The True Blue Scouts of Sugar Man Swamp

by Kathi Appelt

  While they stood next to each other, trembling and poofing, Gertrude circled them with her long, sleek body and said this unexpected thing: “I’ve been waiting for ssssssomeone to drop by. And what do you know? Here you are.”

  Of course Bingo and J’miah immediately thought she had been waiting to have them for dinner, and not to share dinner either.

  Bingo blurted out, “I don’t think we’d t-t-taste very good.”

  But to their surprise, Gertrude started laughing. “Sssssilly Sssscout, I don’t eat anything with fur. It getsss ssstuck in my throat.”

  That, it goes without saying, was a relief . . . but not a whole lot. Okay, some. A little. There was still a lot of poofing, not to mention shivering, still occurring between the daring duo.

  Then J’miah said, “What did you need us for, then?” Bingo could feel his tuft standing straight up.

  “I need ssssomeone to admire my new sssskin,” Gertrude said. And with that, she pulled the brothers together even more tightly inside the circle of her body. That way they could get a very up-close-and-personal look at all of her black diamonds. The raccoon brothers were effusive in their praise.

  “My, those diamonds are definitely impressive.”

  “I’ve never seen scales like these.”

  “You could win the Swamp Critters Beauty Pageant.”

  “There is no one more lovely in these whole deep, dark woods.”

  They went on and on.

  Finally, satisfied that the raccoons had adequately admired her new skin, she asked, “Just out of curiossssity, Ssssscouts, what bringssss you to the deepesssst, darkesssst part of the sssswamp?”

  J’miah blurted out, “Rumbles!”

  “Lots of rumbles,” added Bingo.

  Then they told her that the Sugar Man Swamp was about to be besieged by . . .

  “Horrible,” said Bingo.

  “Terrible,” said J’miah.

  “The Farrow Gang!” they said together.

  “We have to wake up the Sugar Man,” said J’miah.

  “It’s our Scout duty,” said Bingo.

  “He’s the only one who can stop them,” they chorused.

  “Of coursssse,” she agreed. “I could give him a little snip-snap-zip-zap.” She paused. “However, that might make him out of sssssorts.”

  Bingo and J’miah both recalled their parents’ warnings about the wrath of the Sugar Man.

  Bingo gulped. “Isn’t there another way?” he asked.

  “Oh, yesssss,” said Gertrude. “The besssst way to wake him up issss with the ssssweet aroma of fresh ssssugarcane. Only one itsssy-bitsssy problem. I regret to tell you that we’re completely, totally, utterly out of sssstock.”

  It only took about five split seconds for Bingo and J’miah to come to the conclusion that Operation Rumble-Rumble-Rumble now had a new step in the mission: procure some fresh sugarcane to wave underneath the nose of the Sugar Man so that he would wake up without any wrath. And that meant a trip to the edge of the Bayou Tourterelle, where the canebrake grew, which was closer to the DeSoto than to the Sugar Man’s hideout.

  They’d have to make the long trek back with the sun on the wane. Did that deter our Scouts?

  “We have to hurry,” said Bingo.

  “We have to scurry,” said J’miah.

  And without even telling Gertrude adios, they took off. They retraced their steps, turning toward the light, lighter, lightest forks in the road as they went, which was a problem because the sun was now getting lower and lower in the sky. So far, they had not heard any further rumbles, but they knew that as the nighttime drew near, the hogs would wake up and continue their steady march toward the swamp.

  Bingo and J’miah ran and ran and ran. Soon their tongues were hanging out. Their legs were tired and their paws were sore. They were panting for breath, but sure enough they finally reached the canebrake.

  Victory!

  Eeeeerrrrrrrtttttt. Step on the brakes!

  Canebrake rattlers everywhere. Crotalus horridus! The nastiest of the pit vipers, known for their razor-sharp fangs and their stinging venom.

  Chichichichi! Suddenly Bingo and J’miah were met by a hive of buzzing snakes, all poised to strike. If our young raccoon brothers dared try to snatch even one itsy-bitsy-teensy-weensy cane of sugar, you know what they’d get?

  Snip-snap-zip-zap!

