Lyin' Like a Dog, The Yankee Doctor, The Danged Swamp! 3-Volume set

by Richard Mason

  “What’s going on?” whispered John Clayton.

  But before I could say, “I don’t know,” I heard crunching of leaves again, and this time the man was heading toward the truck.

  “Oh, my god! Don’t move, whatever you do,” I whispered.

  Well, I could hear my heart just a-thumping as the man walked right by us and went over to talk with the truck driver.

  “Tony said you had a load ready,” the truck driver said.

  “Yeah, head on up to the shed and back the truck up to where the stuff is stacked,” replied the man with the gun.

  The driver pulled forward and drove toward the shed, and the man with the rifle followed. Heck, as soon as they were gone, me and John Clayton hightailed it outta there so fast you wouldn’t believe it. We didn’t stop running until we were back to the O’Rear Cutoff Road.

  “My gosh, Richard, that was close. That guy wasn’t five feet away. What if he’d seen us?”

  “Heck, I’ve got a feelin’ that it would’ve been just terrible. Dang, we could be dead as a sack of rocks right now.”

  “Well, we still don’t know what’s goin’ on, but if you’ve got a guard on the road, and if you hafta get his okay to pass, something bad is bound to be happenin’ down there.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “and the truck driver said Tony had sent him to pick up a load.”

  “Who’s Tony, and a load of what?”

  “Well, it could be dope; you know I heard someone downtown say that he’d heard the sheriff say there was some people in El Dorado using dope.”

  “Uh, huh, but don’t dope come in little packages?”

  “I guess. Why?”

  “Well, a truck load of dope don’t sound right. Shoot, that’d be enough dope for everybody in Arkansas.”

  “Yeah, it ain’t dope.”

  “You know something, John Clayton? We’ve done figured it out that whatever is goin’ on down in the swamp ain’t legal. Heck, we just need to sic the law on ’em.”

  “The law? You mean that worthless old sot, Curly Sawyer?”

  John Clayton was sure right about Constable Curly being a sorry no-good drunk. Heck, he stayed in Peg’s Pool Hall most of the day, and when he walked down the sidewalk, he wobbled around like his legs was rubber. Shoot, the onlyest reason Curly kept his job was because he had a wife and thirteen kids, and I guess folks in Norphlet figured if they fired Curly, they’d hafta take care of all them kids.

  “Well, yeah, he’s the only law we got now that City Marshal Wing is in the hospital up in Little Rock.”

  “But Curly is totally worthless, and he’s danged sure not gonna do nothin’ just ’cause we think something is goin’ on down in the swamp.”

  “Maybe you’re right, but if we had some real evidence, then he’d hafta call in the State Police.”

  “Uh, huh, but how are we gonna get that kinda evidence?”

  “Shoot, there ain’t but one way. We gotta go back into that swamp and get up close enough to the shed to see what’s going on.”

  “My lord, Richard, I’m still upset ’bout the last time we was there. What if that guard comes walkin’ up when we’re up there by the shed? Shoot, if what they’re doin’ is against the law big time, he might just shoot us.”

  “Aw, come on, John Clayton. We’re just like two Indian scouts when were tryin’ to sneak around, and I’ll bet we can creep up to that shed and watch what’s goin’ on, and no one will ever know.”

  “Maybe, but, Richard, every time we do something that’s just plum crazy, absolutely the worst things happen, and, I don’t have a good feelin’ ’bout this. But I know you, and in the next week or so we’re gonna be creepin’ through them bushes spyin’ on that sorry bunch.”

  I grinned and nodded my head. Yeah, I thought, we’re gonna find out what’s goin’ on down in Flat Creek Swamp or die tryin’. Well maybe die trying was a little too strong because I still remember that bullet splattering bark in my face. Heck, I wondered if we were getting into something that was real dangerous.

