The Underground Lady Read Online Free

from her farm west of Union. A large air and ground search was conducted with no discovery of a crash site. The search was called off after three days. It was assumed, and rightly so, that a hunter or farmer would eventually find the wreckage somewhere deep in the woods. There were unconfirmed rumors her plane was spotted in Wiggins, Mississippi, and on Chandeleur Island in the Gulf of Mexico. There was no mention of a daughter, a fact that I found strange.
    Leaving B.W. to tend to the cottage, I headed for my truck and the town of Union. It was mid-winter and cold. The fog had dissipated, the sky an aching blue. The wind had picked up and cut through my clothes like an icy blade. It was still early, and the shadows of the trees, cast by the winter sun, lay like splash-marks of black paint on the terrace row and gravel road and across the roof of my truck.
     
    ***
     
     
    Bill Graham, the Managing Editor of the Union Appeal , looked through giant ledgers holding copies of the paper dating back to the thirties and found the article. We looked through several weeks, but there was no further mention of the disappearance of Hadley Welsh and her little yellow Piper Super Cub. He suggested checking with the Meridian Star , a daily publication that may have follow up articles. It was a good idea.
    On the drive back to the cottage, it dawned on me that Hadley's last name was Welsh, Sunny's was Pfeiffer and, if I remember, she'd said she had never been married. A good question for dinner tonight.
    Nearing the terrace row, which serves as the driveway to the cottage, I observed a tractor in my field across the gravel road. It moved deliberately under a sky empty of cloud, over hard ground from a dry winter. High overhead vultures circled patiently waiting for nature to claim their next meal. The tractor stabbed a huge round bale of hay with the front fork then turned around and backed into another bale with the rear fork, raised it up off the ground and moved away with the two bales whose combined weight would be at least a ton and a half. This would be Shack, the cattle farmer who lived a few miles to the north and mowed my fields for the hay. He insisted he needed the extra bales, but I knew better. He cut the fields to keep me from spending endless hours pulling a bush hog in order to keep my little farm from becoming overgrown. Shack was the kind of neighbor everyone needed. Ten years my junior he was stoic, lucid, caustic and courageous, generous with his friends, and unyielding to his enemies. He was a man comfortable kicking cow shit with dirt farmers and other cattlemen, or surrounded by philosophers, academicians, and learned men or women who treasured his wit and his company. He sometimes needed a clear direction pointed out to him or else he could become dangerous.
    Shack, like Rose, accepted me into this close-knit and sparsely populated community shortly after moving onto the farm and building the cottage. I have no idea why they "took-a-liking" to me, maybe they didn't want it on their consciouses if a city slicker made some fatal error in what can be dangerous country. One has only to remember the recent past in this part of Mississippi to understand. For the most part, they have managed to keep me out of trouble. I waved at Shack, who waved back, and continued on with his business.
    Parking beside the cottage, I observed B.W. worrying a field mouse, teasing it, batting it around, the fear oozing from the mouse like the gray fog from this morning. I hated watching the killing. Picking up a pinecone, I threw it at B.W., whacking him on the head. He glared at me, then lifted his tail and stalked off in such a high dudgeon that it made me laugh. The mouse ran under my truck and hid behind a rear wheel. I did not blame B.W. for wanting to kill the mouse. It was only his way. Nature is a cruel lady.
    Inside the cottage, I stoked the fire, went to my flight bag and retrieved an old logbook. Every minute of a pilot's life is