  Bingo’s tuft was too scared to pop up. J’miah’s eyebrows were too scared to squint. It was terror time in Scoutville. All at once, they realized that no one had ever told them what to do in the face of a writhing, wriggling, hissing horde of angry pit vipers. And they were completely in the dark about the lullaby. (Lullaby? What lullaby?) For the second time in one afternoon . . . POOOOOOFFFF! and POOOOOOFFFF!

  Every single strand of fur stood straight up in a brilliant display of gray and black. Did their poofability slow down the stunned Crotalus horridus? Only for a split second. But that, sports fans, was just long enough for our heroes to go into full-bore retreat.

  49

  AFTER HEARING THE ADVERTISEMENT THAT Coyoteman Jim had made for them, Chap and his mom were certain that tomorrow would bring a whole bevy of new customers. They just knew it would.

  To cap it off, Jim had stayed all morning and helped Chap turn some old boards that Chap had found in the boat shed into signs. There were three of them, and Coyoteman Jim promised to place them along the road:

  Sign one: “Turn here for the best fried pies in the world.”

  Sign two: “Only two miles to fried sugar pies!”

  Sign three: “You’re almost there!”

  They had used a spray can of Day-Glo orange paint that Grandpa Audie had bought years ago, the purpose of which nobody could remember. None of the signs were exactly artistic, and the paint ran down from the letters.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Coyoteman Jim. “They only need to catch the eye.” They were definitely eye-catching. Chap knew that for sure.

  After the café closed that afternoon, and Coyoteman Jim went on his way, Chap and his mom set to work. They pre-fried at least ten dozen sugar pies in anticipation. All they had to do in the morning was quick-fry them again, and they’d be delicious. If it didn’t work, they’d have a lot of leftover pies. And fried pies weren’t all that great when they were more than a day old. After that they’d have to be tossed into the bayou for the catfish.

  There was so much riding on Coyoteman Jim’s commercial.

  As soon as they were finished in the kitchen, Chap took it upon himself to get the boat ready to fill with cash. The boat was a two-man pirogue, a sturdy, flat-bottomed affair with a pointed bow that raised up a few inches out of the water, and a square stern that helped keep it stable.

  Chap pulled the old pirogue out of the boat shed, where it was stored. He tugged and pulled and tugged and pulled, up the steps and then set it smack in the middle of the screened-in back porch. The boat had always seemed rather small before, but parked in the middle of the porch, it looked huge. When he imagined having to fill it with cash, it looked enormous.

  For comparison’s sake, he cut a dollar-size piece of paper from his school notebook and watched it float down down down into the boat’s bottom. The paper looked very small. It was going to take a lot of bills to load that boat.

  He tried not to let himself think about Sonny Boy and his deal. After all, what chance was there of finding any proof of the Sugar Man? Nevertheless, a small bead of hope nested right underneath his chin. He scratched at it, just like he might scratch at a mosquito bite. The more he scratched it, the more it stung. He stuck his hand into his pocket so that he could leave it alone.

  He climbed into the boat and sat on the bench. It felt funny, sitting in the boat on the back porch. It felt even funnier when Sweetums jumped into his lap. Chap rubbed the cat from nose to tail. Sweetums purred so loud, Chap thought the cat might pop. And that’s when they heard the rumbles. Sweetums dug his claws into Chap’s thighs. “Person,” said the cat in perfect Catalian,
“do you not hear those rumbles?”

  “Ouch,” said Chap, lifting the cat into his arms. “It’s just a thunderstorm, that’s all.” Chap breathed in. He could smell the oncoming rain, even though he knew it was still in the distance. “Yep,” he said, “it’s storm season, all right.”

  But Sweetums knew that wasn’t all. Something else was rumbling out there. Something big and nasty. Rumble-rumble-rumble-rumble. See? It made him hiss, which made Chap laugh.

  Hmmph! Is there anything worse to a cat than being ridiculed? We think not. Sweetums jumped out of Chap’s arms and headed for the bedroom, where he dodged underneath the bed and started grooming himself.

  Indeed!

  Chap stood up and stretched. He needed grooming too. With all that baking, he had a fine dusting of flour coating his skin, including yet another dab on his forehead put there by his mother. It was time for a shower, and then lights-out. The morning would come way too soon.