  Uh, huh, it probably was pretty danged dangerous, and I guess it took a couple of weeks for us to get up our nerve again, but then, as the days passed and it warmed up, that swamp just seemed to draw us, and we were getting up our courage up again. Pretty soon I knew we’d be creeping along on our bellies like Indian scouts trying to sneak up close enough to see what was happening.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Funny Book Blues

  Okay, let me make something real clear: I never in my whole born days thought getting them eight hundred funny books would be so danged hard. Heck, for weeks and weeks, we tried everything we could think of, and we were still a bunch short. We’d even bought some new funny books from Doc and passed the word around that when we went to the Ritz Theater to see the picture show that next Saturday, we’d have new funny books to trade for old ones. Heck, we figured that if we could get five or six old funny books for one new one, it would really help. ’Course, when we told the kids that next Saturday they could trade old funny books for new ones, if the old ones still had the covers on them, we didn’t tell them we wanted a bunch of old ones for one new funny book. I guess that was a mistake. Heck, it went real bad that morning.

  “Richard, gimme five of them new funny books. Here’s five of my old ones.” It was Leaky Darden, from up at Smackover, hick city USA, who was always trying to borrow a nickel or get some of your popcorn. Heck, that kid was a real moocher, and I knew durn well he figured a trade of new funny books for his old beat up ones was right down his alley.

  Leaky got his name because when he was about five, his daddy took him to the picture show and Leaky didn’t wanna leave a real good part of the show to go to the bathroom, and he wet his pants. Well, when he came walking outta the theater that Saturday morning, somebody said, “Hey, look at that kid; he’s leaking.” ’Course, that got a big laugh and from then on he’s been Leaky.

  “Naw, Leaky, that ain’t the way it goes. We got to trade even.”

  “Even? You said last week you were gonna trade new funny books for old ones.”

  “Yeah, Leaky, but we didn’t say nothing ’bout how many,” John Clayton said, and he gave Leaky a little smirk. “Shoot, them funny books of yours is just old rags. We’ll trade, but not one for one.”

  Well, Leaky gave us one of them Smackover cross-eyed stares of his where one eye was looking real mean and right at you, and the other one was looking kinda like he was trying to see who was behind him. Then he said, “I want that new Tarzan; how many?”

  John Clayton took Leaky’s old funny books and thumbed through them as a bunch more kids came up to watch the trade, and quite a few had stacks of old funny books.

  “I’ll take ten of these, Leaky.”

  “Ten!!! You bunch of Norphlet crooks! They said new funny books for old funny books, didn’t they?” Leaky said to a bunch of kids that had crowded around us with funny books to trade.

  “Yeah, they sure did!”

  Heck, this was starting to look real bad because some of them kids were a bunch bigger than we were, and our friends from Norphlet had slipped away, leaving us right in the middle of twenty-five mad kids waving old funny books at us.

  “Okay, Leaky, you’re right, ten is too many. How ’bout five?”

  “Naw, Richard, you ain’t stealing my funny books. Y’all heard him last week say he’d trade his new funny books for old ones. Right guys?”

  Well, more “yeah’s” and “sure did’s.” It was at that very minute I knew we’d made a big mistake because this big kid from Louann stuck an old, beat-up funny book in my face and said, “You either trade, or I’m gonna cram this funny book down your throat!”

  About ten seconds later we had eleven beat-up old funny books, and we were standing there in front of the Ritz feeling like morons.

  “Dang you, Richard, that was just about the most stupidest thing you’ve ever done―trading our new funny books for old ones.”

  “Don’t blame me. You thoug
ht it was a danged good idea.”

  Well, we tried to blame each other until the ticket window opened, and then, still kinda all hacked off, we took our last dimes and bought our tickets.

  That Saturday afternoon when we got back from the picture show, we went over to John Clayton’s house and pulled the boxes of funny books out from under his bed. Heck, we had just over four hundred, and we were becoming depressed.

  “Dang it, John Clayton, we’ve only gotten a few over four hundred funny books, and I’ve spent every nickel of my paper route money for as long as I can remember buyin’ old worthless funny books.”

  “Well, what do you think I’ve been doing with my fifty cents a week allowance?”

  “Yeah, I know you’ve been spendin’ every nickel you get, and shoot, we’ve picked up every coke-cola bottle in town. We’ll never buy enough funny books to trade with Ears.”

