“Yeah, but I can’t hardly see nothin’. Which way do you think we should go?”
“Dang, Richard, you idiot; get away from whatever’s movin’’! Head over yonder into that pin-oak flat.”
After that, we started slipping through the woods with Sniffer right by our side. Sniffer who usually howls all the time was quiet as a mouse, only whimpering every once in a while. He was one scared and whipped-up-on dog.
We kept easing along trying to stay away from the sounds we could hear coming after us, but we were going deeper into the swamp.
“Stop, John Clayton. We’re never gonna get outta this danged swamp if we keep goin’ in this direction.”
“Heck, I know it, but we can’t go back that way. If we do we’ll be going straight toward whatever’s out there.”
“Well, listen, this is my plan. We need to make a big circle around the south end of the canebrake, and then slip down and walk along the edge of the big bar pit till we come to the road.”
“Shoot, that sounds so stupid. We’ll be right by that canebrake, and if it comes out we’ll be trapped between the canebrake and the bar pit.”
“Okay, Mr. Smarty, you come up with a way to get out that doesn’t go straight back into the clutches of that thing in the woods.”
Well, John Clayton couldn’t come up with any other way to get back to the road so we slipped through the woods and began circling the big canebrake. Then, finally, we got around the end and started down the edge of the bar pit toward the road. There wasn’t a sound anywhere, and we thought everything was okay until we got about halfway down the bank, right next to the big canebrake.
“Shusss, listen,” I whispered. Something was moving in the thicket. Then it stopped. But when we moved, it moved again—and now it was getting closer. Suddenly a cane snapped right in front of us and Sniffer howled.
“Ahaaaa!” screamed John Clayton. He backed up toward me and I swear I could hear his legs a-shaking.
We slipped behind a big, white oak tree and stood there in the dark, not making a sound, with me holding Sniffer’s mouth.
All of a sudden I noticed a shadow in the dim moonlight and when I looked around the tree to see if I could see anything, something reached out and brushed my shoulder.
“Ahaaaaaaa! Ahaaaasaaa!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. I jumped away from the tree, and faced the wide, water-filled bar pit.
CHAPTER TWO
Swimming
“Roaaaaaaaaaaa!”
It was the most god-awful sound I’ve ever heard, and it weren’t 3 feet away from where we were standing. ’Course, Sniffer cut loose, and there was more screaming and howling like nothing in your whole entire life.
Shoot, we started backing away from the big tree where that thing was, and as we did we backed right up to the edge of the big, wide bar pit. Heck, I knew right then and there that I was gonna hit the water in about two seconds because the onlyest other way was to go right into the clutches of whatever it was just a few feet away.
I took a deep breath and got ready to hit the water.
“Come on, John Clayton, jump in and swim or it’s gonna get ya!” I screamed. As soon as I said that, I jumped as far out into that bar pit as I could, and started swimming like crazy in that cold water. Sniffer and John Clayton hit the water right behind me, and soon we were all trying to swim across about 30-yards of open water.
Heck, we had on our clothes, jackets, and shoes—and the water was freezing cold. We’re danged good swimmers, but swimming that bar pit was the hardest thing I ever did. I was dead-dog-tired by the time I got to the other side. When my feet finally hit that muddy bottom, I stood up and reached back to pull John Clayton out. Sniffer beat us out of the water, and took off like a scalded dog., It took a few minutes to shake the water out of our jackets and shoes, but after doing that and catching our breath, we took off through the open woods and finally reached the road. Sniffer was almost out of sight, running like a wild dog, headed for home.
“Oh, oh, oh my gosh… I can’t run… I’m so tired…” John Clayton muttered and gasped for breath as we walked and ran back to my house. About 15-minutes later, we dashed up and burst into the kitchen where Daddy was sitting at the kitchen table listening to the radio.
“Daddy, Daddy!” I screamed, “Something nearly got us down in the Swamp! We barely got outta there. Look at us! We had to swim the bar pit to get away!”
Daddy turned the radio down and looked at us standing there dripping wet and started to laugh.
“You boys can come up with the durnest stories. What was it? A bear, panther, or some wild man? Ha, ha, ha!”
Well, Daddy just laughed and started tuning the radio, and even though John Clayton swore on a stack of Bibles that something had almost gotten us, Daddy didn’t believe a word of it. He thought we were telling the story just to make an excuse for getting our clothes wet.
“Richard, John Clayton, come here. Walter Winchell’s on again with a special broadcast.”
