Author's Note: Sorry about that. For a week there, work ate my life. Believe me, Cooter's angrier at me than anyone else about this; he's been just dying to show y'all how clever he is.
Thanks for sticking with me through another one, even if I am off my schedule.
Chapter Eleven – Not Done Having Fun Yet
Begats, fruitful multiplications, generations listed in family bibles. Each clan has its own, and where they stumble into each other, one family coming smack up against another, there's fussing and fighting. Over who can lay claim to the ancestor in question and who would just as soon disown them. When the dust settles and peace resumes, the definition of "kin" simply expands to include people who were thought of only as "neighbors" yesterday. Which just makes it good policy to treat everyone in the region like family.
Sad, those left with no kin on this earth. Like Emma Tisdale, who gets quietly tutted over in the bakery and the dressmaker's. Back and forth discussions about whose fault it is that her rules and regulations drove away every man who might have considered her, that she buried her nose in the mail and never properly primped or preened. If she has no family now that her sister is gone, it might just be that she loves her work more than any human being anyway.
Similar sorrows might be assigned to Miss Minnie. Might, but then memory serves a mutterer or two. Cousins, she had a few spread around the neighboring counties. Cousins who had kids that scattered to the winds like dried out dandelion seeds. All except one, who settled in Claridge. Jacob or Jake or Jack, who never was all that impressive to begin with. Pudgy and whiny until that growth spurt made him big. Hard-looking face, but underneath he's still that fumbling little boy. Flat footed in his standard-issue boots, blue shirt too tight across his chest. Tough attitude to fool the world into believing he's a strong and sturdy deputy, when below it all those eyes still flicker back and forth, searching for acceptance. Love, maybe. Belonging. Always one good bust away from impressing his peers.
And if it makes him a touch volatile, a mite unpredictable, somewhat strange, and puts people on edge, well, the ladies at the hairstylist and in line at the bread counter agree. It runs in the family – just look at old Miss Minnie.
It's a shame, what happened to Luke. Oh, not the moonshining bust in Sweetwater nor the confinement in Claridge County, though that part's not particularly good, either. No, the shame part is how Luke's forgotten how to have fun.
It's been a lifetime of forgetting, really. There's instinct in there, and a belly laugh to prove it. Crazy planning mind that sometimes comes up with the wildest of ideas, and Cooter reckons that's Luke's fun side trying to push its way out from behind all that responsibility he holds up like a shield. Not that he ever talks about it or admits to anything, but if Luke were going to explain his motives they would all come down to protecting what little family he has left. Which is just foolishness – each and every one of the Dukes is perfectly capable of taking care of him or herself. Silly, silly, the way Luke's back at the garage, all but twitching about Bo, when that boy can outdrive anyone in three counties and outfight most. He's fine, just fine, but Luke won't bother with believing that until he can see it with his own eyes.
Sometimes lucky days happen, the kind where the sun shines just right and the birds sing in perfect harmony. Where all the cars are cherry-red mustangs with revving engines firing on all eight. And when the stars are aligned and the boy forgets his military training, Luke comes out to play. When that happens, the wild stunts mount, one on top of the other until they're ready to topple, and the Duke boys – both of them – grin like gleeful kids. On those days there's nowhere better to be than by Luke Duke's side.
But today is not one of those days, and now that he's out of old doom-and-gloom's sight, it's just about time that Cooter made his own fun. Sauntering, swaying, whistling tunelessly and acting every bit the drunken country idiot, he weaves his way into the County Building. Giggles when he sees that giant ape, Rollo, standing there, looking put out. If it's a nervous sound, Cooter's the only one who knows that; the Claridge County Boss's lackey and the other two, more lowly men that surround him reckon he's just a half-crazed hick.
"Rosco," he sings out, as if he's engaged the sheriff in a game of hide-and-seek. "Where are you Rosco?" Deliberately walks around the Claridge lawmen, ignoring the glares he receives for his troubles, lets the fools sputter about what does that moron think he's doing as he makes his way around the squad room. Snickering low enough that he reckons he won't be heard, he looks under the sheriff's desk, then Enos'. No luck. Up to the jail cell in the corner, and even though anyone with eyes can see that it's empty, he swings the door wide and calls for Rosco.
