The Case of the Halloween Ghost
Page 4
“I think I’ll go to the porch.”
“Oh no you won’t. You’re going with me.”
“But I thought . . .”
“The choice is yours unless you make the wrong choice. I can’t allow you to make dumb decisions. Come on, let’s move out.”
We went creeping through the darkness, towards the sound of whatever it was that was banging. It was pretty tense there for a while, but the mission turned out to be a big success. We discovered that the door on the cake house had come unlatched, and it was banging in the wind.
“There, you see? It was nothing to be afraid of. But if I had let you go to the porch, you’d still be up there shivering and imagining all kinds of crazy . . .”
Suddenly I heard something else, a new sound. It was coming from a grove of bodark trees a short distance away. “Drover, did you hear voices? Unless I’m seriously mistaken, someone is lurking over in those trees.”
“Hank, is this Halloween night?”
“No. We don’t observe Halloween.”
“Am I old enough to make a decision yet?”
“I suppose we can talk about it. How old are you now, Drover?”
“Well . . . I’m not sure. That depends on when I was born.”
“That’s correct. And when were you born?”
“That’s the part I’m not too sure about. I think I was there but I don’t remember much about it.”
“You think you were there but you don’t remember much about it. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yeah, my early years are kind of hazy.”
“Were there any witnesses to this alleged event?”
“Well, let’s see. My brothers and sisters were there, and so was my ma.”
“None of whom is available to testify in your behalf, is that correct?”
“I guess so.”
“In other words, we have no proof whatsoever that you were born. We still have no date of birth, and hence, no age. I’d say your case looks pretty weak, Drover.”
“Can you remember when you were born?”
“Uh . . . why do you ask?”
“Well, if you can’t remember when you were born, then how do we know you’re old enough to make a decision about whether I’m old enough to make a decision?”
“Drover, the answer to that is so obvious that I won’t even bother to say it.”
“It is?”
“Yes.”
“Well . . . what is it?”
“You really don’t know? Do I have to spell it out for you?”
“No, just say it.”
“Very well, I’ll say it one time and I’ll expect you to remember it.”
“Okay, I’m ready.”’
“The answer is: Shut up.”
“Oh.”
“And quit asking moronic questions in the middle of an important investigation.”
“What’s a ‘moronic question’?”
“The question you just asked is an example of a moronic question, and I forbid you to ask any more.”
“How can I find out what ‘moronic’ means?”
“You can’t. Now, I think we’ve settled the matter about your authority to make decisions, and once again you’ve proved yourself unfit and irresponsible. I’m sorry, Drover, but I have no choice but to make the decisions for both of us.”
“How can you make a decision if you’ve got no choice?”
“Exactly. And always remember, Drover: I’m doing this for your own good.”
“Does that mean we can’t go home?”
“That’s correct.”
“Could we go back to the porch?”
“No. Any more questions before we launch our investigation of the mysterious voices in the trees?”
“I’m scared.”
“That’s not a question.”
“Yeah, but it’s true, and I want to go home!”
“The truth, Drover, is that you were born scared.”
“I still don’t remember a thing about it.”
“And you’ll just have to learn to live with it. All right, let’s move out. We’ve got a job to do.”
And with that, we went creeping into the darkness, towards the grove of trees from whence the mysterious voices had come. To find out what it was, you’ll have to turn the page.
Chapter Seven: Two Ugly Black Things in the Trees
I’ve already said that it was a spooky night, with the darkness and the wind and the moon half-covered with clouds. But the closer we got to that grove of bodark trees, the spookier the night became.
I can reveal here that entering dark groves of trees on dark spooky nights has never been something I’ve enjoyed doing. And that goes double when I can hear voices coming from the dark grove of trees.
And fellers, I could hear voices—whispering, mumbling, grumbling, rumbling voices.
The only thing that kept me going was iron discipline and Drover. Not that he provided me with any help or encouragement, understand. Far from it. But I knew that if I showed any outward signs of fear, it would ruin him.
I had to be a good example. That’s part of my job.
Well, we entered the dark mysterious grove. The wind moaned and whistled through the trees, and their frozen branches made a terrible creaking sound.
Then, suddenly, one of the voices rose to a high pitch and I heard someone shriek, “Son, if you don’t know where we’re at, then what are we a-doing here?”
HUH?
I stopped in my tracks, and Drover ran into me, gave both of us quite a scare.
“Hank, did you hear that? I heard a voice!”
“Of course you heard a voice. That’s what we’ve come to investigate.”
“Yeah, but . . . I think it’s a ghost!”
“A ghost? Don’t be absurd. A ghost is nothing but a frigment of the imagination. That voice sounded familiar to me, and unless I miss my guess, we’ve cornered ourselves a couple of stray birds.”
“Birds?”
“That’s correct. Buzzards, to be exact. What they’re doing in a place like this, I don’t know, but we’re fixing to find out. Come on, Drover, follow me and let me do the talking.”
“That’s fine with me. I’ve got nothing to say to a buzzard.”
“Hush!”
I crept forward in the darkness, every muscle in my highly conditioned body tensed and ready for action. At the same time, my data banks were spewing out calculations on distance, lassitude, longitude, height, depth, speed, azimuth, apostrophe, and temperature.