  “Naw, we won’t if we don’t get some help.”

  “Richard, we’re not gonna get any help. Heck, we haven’t had one kid give us a funny book.”

  “I know, but what if we took in a partner who had bunches of funny books?”

  “Huh?”

  “Yeah, we’d make this person a full partner, and she’d have an interest in the upside-down funny book.”

  “She?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout who would have a bunch of old funny books and Rosalie’s the one.”

  “Richard, you moron, give that sorry girl a third of thousands of dollars just so you can be around her? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Naw, I don’t want to just be around her. You know she brags all the time that she only reads a funny book once. I’ll bet she’s got hundreds ’cause her daddy’s rich.”

  “Baloney! Baloney! Richard, you can’t even lie worth a darn.”

  Well, we argued about whether to make Rosalie a partner for another thirty minutes, but John Clayton wouldn’t give in. We’d just hafta keep buying and trading to get the eight hundred funny books we had to have.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Bootleggers

  The next day I was sitting on the breadbox at Echols Grocery waiting on John Clayton. We always meet and sit there on the top talking and planning what to do and where to go. I was daydreaming, as usual, when I started thinking about the swamp and whatever was happening down there. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to go back down there and find out what was happening. Heck, it had taken us several weeks to get up enough nerve to go back in that swamp ’cause that guard almost spotted us the last time we were down there. Well, John Clayton walked up about that time, and the first thing I said to him was, “Get ready to head for the swamp this afternoon. Well, John Clayton kinda grinned and nodded, and the plan to be Indian scouts again was set on go. That afternoon we started on a long walk down that black-top highway, and after forty-five minutes we’d made it to the O’Rear Cutoff Road and were heading for the Flat Creek Bridge.

  We were almost to the bridge when I saw the tire tracks leading off the road heading right toward a big blackberry patch.

  “Hey, look, there’s the road heading toward those big woods,” I said.

  Gosh, we were really excited, and we left the road and started circling back in the swamp instead of just stupidly walking up the new road to where the man with the gun was. Twenty minutes later as we turned and headed back toward the creek, we came to the new road that someone had built to go deep into the swamp.

  “There’s the road, John Clayton. Can you believe it, a road this good going right into the middle of Flat Creek Swamp?”

  “Naw, I can’t. Something is goin’ on down here in the swamp, something big.”

  “Yeah, you’re durn tootin’. Hey, I hear something.”

  “Get in the bushes, John Clayton. Don’t let anybody see you. Shoot, it might be the man guarding the shed.”

  We scooted off into the bushes, and in a few minutes a truck came from the main road just roaring by, heading through the woods. Up the road from where we were hiding, we could see the man with the gun stop the truck and then wave it on.

  It wasn’t but another five minutes when another truck and a old ’35 Ford came down the road, all going in the same direction.

  “My gosh, why are all those folks driving on this road down in the swamp?”

  “Danged if I know, Richard, but something’s going on and their sneakin’ round to keep anybody from findin’ out what’s happenin’.”

  “Yeah, and listen: If we go any further, we need to get over toward the creek and slip through that canebrake and those blackberry vines. Heck, you know that guy will be guarding this road.”

  We sneaked over in the cane and blackberry vines, and we moved slowly toward where we thought the shed was. As we got closer we began to see a little wisps of smoke drifting up, and then we started smelling something sour again. Then we saw it.

  “Look, John Clayton! Up on that little low ridge in the middle of all those beech trees. It’s the shed.”

  “Uh, huh, and I can see trucks and cars parked out in front of it.”

  “Okay, we need to be a couple of Indian scouts and not make a sound. Let’s sneak over to the back side of the shed and creep up and hide in that bunch of bushes over there,” I whispered.

  John Clayton nodded and we started crawling along on our stomachs until we reached the clump of bushes, where we crouched down and started looking over the place. My gosh, what we saw nearly took our breath. First the shed wasn’t a little thing at all. Shoot, it was maybe thirty or forty feet long, and one end was closed up with a door. As we crouched there, several men went in and out of the door, and something seemed to be cooking in a bunch of big round copper pots with little coiled copper tubes going kinda round and round and something was dripping out of the end of each copper tube. Well, we whispered back and forth for a few minutes until one of the men walked over and put a cup under one of the little drips, let it get about half-full, and then he drank it.