  The Third Night

  50

  INSIDE THE DESOTO, BINGO AND J’miah finally stopped panting after their narrow escape from the canebrake rattlers.

  “Whew,” said Bingo.

  J’miah had a wee case of sniffles. He didn’t want to think about how close he had come to being a tasty snack for the snake community, so he steered his sights toward something happier, namely the picture of the surprised armadillo. It made him feel a little better.

  But Bingo did not feel better. He wished that he had been able to wake up the Sugar Man. He wished that Gertrude had not run out of sugarcane. He wished that the rattlers weren’t so snippy. He wished, wished, wished.

  But all that wishing didn’t change one thing. The Sugar Man was still asleep. The rattlers were still abuzz. And the rumblers still loomed. It seemed to him as though there should be something they could do to obtain some of that sugarcane without getting all snip-snap-zip-zapped. The entire safety of the swamp depended upon it!

  He wished he knew what that something was.

  And then, all at once, he did.

  “Blinkle!” he exclaimed. The star. His blinking red star that he had only just discovered two nights before. Blinkle. His very own wishing star. Operation Rumble-Rumble-Rumble would have to be momentarily shelved and replaced with Operation Blinkle.

  “Come on,” he said to J’miah.

  J’miah crossed his paws. If Bingo thought that J’miah was going to go back out there with those snipper-snappers, he was crazy.

  Bingo tugged on his brother’s paw.

  J’miah tugged back. “Nope,” he said. Then, just to make sure that Bingo had gotten the message, he said, “Nope, nope, nope. Not gonna do it. Nosirree.”

  “Hmmph,” said Bingo. He could see that J’miah was not in a budging frame of mind. With a sigh he said, “Fine. I’ll go by myself then.” And he let go of his brother’s paw and turned toward the exit.

  J’miah squinted.

  “I’m really going now,” said Bingo.

  J’miah put his paws over his ears.

  “Good-bye,” said Bingo. “I hope I see you again sometime.”

  J’miah tried to block out the noise, but that last sentence tore right through his stripy gray fur and smacked him, right in the belly. In his ears, he could hear Little Mama reciting the Scout Orders, especially the one that went “be true and faithful to each other.” How could he let Bingo go out into the night alone? He couldn’t. And, as if to seal the deal . . . rumble-rumble-rumble-rumble.

  J’miah slapped his forehead with his paw, and once again, against his better judgment, he followed Bingo through the entryway on the passenger side in search of a tall pine tree. This time they took the long way so as to avoid Crotalus horridus.

  As they neared the tree, Bingo’s sore paws felt better. Climb, they seemed to say. So that’s exactly what he did. He climbed. J’miah, meanwhile, stood at the base of the tree and waited. He couldn’t watch. But he could keep his nose in the air and his ears to the ground. And he tried not to think about Great-Uncle Banjo, or hogs . . . or rattlesnakes.

  Above him, Bingo scurried to the very top of the tree. There he twisted around from one side of a branch to another, and looked out. He could see the clouds beginning to assemble. He sniffed the air. Rain was nigh, he could tell. He twisted around again . . . and . . . there it was, his blinking red star.

  “Blinkle,” he whispered. Then he closed his eyes. There was a chant he was supposed to say. Something Daddy-O taught him long ago. He concentrated hard. What was it?

  The star blinked on and off, on and off, on and off. He tapped his toes on the branch in time with the blinks. Soon, the rhythm of it reminded him of the chant. Yes!

  “Blinkle, Blinkle, little star. How I wonder what you are . . .” But that was as far as he got. What was the rest of the chant? He wished he could borrow J’miah’s thinking cap. Stars. Weren’t there dozens of poems about stars? Maybe he could mix them up and make his own star chant for his own new star.

  Think, Bingo, think.

  Then, Bingo! “I’ve got it,” he said. “I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight.”

  Of course! He knew that. And he also knew exactly what to wish for: sugar. Canebrake sugar. In any form he could get it.

  Suddenly, he felt a whole lot better. Maybe Operation Rumble-Rumble-Rumble wasn’t over yet. He whispered to Blinkle, “Thank you.” All in good time, too, because as soon as he said it, the gathering clouds bunched up and made all of the stars, including Blinkle, disappear.