Daddy had finally found KELD on the radio and our favorite newscaster’s voice filled the kitchen with a special war news broadcast.
“Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. North and South America and all the ships at sea; let’s go to press… Jap Kamikazes attack the Pacific Fleet at Leyte Gulf… heavy damage to four carriers…”
“Damn, those sorry Japs,” Daddy yelled as he stood up and started walking around the table.
“Jack, watch your language,” said Momma.
Walter Winchell continued, mostly about them kamikazes, but he did mention General Patton, who was roaring across France chasing them sorry Germans back to where they came from. Finally, the newscast was over, and I tried talking to Momma about what has chased us out of Flat Creek Swamp, but she wasn’t much help either. She just sent us out to the screened-in back porch and made us take off everything while she got some dry clothes.
John Clayton was so scared he was afraid to walk home in the dark so we called his momma and asked if he could spend the night. She said it was okay since it’s wasn’t a school night. Later that night we sat on my bed talking about what in the world was living in the canebrake.
“I just can’t imagine what it is,” said John Clayton. “Did you hear it snort and roar? That sure didn’t sound like a person.”
“Naw, it didn’t. What ’bout when it reached ’round the tree? Was that a paw or a hand? Dang, I felt something furry.”
“Furry? Heck, maybe a gorilla from the circus escaped and it’s living in the canebrake.”
“Yeah, it just might be, but if it’s an escaped circus gorilla, don’t you think we would’ve heard something about it? Heck, a gorilla escaping from the circus would danged sure be big news.”
Well, after talking for a while longer we decided it could be one of them Big Foot things we’d read about in the World Book. But you know, the more I thought about it the more I figured we didn’t have a clue. Heck, I sure didn’t think it was a durn circus gorilla or Big Foot, but that made it just that much more of a mystery.
The talk went on and on. Finally, we fell asleep and before I knew it that old alarm was ringing.
CHAPTER THREE
Norphlet
Clang! Clang! Clang!
I managed to shut the danged alarm off on the fourth ring. My pants, shirt, and shoes were lying on the end of the bed just waiting for me, and in less than five minutes, I was heading downtown to Doc’s Newsstand with Sniffer running along ahead of me.
I was really getting tired of that stupid paper route, because, heck, I just make $3.50 a week for delivering a whole bunch of papers starting at 5 in the morning. ’Course, I don’t get started at 5 very often and that really aggravates old Doc, the newsstand owner. But, shoot, I can’t wake up at 5 and make it to the newsstand by 5, and I just can’t make myself set that clock any earlier. But I won’t have any spending money if I don’t keep this paper route, so every morning I trot down the road to the newsstand with Sniffer.
We live about a mil
e from downtown Norphlet and that walk—or run—is sure getting old. Daddy’s been promising me a bicycle for the last two years, but knowing Daddy, I ain’t gonna get a bicycle for a long time. Daddy has a good job at the refinery, but, boy, he sure can waste money.
Well, it didn’t take long before I was smack dab in the middle of downtown Norphlet, which is a little-bitty town of ’bout 600. I passed the Red Star Drug Store, the Post Office, and then the City Café, right next door. .
I turned into Doc Rollinson’s Newsstand, which is right beside the City Café, and there sat Doc already kinda hacked off ’bout me being late. He was wheeling around in his wheelchair like a top. Doc’s legs got crushed in an oilfield accident a long time ago, and now he hasta use a wheelchair to get around. Doc is kinda gruff, but he’s really a pretty nice man. He’s one of my best friends, and I’ll tell Doc some stuff I won’t even tell my folks.
I looked at the clock hanging over Doc’s desk. “Hummm, only 5:09, I won’t hafta use one of my excuses today,” I thought to myself as I walked in the door.
“Richard, don’t you know you’re supposed to be here at 5?”
“Heck, Doc I’m not late enough to matter. Anyway, I’ll run the route today and everybody’ll get a paper before 6.”
Doc just muttered something about me probably being late for my own funeral, and I was out the door with my paper in no time a-tall. Me and Sniffer got back home a little after 6 and fed the mules and chickens while John Clayton finished sleeping.
“Come on, John Clayton, get your lazy behind outta the bed. Breakfast is almost ready.” I left John Clayton slowly crawling outta bed and went into the kitchen to see if Momma had breakfast ready.
“Richard, go ahead and sit to the table. John Clayton has a place right beside you,” said Momma. She smiled and pulled a tray of hot biscuits outta the oven. Wow, them biscuits smelled so good I couldn’t hardly wait to tie into them.