"What are you doing?" Rollo finally gets around to asking him. Cooter turns then, meets the goon's eyes and offers up his broadest grin.
"Why, I'm just looking for Sheriff Coltrane. You seen him?" There's a quiet smolder in the bigger man's eyes, and Cooter's learned all he needs to. Not only have Hickman's men obviously discovered the absence of Rosco and Bo, but they aren't too pleased about it. If he was a responsible man, if he was going to play by the exact orders of one Luke Duke, he'd get out of here now.
"He ain't here," is all Rollo says.
"Well now, that there is a shame." Surely it is. Rosco's not here and Cooter's not done having fun yet. "Say, did he happen to tell you when he'd be back?"
Dark, glowering fury, and even the Claridge deputies are keeping away from this particular corner of the squad room. "Ain't you heard?" Rollo says, snapping his anger over into full out menace. Simple trick, and this big old boy isn't even very good at it. "Coltrane ain't the Sheriff in these parts no more. This here county is under Claridge law." So mosey on out of here before you get yourself subjected to that law. The words don't get said, but then they don't have to. It's all right there in the stance of that oversized body.
"Well that there is just a double shame, then." Probably ought to have heeded that unspoken advice. Then again, Cooter Davenport never has been one to tolerate being pushed around. "Because Rosco owes me forty-six dollars and thirty-seven cents. See, I done replaced the door on his squad car, after he done left the old one in the woods last Tuesday. Dangedest thing, how that man always forgets to close his doors when he's in hot pursuit." He shakes his head mournfully over the ongoing loss of cruiser doors. Poor things don't stand a chance where the Hazzard County Sheriff's Department is concerned. "Anyways, if you're the new law, then you're the one I need to see." He takes himself a moment to get a good look at all three men in the room. Rollo's the only one he knows by name, and he draws a complete blank when he looks into the face of one of the others. But that third one – tall, with a sneer pulling at his lips that belies his nervousness (and yes, his hand is wavering a touch too close to the butt of his gun for Cooter's comfort) – there's a familiarity there. The ghost of someone else in that face. "That'll be forty-six dollars and thirty-seven cents." He holds his hand out in anticipation.
He might just get shot. If he does, it'll likely be worth it just for that bug-eyed look that's on Rollo's face now. Still, it would be preferable to stay in one piece.
"Well," he says, withdrawing his hand. "If you see Rosco, you can tell him he owes me, then." Another disarming grin, as he's backing toward the door. "See you later alligator," and he's gone. Making haste toward the garage, where he can't wait to tell that old sourpuss, Luke, about the fun he missed out on.
"Well," Luke's saying, pulling his lower lip in between his teeth. Doesn't get time to nibble on it, though, he's already talking again. "They done picked a good place. Very smart." Congratulating their adversaries on their choice of a drop off point. "Out in the open. No trees, no buildings, just flat field and creek. No place to hide out there, nothing but that water wheel."
"And ain't none of us small enough to fit in there anymore." That's Daisy, perched on the hood of the Deacon's car. Everyone's back in the garage, finally, now that Jesse and Daisy are here. Seems like they had to stay at Boss' place a few minutes longer than Luke's allotted hour, what with Lulu needing comforting and all.
The old water wheel, and once upon a time they were small enough to slip between the spokes and get inside. Or he and Daisy were, anyway; Bo mostly remembers Luke staying on the outside, providing the muscle to get the thing spinning. In their ancestors' time, there was a mill there, and the stream was dammed into something more like a pond. But by the time the Duke kids got old enough to wander out that way, the building was so long gone that even its foundation was no more than crumbled concrete. And the rock dam that once retained the water had been picked apart, leaving the wheel high and, unless they'd had a particularly rainy spring, dry. No water to turn the wheel, so they used Luke-power instead, giving Bo and Daisy the most sickening rides of their lives. More than once, it seems to his memory, he came stumbling out of the wheel only to find that he'd lost his sense of up and down. Suddenly, his backside or frontside would meet up with the dirt, and Luke would laugh. Always made Bo giggle, that his oldest cousin got more pleasure out of watching him and Daisy reel than taking a spin himself.
"There's that old bridge," Bo offers, but—
"It ain't high enough," Luke points out, and he's got a point. It's nothing more than a few planks that span the creek.