  Bingo scampered down the longleaf pine tree, tapped J’miah on the shoulder, and together they hurried back to the DeSoto. He had no idea how, or even if his wish would come true, but he definitely felt better for having made it.

  Operation Blinkle: accomplished.

  51

  ON A DIFFERENT PORCH—IN FACT, on the veranda of the Beaucoups’ impressive French colonial–style Homestead—Sonny Boy and Jaeger sipped their mint juleps and smacked their lips. Nobody actually lived at the Homestead anymore. It was only visited on the occasional weekend and holiday. In fact, since his childhood, Sonny Boy had only been there a few times in his adult life, preferring his palatial mansion in Houston to the ancient family place.

  Nevertheless, it was perfect for his purposes now. He could stay there while he oversaw the building of the Gator World Wrestling Arena and Theme Park. That way, he wouldn’t have to put unnecessary miles on the Hummer. It was astonishing how few miles to the gallon the thing got. It was definitely a gas hog.

  Even though rain loomed, for the moment the sun was setting over the perfectly groomed azaleas. The recently installed mosquito-misters were dispatching the mosquitoes left and right. The distinct aroma of citronella wafted through the air. Sonny Boy and Jaeger weren’t exactly having a party, since neither of them particularly liked each other. But they were reveling in their plans for swamp domination.

  In the glow of the tiki torches, Jaeger looked at Sonny Boy over the rim of her frosty glass and thought for the umpteenth time how much she’d love to grab him in a neck lock and flip him over her back. In his ridiculous seersucker outfit, he posed such an easy target. Then again, she thought, it would be so easy that she doubted she’d get any satisfaction out of it. If there was one thing she loved, it was a challenge.

  For his part, Sonny Boy knew that Jaeger had evil designs on him, but he also knew that he was Mr. Moneybags, the source of funding for her road-show attraction. He knew that as long as he controlled the purse strings, he was safe. And, he had to admit, he admired her pluck, not to mention her skills at taking down large reptiles.

  “Jaeger, my dear,” said Sonny Boy, interrupting their sunset reverie. “What would you say to a groundbreaking ceremony, to kick things off?”

  This caught Jaeger off guard. She had vaguely thought about a grand opening ceremony after the park was built. But she had not considered a groundbreaking ceremony before it even opened.

  Sonny Boy continued, “It would stir up excitement. Plus, we cou
ld invite all the dignitaries.”

  Dignitaries. Jaeger liked the sound of this. While she was at the pinnacle of the alligator-wrestling crowd—indeed, she was rather like a goddess in that bunch—none of them consisted of dignitaries. Dignitaries were in an entirely different social milieu. Mingling with dignitaries would definitely enhance her quest for fame and fortune. She liked it. Her urge to toss Sonny Boy . . . lessened.

  “Tell me more,” she said. She wanted details.

  While they sipped their juleps, they began to make a list of Sonny Boy’s influential friends—friends in high places, that is. When Sonny Boy wrote down the mayor and the mayor’s husband, Jaeger even had an odd urge to . . . Well, okay . . . She briefly thought about kissing Sonny Boy, an urge that both disgusted her and thrilled her all at the same time. It was the same with kissing alligators. Thrill, disgust, thrill, disgust. You get the picture.

  So, instead of throwing Sonny over her back, she threw her glass. It burst against the porch rail in a very satisfying chimelike crash. Shards of crystal and mint gleamed in the torchlight. She looked at her compadre with a new appreciation. The day she had met Sonny Boy Beaucoups had been a lucky one for Jaeger Stitch.

  A lucky day indeed.

  52

  HOW HAD THEY MET, ANYWAYS? Let’s just say it had to do with a gambling casino in New Orleans, and a bad roll of the dice.

  53

  AFTER JAEGER BID HIM GOOD night and retired to her room, Sonny Boy grimaced. The crystal glass had been in his family for generations. One of his great-grandmothers had bought it in Venice at the turn of the century. That was the story, at any rate. Sonny Boy knew that it was more likely that one of his buccaneering grandfathers had lifted it from a Venetian cruise vessel as it sailed into Galveston Bay.