Read Postmark Bayou Chene for Free Online

were run up as short as they would go, but he still crossed them in the back, trying to take them up a little more. He might be short, but he’s thick and strong. I’ve seen him pull a crosscut saw with two men on the other end, holding up his part and talking the whole time. Might be why people rarely notice how short he is. Or how old. He’s foggy about when he was born, but no one on the Chene can remember a time when he wasn’t here.
    â€œWhat a rain last night! I had to kick my way through drowned frogs just to get to my pirogue this morning,” he said.
    Cide’s always good for a colorful take on a situation. He also likes the ladies, and he winked up at Mary Ann, who snagged him right up in a headlock and ruffled his white hair. The ladies like him back.
    â€œSpeaking of drowned, Fate pulled a dog out of the bayou this morning,” I said. “Don’t know if she’ll make it. Loyce has her over in the kitchen drying out.”
    â€œCouldn’t she swim?” Mary Ann let go of Cide and looked back at me.
    â€œProbably real good,” I said, “But she was tied to an empty skiff. No telling how far she come. It’s black with blue trim, not from anywhere close to here.”
    â€œGuess somebody’ll be pulling up a body on their net anchor ’fore long.” Cide shook his head in sympathy.
    Mary Ann stomped to the other side of the breezeway to inspect the box and give us all advice for the dog’s recovery. By noon the story of the mysterious skiff and its passenger had made the rounds, and the dog had officially picked up the name Drifter.
    At that time none of us knew about the letter.

3
    Two weeks later the little dog was still hanging on but was more mysterious than ever.
    â€œFate, how about scraping the leftovers into this, and I’ll see if I can get Drifter to eat a bite,” Loyce said, sliding a pie tin across the table.
    Fate wasn’t surprised when it stopped just short of the edge. They had been practicing such diversions for so long it was second nature.
    â€œHalf-inch, not bad,” was all he said.
    â€œIt just beats everything; she’s strong enough to eat but won’t.” Loyce’s voice lifted above the rattle of utensils.
    â€œSeems like she’d be glad to find a home, after what she’s been through,” Fate began, as he scraped another plate into Drifter’s pan, adding a little extra gravy over the biscuits.
    â€œDon’t say she’s found a home—she’s not staying here!”
    Loyce popped a wet dish towel near his ear for emphasis.
    Fate charged around the table. Loyce sensed his feint and stepped in the opposite direction. He anticipated her guess, and she found herself nose to chest with her agile cousin. Fate grabbed the dish towel and stepped outside her reach. Second nature, he thought. Second nature.
    Loyce pretended to ignore his victory and went back to the problem at hand.
    â€œWe just need to get her well enough to go somewhere else,” she pondered. “What I set out for her last evening was covered in ants this morning. I don’t think she ate any of it. Starting to look like she might not make it after all.”
    As soon as the black dog had gained enough strength to leave the porch, she had followed her nose to the skiff. Fate had upended the odd vessel on the bank to keep it from filling with rainwater. When she reached it, her tail wagged feebly for the first time. Her nose snuffled the ground from bow to stern. She circled the boat two more times before lifting her head to scan the bayou, upstream and down. Then she whimpered and crawled under the skiff, refusing to come out. Two days later Fate attempted to pull her out, but she only growled and backed farther into the gloom.
    Sometimes early in the morning or late in the evening, if no one was near, she would creep out and sit on the upended boat, watching the water, ears up, tail moving back