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me good's I kin smell it, he thought. I settin' here smellin' an' it comin' here smellin'. Two hunnert an' fo'; where he lef' off at? Fo' hunnert an' five....
There was a sudden scratching by the chimney. He sat forward, tense, tight-throated. "Come on," he whispered, "I here. I waitin'." He couldn't move. He couldn't make himself move. There was another scratching. It was the pain he didn't want. But he didn't want the waiting either. "I here," he--there was another, just a small noise and then a flutter. Bats. His grip on the stick loosened. He should have known that won't it. It won't no farther than the barn yet. What ail his nose? What ail him? Won't no nigger for hunnert miles could smell like he could. He heard the scratching again, coming differently, coming from the corner of the house where the cat hole was. Pick..pick..pick. That was a bat. He knowd that was a bat. Pick...pick. "Here I is," he whispered. Won't no bat. He braced his feet to get up. Pick. "Lord waitin' on me," he whispered. "He don't want me with my face tore open. Why don't you go on, Wildcat, why you want me?" He was on his feet now. "Lord don't want me with no wildcat marks." He was moving toward the cat hole. Across on the river bank the Lord was waiting on him with a troup of angels and golden vestments for him to put on and when he came, he'd put on the vestments and stand there with the