Rosco's twitching, probably getting ready to come out with an ijit, or, if he's truly frustrated, a full-out gijit. But the sheriff should know by now. There's no hurrying Luke, not when he's chewing over information and formulating a plan.
"Seems to me it would behoove us to find them before pay-off time, anyways," Cooter ventures.
"Agreed." Luke's got the corner of that lip in his mouth again. His eyes come up from where they've been staring off into nothingness, startling blue meeting Bo's before moving on to look at each of the others in the garage. "Y'all know where they ain't."
Which is, based upon the assembled reports from everyone in the room: the old mining shacks on Hatchapee Road, the Okamauga Caves, the northern boundary of the Uchee swamp, the abandoned railroad station, the stone cottage on Route 36 – when it comes right down to it, they've only eliminated the tiniest fraction of potential hiding places in Hazzard County.
"So we got to get back out there and keep looking," Bo says, and if he sounds eager for action, it's only because he is. Plans that involve just him and Luke always seem to go at double this speed. Sitting and meeting and exchanging information – it's just plain boring.
Luke's nodding, and maybe it's because he agrees with the suggestion or, more likely, because he knows Bo's getting impatient. "But not Daisy. Girl, ain't you got to work?"
Daisy starts to protest, something about how saving Boss is more important than some silly waitressing job anyway, but one thoughtful look from Luke and the sputtering stops. "I reckon I could trade off some beers for some information," she says. Back to the job she already ran out on once this afternoon, but it's not like Boss is in any position to fire her for it anyway. And as to her co-workers, a simple smile from her and any transgressions will be immediately forgotten.
More twitching from Rosco, probably has some intention of making sure that not a drop of his little fat buddy's beer gets given away for free, even if it is in the name of saving the marshmallow himself. But, "Come on, Sheriff," Enos encourages, catching a drift of where Luke's going with this. "We'd best get back out there and keep looking."
"Keep looking?" Rosco explodes, but this little outburst doesn't mean anything. It's just mandatory that he throws a fit he'll commit to doing anything at all. "Enos, you dipstick," are just words that need to be said. No offense meant, and the deputy doesn't take any. "Where are we going to look? We could go all day and never find nothing. There's just too many places they could be."
"Oh now, Rosco." Jesse's impatient with the routine. "You ain't never gonna find nobody if you sit here talking like that. You just gotta," voice high, hand pushing through air to make his point, "keep looking until you find something."
"I been thinking," Luke says, but scheming is more like it. There's that extra little glow there in the blue of his eyes, and even if no one else in the room recognizes the look for what it is, Bo knows. "From what Cooter says, it might be best if Rosco stayed here. Bo, too. Sounds like them Claridge County boys are madder about them breaking out than they are about me."
Oh, so that's the game. Luke reckons his life will improve if he can get Bo grounded instead of himself. Well, it won't work – he may be the youngest of the clan, but Bo is hardly passive, and there's no way he's letting this happen without a fight.
Except that Jesse puts a stop to it before Bo even has to.
"Luke," the old man barks, finger pointing right at his cousin's chest. You just listen to me, boy. "We ain't sure how many men they done brought into the county, nor whether they actually been communicating with all them men. Only thing we know for sure is they came in with orders to find you." And probably to shoot first and ask questions later.
"Yeah, but Jesse." Only Luke would answer back like that. That tongue of his is what got him taken out to the barn so often, dragged by his upper arm while Jesse's face grew redder by the second. "If they catch me, they ain't got no reason to stay in Hazzard no more. And that would ruin Hickman's whole plan of taking over the county."
"If that's really the plan," Jesse reminds him, advancing a step or two with that finger leading the way. "And if all them boys out there with guns are in on the plan, or even care about it." Luke's hands are on his hips, his chin jutted in the air. This here could turn into a real showdown. "What you're gambling with there, Luke, is your life. You're betting that them guns, them orders them boys got, is a ruse. And maybe it is." But that high pitched wheedle says he's got his doubts. "But if you're wrong, they're gonna kill you. And I won't have it."
Luke's head drops, and he exhales more air than Bo would have guessed his lungs could hold.
"All right," he gives in. "But y'all be careful out there." Right hand up, index finger pointing at Bo and pinky jutting toward Rosco. "Especially you two."
