Minus cap and bags, Tom "got"—stumbling into the brook ditch on his face, then hurrying up the stream, and running blindly through the woods to the road, and so to the mountain. He sat down at last on the crest, a stitch wracking his side.
What chance did he have, with the Ellis boys after him with shotguns? Maybe he could lie low for a while; keep on the mountain, until the shotguns' energetic memories had turned to other things. He shuffled along the outcrop, then turned in to avoid the cactus that punctuated the hillock before Locust Hedge.
Mammy Stella was waiting for him. "Get them hens?"
"Ah got hell, Stella. Ah gotter clear out er Adamsville; dem Ellis boys done said so."
"Whar you gwine?" Her marital suspicion strengthened his resolve; a holiday from home had its advantages.
"Ah 'lowed Ah'd walk down ter Hazelton 'r Coalstock. Ah could get somethin' to do 'roun' de rollin' mill."
"What de chu'ch gonter do?"
"Brudder Adams he kin preachify tell Ah comes back."
"Why 'n' cher stay here?"
"An' git shot?"