collected trails as a hobby. Now they were lost. Stunned by the chilling mist, the rider didn’t understand the mechanics of downdrafts. New things mean bad things, Oggy.

Deflected by the plunging air current, the soupy mass cascaded onto foaming turbulence and rocks, and the cloud was ripped apart into filmy layers. Chopped up and tossed about, the dingy sheets of mist floated downstream, waved and—poof!

Sun’s out—see? That’s a good sign. Best we go before they sock us again—gitup.

The breach in the fog cover unveiled the fringe of a forested valley where a never-heard-of people, a colony of a few hundred natives, lived and worked, polishing their survival skills undisturbed. Oh, heck, Oggy, don’t you slip on some rocks and fall. We ought not’a come this way.

The scene brightened and widened to show reddening trees scattered about on a meadow that sloped from the river up to an overlook.

Uphill from there at the roadside vantage point, Johnny Dye sat watching, listening, for he heard a horse snort. Far below him and the road, something like a hundred yards away at the upstream, left edge of the meadow, the horse emerged from the shadows. Plodding across the hillside, it was carrying something. Lumbering out of the trees, it entered a clearing, revealing the something atop to be a man slumped forward in a wad like a jockey, hugging the horse’s neck. With no stirrups, no saddle, his legs dangled.

From the side of the road where Johnny was, a loose rock, accidentally dislodged by him, rolled downhill and thudded against a log close to the horse. The mare braced.

Huh? the rider asked his horse. Are we there, Oggy? Is it time? The stocky horseman, resting his chest on her neck, had his fingers laced beneath her throat so he wouldn’t fall off. He had been asleep. Letting go of his hug, he patted her neck. Sitting erect, he rubbed his dusty eyes open and got coal-black on his fists. Oggy’s mane, his pillow, had scrubbed and shined his gaunt cheek, which looked mutilated.

His spur was a gentle, convoluted knot on the end of a cord tied around his right shoe, a soggy hightop. The cord extended forward to the toe and wrapped around it, folding the shoe back against the tongue. The lash-up kept the shoe from flapping, for it had no foot in it, only a part of one, a stub.

He slid off the horse, limped around her, urinated and remounted. Prodding the horse a few times with the knot, she advanced, then angled off their path to trudge uphill through scrub. The new path led home.

At a solitary dogwood tree, without a command, she halted beneath an overhead limb. You’re better than the trains run, Ol’ Oggy, good girl.

Seated on the horse, the man reached up and grasped the limb with both hands. He chinned himself up and off his mount, then, hand over hand, swung over to another limb. He threw a leg over the new limb to support himself and reached out into the tree. Hanging there was a barracks bag. It was safe from thieves, except a robber with a ladder, a long pruning hook, or another man with a smart horse and Herculean arms.

Untying the bag and holding it in his teeth, he slipped backward off the limb. He broke his fall to the ground by grabbing a lower limb with one hand, and landed on his good foot. Unpuckering the bag, he fished out a pocket watch. Baked oats, kernels and crumbs came up with the timepiece. He sifted the foodstuff back into the sack through his fingers, a couple of which were missing. Looked like he had an ear missing too.

He blew chaff off the watch, spat on it, buffed it on an underwear sleeve and flipped it open. His outer garment was dirty overalls. You knew, didn’t you—see? He let Oggy read the time. City folks are sitting down to breakfast about now, aren’t they? And you’re about to, too, in a few minutes. All these trees turning: I bet the folks up there wish they could see how pretty it is down here. Say yes, good Oggy.

Oggy bobbed her head up and down.

First, here’s you an appetizer. He pocketed the heirloom and held the feedbag up for the sorrel. Scooping out a handful of soft trail munch for himself, he gestured a toast her way. They both nibbled away. The horseman shook the bag’s last morsels into his hand and the nag helped herself. She presented her muzzle for him to lick the leftovers. Good, huh?

Having no saddle, his riding pad was a denim jacket... he slid it off the horse and slipped into it. Dragging the barracks bag, and both limping, they single-filed around the hill and melted away into the mist.

Johnny Dye got to his feet, brushed his pants off and shook his head. Jesus H. Heifer. Who in the hell was that and where’d he come from? Dye croaked, aghast. He came from where I’m headed.

Tops of scattered houses and smoking chimneys were all Johnny could see down in the holler, so he climbed back onto the road, followed it and met a car. It tooted and he waved. The road through the forest crooked so, he couldn’t tell if he was coming or going.

After a half-mile the road forked. That is to say, it had a turn-off to the left, plunging downhill, so he took it. The road did not work. But the gullies did...the protruding rocks were nice and sharp; the road was wide enough for two horses to pass. He reckoned the forks in the road was where Brochimeer would have turned around, had not the mud slide—or the troubling letter—given him an excuse. He had no intention of going down into the camp—outpost as he called it—and delivering me. What is Severn afraid of?

To Johnny’s left, at the end of a lane, was a one-story white building, a three-room school for about 125 pupils, grades one through six.

Through a sharp zigzag he came to a blind curve. At the corner of the zag was a pale frame residence, abandoned—for a good reason: A car had missed the turn, ploughed into the house and was resting against the porch.