To give you an idea of how these things work, here are some of the numbers I was receiving from Data Control: 3, 17, 29, 2, 94, 354, 49, 1, .0003, 3.56, and 1-800-555-1212.
Pretty impressive, huh? Those were real numbers, every single one of them, and I don’t need to mention that no ordinary dog could have produced so many real numbers in such a short span of time.
As you can see from the read-out, we were getting close to the buzzards, so I shifted into the Stealthy Crouch Mode—stiffened my tail, extended my neck, raised my ears two notches, and switched the Raised Hackles circuit over from manual to automatic.
In other words, I was ready to engage the Enemy. Those buzzards were about to get the surprise of their . . .
I’m not sure how it happened that I ran into them. We’re still working a few little bugs out of the system, now and then we get faulty numbers, you have to remember that it was very dark. And that buzzards are black.
I ran into them, is basically what happened, and I’ll admit that it came as something of a shock. An even greater shock followed when one of them began to squawk and flap his wings.
I think it was Junior. Yes, of course it was. Junior has a very distinctive way of speaking, and it would be hard to mistake him for anyone else, even on a dark night
.
“W-w-w-wolf, w-w-wolf! H-help, me-me-me-me-murder!”
“Junior, you hush up, quit hollering about wolfs and figger out how we’re gonna git outa this mess of trees, I never should have let you talk me into, son, if you cain’t fly to wherever it is you’re a-going, you shouldn’t ort to go, is the way it looks to me!”
“B-b-but P-p-pa, there’s a w-w-w-w-w-w-w . . .”
“There’s a lesson to be learned, is what there is, and the lesson is that a buzzard has no business . . .” There was a moment of dead silence. Then, “Son, what is that thang I see? It’s hairy and it has a nose. Is it you?”
“N-n-n-n-no, it’s n-not m-m-me, not me.”
“In that case, what do you reckon it might be?”
“I th-think it’s a w-w-w-w-wolf.”
“A wolf?”
“Uh-huh, a b-b-big w-w-w-w-w-wolf.”
“Son, you have fooled around and got us in sirrus trouble, I told you we had no business tramping around in a bunch of dadgum trees, and now we’ve, what are you gonna say to that wolf?”
Silence. “Uh hi th-there, M-m-mister W-w-w-w-wolf.”
“How’s it going, Junior,” I said.
“Oh g-g-gosh, P-pa, it ain’t a w-w-w-wolf at all, it’s our d-d-d-doggie friend! Hi, D-d-d-doggie.”
“Who? Said what? Doggie friend?”
“Y-y-yeah, the one that’s s-s-such a g-g-good s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s . . .”
“Spit it out, son, time’s a-wasting.”
“Singer! The one that’s s-s-such a g-good s-s-singer.”
Wallace pushed his way forward and brought his beak right up to my nose. “You mean that hammerheaded ranch dog? Yes, it is, I see it is, the same no-count dog that has got you in so much trouble in the past, you keep away from my boy, Dog, and don’t you be giving him any more crazy ideas about becoming a singer when he grows up, if he ever does!”
“B-b-b-but P-pa, I w-want to b-b-be a s-s-s-singer, singer.”
“He wants to be a singer,” I said. “What’s so bad about that?”
“You hush, Dog, nobody in this family, a singer’s life is no life for my boy!”
I had sort of stepped into the middle of a family squabble. Ordinarily I don’t do that, but Wallace had a way of getting on my nerves.
“Just because he sings doesn’t mean he can’t do the other things that buzzards do. Come to think of it, what do buzzards do?”
“We work the ditches and the highways to find our next meal, because, Puppy Dog, nobody feeds a hungry buzzard. We git no handouts and no free meals in this business, and we never will because we have our pride and our dignity.”
“A buzzard has pride? What does a buzzard have to be proud of, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Wallace stood up straight, tried to suck in his pot belly, and held his head high—as high as he could with a crooked neck.
“We’re proud of our buzzardhood, is what we’re proud of, and proud of our glorious history. We’re proud of cleaning up the highways, and we’re proud that no self-respecting buzzard has ever taken a free handout from nobody. And most of all, we’re proud to be proud!”
“Y-y-yeah, w-we’re sure p-p-proud, and h-h-hungry t-too.”
“Yes, we are, we truly are, but just because we’re poor and hungry and down on our luck don’t mean that . . . say, neighbor, I don’t suppose you have any food on you, just a little scrap of something to git us by until our luck changes, like maybe a piece of dead rabbit or a tough old rooster that nobody wants?”
“Nope. We’re fresh out of dead rabbits and old roosters.”
“So there you are, Junior, that’s the kind of friend you have, selfish and stingy and don’t give a rip for nobody but himself!”
“Y-y-yeah, but h-h-he can sure s-s-s-s-s-sing.”
“Son, the world is full of singers. What we need around here is a good honest meal. Anybody can sing.”
“Y-y-you c-c-can’t.” Wallace glared at Junior and Junior grinned at me. “I g-g-got him there, cause h-h-h-he c-c-can’t s-s-s-s-s-sing, can’t sing.”