  “Whoa, Swampy, this is good stuff!” he hollered. The man he called Swampy came over and said, “Hell, Bob Robert, I done told you this batch was double-filtered and double-distilled. Ain’t nothing better in these parts.”

  “Well, gimme, ’bout five gallons. Them gals down at the Randolph Hotel has a lot of customers that needs a little drink before they lays down their money.”

  Swampy walked over to the shed and came back carrying a small barrel which he put in the back of the man’s truck.

  “Whata I owe you, Swampy?”

  “Oh, gimme, a twenty, that’ll do it.”

  The man pulled out his billfold and handed Swampy a twenty-dollar bill, and then it hit me.

  “Oh my gosh, John Clayton, this is a still, and the man called Swampy is sellin’ moonshine!” I whispered.

  “Yeah, you’re right, Richard, and look at all them little barrels sittin’ over there. Heck, this ain’t no little operation.”

  Well, me and John Clayton sat there and watched as cars and trucks came and went. Swampy just kept loading up barrels of moonshine, and every little bit he’d go over to where the stuff was cooking and add some wood to the fire and then put in some of that sour corn mash we had been smelling. We were just about to leave when we heard some leaves crunching behind us.

  “Down! Flatten out!” I whispered.

  Me and John Clayton just hugged the ground under those little bushes, and in a few seconds we glanced up to see the boots of a man passing us by. We sneaked a quick peek and recognized him as the man who had shot at us. He was walking along, making a circle around the area, and he was carrying a gun. Well, we couldn’t move for a few minutes, and while we waited for the man carrying the gun to get far enough away where we could sneak outta there, a pickup truck came driving up, and soon it had backed in to a loading area right near the shed. Then the man they called Swampy opened a swinging gate on the other end of the shed, and, my gosh, there were just stacks and stacks of wooden barrels.

&nbs
p; “How many, Jake?”

  “Gimme a full load, Swampy.”

  Well, I knew about old Pop Davis down near Moro Bay who has a little still at his cabin because me and Daddy have been by several times for Daddy to pick up a fruit jar of moonshine, but, heck, old Pop Davis’s still ain’t a big operation at all. I’ll bet he don’t make but a few quarts a day. Shoot, this operation was big-time, and from what me and John Clayton could see, hundreds of gallons a day were being trucked outta there. We’d seen enough, but just as we were about to leave, a big Buick pulled up.

  “Dang, John Clayton, that looks like some big shot.”

  Sure enough, this man in a blue suit wearing a black felt hat got out and walked over to Swampy.

  “Whata I owe you for that last load, Swampy?”

  “Let’s see, Tony, ten barrels at twenty bucks. Yeah, gimme two hundred.”

  Tony pulled out his billfold and handed Swampy the money and then stared back toward his car. He was just about to get in when he looked back at Swampy and said, “This better be good stuff, Swampy. You’re charging me top dollar.”

  “Oh, it is, Tony. You can’t get no better ’shine than this.”

  “Humph, you better be right.”

  Well, Swampy looked a little concerned, but Tony got in his car and drove off, leaving Swampy standing there with a frown on his face. A few minutes later two other trucks drove off and then the man guarding the place and Swampy got in a truck and drove away, leaving the place deserted.

  Heck, as soon as they were outta sight me and John Clayton ran over to the shed to get a closer look at everything. There was big pots with sour corn mash in one corner of the shed, and several big copper pots were hooked up with copper tubing. A low fire was still burning under three of the pots, and liquid from the end of the copper tubing was steadily dripping into a wooden barrel. ’Course, after watching the man take a drink of the moonshine, I just had to try it. I picked up the little tin cup, let it get about half-full, and just downed it. Oh, my lord in heaven above! When it got about halfway down I made a little wheezy cough and sent about half of the stuff up my nose.