The accident must have just happened, for a woman was sitting hunched over on the edge of the porch, sobbing...legs dangling over...feet nearly touched the ground; a light sweater covered her shoulders. Waiting for the wrecker, is she? Not wanting to get involved, Johnny crept along the road. He slipped past the house, but glanced around.

Hearing his footsteps, the woman peeled her hands from her face momentarily and looked his way.

She was— Bess? he called, stopping. Good grief, now what? Bess Rhone was one of three local school teachers...lived up-river in Shanter, a city of around four thousand. Johnny knew her through his wife, also a teacher. Again, he shouted, Bess!

She looked up and stared at him. He headed back toward her. Is that you? Bess?

She didn’t recognize him, or elected not to. Burying her face in her hands, she shook and swayed from side-to-side as if trying to make something go away. Is this your car?! he called, getting another blank stare. What in tarnation!? He hurried onto the porch, knelt and lifted her face. Why, you’re bleeding! Her face was cut.

Johnny?! Rhone sucked air hard through her teeth.

What are you doing here?

Resting—Johnny?

Yeah, yeah, it’s me. What the deuce is going on?

I don’t think I can finish the day. She looked her hands over, noticed blood stains and studied them. Bending forward, she rested her face on her knees, smudging her skirt with blood.

Johnny eased down, sat against her and put his arms around to steady her. He took his coat off, draped it over her shoulders and held her. Is this how you spend your coffee break?

I’m so thankful you came along, so good to see you. That woman—oh! Those dumb creatures. Why do they have to be that way?

Did somebody attack you? Were you in a wreck?

Again she shook her head. I don’t have a car. Johnny pulled out a handkerchief and placed it in her hands. Bess buried her face in it, swabbed her face, sniffed a few times, glanced at him and tried to smile. A kinky-headed, salt-and-pepper, miniature grandmother character, she was a portrait of Mrs. Claus with a round face and a glint through oval wire rims. The schoolmarm, lovable as pixies must be, had that reassuring glow. For her thirty or so pupils she had the biggest of hearts. Thank you. I’ll be all right. She coughed. I stumbled. I fell down. Oh, that hurt.

Was someone chasing you? What can I do? Were you riding in this car?

She shook her head, sniffed again, struggled to her feet, stood on the porch, wiped her eyes and gave him a puckish grin. I’d better go.

Not til you tell me what happened here.

It’s such a long, pathetic story, not at all nice. She glanced at her watch. I’ll be late for spelling, oh dear. They stepped off the porch and Johnny steadied her with his free hand. She hobbled as they set out for the schoolhouse. I was worming this child, this little boy. He has rickets. I was talking to his mother. I was coming back from her house.

Hold it, Bess, slow down. Did I hear you say you were worming a kid?

She nodded, shivering at the thought. I got so disgusted, not at him, but at his family, his mother. Absolutely no help. She will not take care of him, or for some reason...can’t. He’s a first-grader and just started. His knees are—they wobble. He starts up the steps and has to get down on his hands and knees to climb them, makes him tired to even move. Awful looking child. His eyes are weak-looking. Like a sore-eyed cat. Deplorable. I told the mother.

And he’s still in school?

Not for anything would my pupils miss their classes. Johnny, I’m concerned about you. Where’s your car? What’s that you’re carrying?

Office supplies, everything’s fine, he replied. My car broke, my new car. I bummed a ride down here.

Why, this is your first day, isn’t it? How awful! Do you know your way to work?

Well, I think I’m in the right neighborhood. I’ve got you as a landmark...aside from that I’m lost.

See right across that house, the duplex? Bess Rhone swept a hand around. See all these homes below us? Then those isolated pockets of houses about? Far over there is the river. Across it are the two tracks of the railroad, the main line. Beyond those away is a third railroad. That’s yours, your delivery track. See a house beyond your track? That tiny building with all the junk around it? That’s your office. To get to it, you have to cross the swinging bridge. You can’t see it from here.

They stopped walking and Dye rolled his eyes.

With some practice, you’ll be able to cross the confounded thing. She smiled.

I’ll deal with the bridge when I get there. Finish your story.

Yes. First, park your—where’s your car? He told her again. Park it up there in the school lot if you wish. Do not park here on zeta. You see what happened to the car on the porch.

Glad I’m not standing on omega. What do you mean, zeta?

Mr. Neccopolus named it, way back, the violent zeta smasher. From your office window you can see it, a super-size Z. We’re standing in the middle of it.

They moved on. Poor little Ernie, Bess sighed. When he started school I told his mother that she had to get the child to a doctor right away and have him examined. She stood a good chance of losing him if she didn’t.

Of all people, can’t the mother tell Ernie is sick?

Now, remember what I told you the other evening, yet here you go, wanting explanations for these heegs.

Maybe she didn’t care, Johnny offered and did a double take. Heegs?

The lost tribes, some say, descendants of the ten lost tribes of Israel. Jews, I guess, once upon a time. They’re gypsy-like who took roots in the mountains because—oh, I don’t know why. They just like the shelter of mountains. Freedom, I suppose, another reason. Funny people, I do know that.

And I’m stuck with them. Johnny squinted, wondering, Does she mean real gypsy horse-traders in caravans, playing that funny music?

The mother finally took Ernie up to Shanter and found he had worms. Horrible things! She said she had no money to buy medicine.

Welfare case?

"Far from it. You’ll find the