The winding, dirt road through the hills was a long one. Veined with ruts, and hemmed in by thick trees.
Bobby hadn't been joshing when he said the car was no flyer. In fact, Moffitt grouched, he might have been too generous.
Mid-morning was fast approaching, and the day was quickly heating up. Moffitt was sure he would boil over in that Dutch oven of a car. Even lowering the windows proved in vain.
And dratted left-hand drive. It had been a while since he'd last had to use it. But he did warm up to it again, eventually.
The droning hum of the old motor did little to soothe his nerves. As soon as the fight to drive up the slope had begun, the hum gave way to a metallic, rattling chug. And it was deafening.
"All the way from Cambridge, on a surprise visit, only to go deaf on the last leg of the journey." Moffitt groused. "I'd laugh if it wasn't me. Oh hang it all, what now?"
The rhythmic chug had been interrupted by a sudden miss. The missing steadily became part of the car's sound, and the unwieldy car slowed to dead stop.
Moffitt waited, stock still. As if moving would curse the car to never run again. He tried the key two or three times before reluctantly getting out to look under the hood.
Shedding his coat, and popping the hood, Moffitt breathed the first curse that came to mind.
"My mama says that ain't Christian English."
Moffitt whirled around, instinctively feeling for a holster.
A boy, 7 or 8 years old stood behind him. How he got there, Moffitt had no clue. The boy continued, blissfully ignorant of the fact that, had Moffitt been armed he would be dead right now.
"I said that word once, my pa near took the hide off'n me. Will someone whoop you fer sayin' it, mister?"
The boy had thick, ruffled hair. The true color was hard to determine since it had been bleached almost blond in the sun. He had a face-ful of freckles like photo-negative stars.
And just above those, two brown, doe eyes that were everywhere, and saw everything while he talked, but pinned Moffitt when he asked the last question.
"Not if I can help it. " Moffitt, still clutching his heart, answered with a small smile.
A particularly long shock of hair fell over the boy's face, between his eyes, when he nodded sagely.
"I reckon that's a perk to bein' the size of yer pa 'n ma."
"Rather," Moffitt bit back his smile.
"I thought you was Mr. Divvers, when I heard the car," the boy sized him up, "but you sure ain't Bobby Divvers."
"No, I'm not. He lent me his car, but something seems to have gone wrong."
"It needs water, mister. I ain't my dad, or my uncles, but I know that sound when I hear it." Moffitt contemplated the engine of the car.
"Is there a well close-by?" Copper and gold hair shivered in the sunlight when the boy shook his head 'no'.
"Only wells is on the farms," Moffitt's head dropped to his chest. "But there's a waterhole a ways yander." He jerked his thumb. Moffitt looked up.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Yander. Off through the trees, 'ere's a crick with clean water."
"Are you speaking the Queen's English, boy?" The boy scratched his head and squinted one eye.
"I reckon it's English, right enough. That's what they tell me I'm speakin'. Don't know bout no queen. Mr. Truman's wife?" He hazarded a guess.
"No, she's the First Lady." Moffitt corrected absently. "You mean there's a creek in those woods?" The boy was happy enough to drop all the queens and first ladies.
"Yessir. Right through there. I c'n show ya."
"Then lead on, young scout. I'm rather out of my depth." Moffitt turned to grab a can, his coat, and valise.
The boy turned and whistled through his teeth.
"Hey, Tut!" A crashing and a bass yelp, and a hound-dog almost as tall as the boy came galumphing out of the underbrush.
The boy reached over and pounded the dog on the ribs, chuckling,
"Ain't no time to be chasing boomers, Tut, we're gonna help mister… you got a name, mister?"
Moffitt paused, "Jack."
"We gotta help Mister Jack." He turned back to Moffitt, "You ready, Mister Jack?"
"As I'll ever be." He hefted the valise and the water can.
And they started on their way, up the road.
"By the by," Jack began, "do you know where the Pettigrews live?"
"Sure 'nuff, mister Jack. Up this here road."
"Do you know Tully Pettigrew?"
"Aw, heck," the boy waved his arm like it was too easy, " 'course I do. 'At's me."