“I can too sing!”
“C-c-can’t.”
“Can!”
“C-c-c-can’t.”
“Can too! And what’s more, I’ll prove it. Y’all just stand back and give me some room and I’ll show you a thang or two!”
I wouldn’t have bet a nickel that the old buzzard could have carried a tune, but you know what? We moved back and gave him some room, and he tuned up his tonsils and spread his wings and sang a song called “Buzzard Love.”
Buzzard Love
When I was a young bird, a sly golden-tongued bird,
The handsomest buzzard you ever did see,
The ladies all lined up and fought ’til they signed up
To kiss me each day at the base of my tree.
This one gal named Monique, she said that my technique
Was crude and stuck-up and completely uncouth.
She thought I was tryin’ to impress ’em by lyin’
But shucks, I was trying to tell ’em the truth!
Oh Buzzard Love, on the wings of a dove,
You’ve left me here behind.
When I took up wimmen, ’twas like I was swimmin’,
You throwed me a sinker instead of a line.
One night on our roost I reached out and goosed
The ugliest daughter of a feller named Roy.
Her name was Sue Ellen, she went around smellin’
Of wonderful fragrances buzzards enjoy.
I figgered she’d squeal but it came as a real
Surprise when she called me a miserable creep.
To add to the drama, it seems that her momma
Had moved in between us while I was asleep.
Oh Buzzard Love, on the wings of a dove,
You’ve left me here behind.
When I took up wimmen, ’twas like I was swimmin’,
You throwed me a sinker instead of a line.
I think there’s a lesson for birds who go messin’
With dynamite, gasoline, H-bombs, or gals.
Before you start kissin’ on that nitroglycerin
Take out some insurance, get help from your pals.
Now, I’m here to witness, you’ll need lots of fitness
As well as some help from the Lord up above.
’Cause birds of a feather can stir up bad weather.
A stormy condition they call Buzzard Love.
Oh Buzzard Love, on the wings of a dove,
You’ve flown away from here.
And now when I look up and wish I was hooked up
You drop me a whitewash instead of a tear.
Chapter Eight: Junior Claims He Saw a Ghost
Well, Wallace finished his singing (or whatever it was) and looked pretty proud of himself.
“You said I couldn’t sing, son. What do you have to say now?”
“Oh g-g-gosh, that w-w-was p-pretty g-g-g-good!”
“Pretty good? I’d say it was much better than that. I’d say it was very close to a work of art, myself.”
“It w-w-was a w-w-work of a-a-art, P-pa.”
“There, you see? We’ve hit the same conclusion, and you’re right, son, it was truly wonderful, yes it was.”
“It was w-w-w-wonderful, P-pa.”
“Well, you ain’t lost all your marbles, and as long as you can still appreciate them old-timey songs, the trouble with these kids today is that they sing all this modern stuff and forgit that nobody has written a decent song since Bob Wills.”
“Y-y-yeah, I g-g-guess s-s-so.”
“Did you realize that Bob come from Buzzard, Texas?”
“Uh, uh, I think it w-w-was T-t-t-turkey, T-texas.”
“
Turkey Buzzard, Texas, yes it truly was.”
“Oh. M-m-maybe s-s-so.”
“And I can’t stand that noisy so-called music with the loud git-tars and the screamin’ wimmen.”
“Y-y-yeah, m-me too.”
“Never could handle a screamin’ woman.”
“M-m-me n-n-neither.”
“Because, you see, son, a song like ‘Buzzard Love’ has real feeling. It was written back when buzzards was buzzards, and wimmen was wimmen, and love was love.”
“Y-y-yeah.”
“And it teaches an important lesson about life, and son, no matter how you slice it or what kind of bottle you put it in, life is still life.”
“Y-y-yeah, I g-guess s-s-so.”
“And it’s got nuthin’ to do with screamin’ wimmen or loud git-tars.”
“Y-y-yeah, and I’d s-s-sure like to b-b-be a s-s-singer, P-pa.”
“Well let me tell you something, son. Here tonight, in this very place, I’ve seen a change come over you. I’ve seen that good music has touched your heart. I’ve seen an uplifting of your taste in music. With these very eyes of mine, I’ve seen thangs I never hoped to see.”
“Y-y-yeah.”
“And son, on this very spot on this very night, I can foresee the day when you become a great and famous sanger!”
“Oh b-b-b-boy!”
“Yes you will, and I’ll sang with you.”
“Oh.”
“And I can foresee the day, Junior, when me and you go from town to town and from hall to hall, through the highways and the hedges, singing together the only good song left in this terrible old world: ‘Buzzard Love.’”
“J-j-just one s-s-song?”
“Yes we will, we surely will. And son, the crowds will come, and the people will come, and everyone will come from miles around to hear . . .”
I’d heard about all of Wallace’s noise I could stand. It was time for him to shut up. I had sat quietly through all that mess, and now I let out a big old loud snore.
“SKAWWWWWWWWW.”
His head snapped around and he gave me an evil glare. “Just what do you think you’re a-doin’, Dog, you’ve interrupted my, if you can’t stay awake, then maybe you ort to be taking worm pills!”