Momma was in a heck of a hurry to get finished with breakfast. She’d gotten up when I did and had already fed and milked her cow, and she was just hurrying us along where she could clean up the kitchen.
Momma has a job as a part-time switchboard operator for a big department store over in El Dorado, the big county seat town, and when she got her first check, she bought a milk cow that we named Old Jersey. Momma milks Old Jersey every morning before she goes to work, and sometimes when she’s running late she gets me to help her. I ain’t much good at milking, and Momma fusses at me because I come in with about half as much milk as she does, but I guess after squirting a bunch of milk over at our three cats and generally not trying to do a real good job, that’s about what you can expect. I don’t wanta get too good or Momma’s gonna give me that job. Shoot, taking care of them mules and chickens is enough for me.
Well, John Clayton finally made it to breakfast, and we sat there talking about what to do today, since we’re still outta school for Thanksgiving. ’Course the first thing we were gonna do is go down to the breadbox in front of Echols Grocery and tell our friends about that thing in the canebrake. That old beat-up breadbox is where we meet almost every day if it’s not raining or too cold.
By the time we got to the store, Mr. Echols had emptied the breadbox and took out the can that you can put money in and take a loaf of bread if the store hasn’t opened. It wasn’t long before Tiny and Ears, two good friends, walked up. Tiny is in our class, and you might guess he ain’t Tiny; he’s bi—really big—actually, he’s fat as a hog. And Ears, Mr. Funny Book Collector of Norphlet, came walking up going on about his uncle from Louann that’s fighting them Germans. ’Course, Ears’s uncle just drives a truck in the Army, and I’ve gpt two uncles fighting and one of ’em has been shot in the knee, so I can top anything Ears has to say ’bout the War. But Ears is a good friend and naturally, with a nickname like Ears, he has big whopping ears. I mean big, really big ears. So, there we sat, talking about Thanksgiving and trying to come up with something to do. It’s a clear, cool November day and a guarantee you we ain’t gonna spend it sitting on some old, stupid breadbox.
We were still talking about the War and how soon the sorry Germanys would be surrendering, when Rosalie and Freckles walked up. Everybody said hi, and the girls spoke, but Rosalie made a point of speaking to everyone but me. She was still all worked up about me walking past her and picking Connie as my girlfriend a few weeks ago. ’Course, I’m really not sure Connie’s gonna be my actual girlfriend for very long. We’re really just friends.
Freckles, Rosalie’s best friend, is a funny girl. She’s a sandy, red-haired girl, covered in freckles, and she can make you laugh about nearly anything. Freckles slowed down and waited until Rosalie had walked by then she looked at me and said, “Oh, hi, Richard, the invisible boy.”
Everybody just cracked up ’cause they knew Rosalie was acting like I was invisible.
Freckles, smiled, winked at me and followed Rosalie into the grocery store.
“Richard, the invisible boy, ha, ha,” hooted John Clayton.
“Ah, who cares ’bout Rosalie? She’s just stuck up anyway,” I said. Shoot, I was just trying to make excuses.
’Course, as soon as we sat down, the first thing me and John Clayton told our bunch of friends was about whatever it was that nearly got us last night down in Flat Creek Swamp.
“What? Come on. I don’t believe that bunch of bull,” said Tiny.
“Shoot, Tiny, I’ll swear on 14 Bibles, it’s the truth,” said John Clayton.
“Baloney, baloney; you two can make up more stuff,” taunted Ears.
We were sure surprised because they were just like Daddy. Nobody believed nothing we said. (I guess we have made up a few stories.)
Finally, I dared them to come down to the canebrake and see for themselves.
“Yeah, you bunch of chickens, let’s go down to Flat Creek Swamp, and we’ll let y’all walk in that canebrake,” hooted John Clayton.
“I ain’t walking no mile just to walk through some stupid canebrake,” said Ears. “Heck, I’d walk through it at midnight, if it wasn’t so far down in the woods.”
“Liar!” I said, but, heck, nobody wanted to walk a mile to Flat Creek Swamp so after they put on that act that they could walk right through the middle of that canebrake at midnight, we started talking about something else.
Then I looked down the sidewalk, and I shook my head in disgust.
“Uh, oh, here comes worthless Homer Ray,” I said, nudging John Clayton.
That sorry Homer Ray is the class bully. He’s a lot bigger than most of the kids, and he’s always giving us trouble. ’Course, he ain’t about hit me any more since last September when I lured him way down the road, and just pounded the heck outta him with my slingshot. But that shor didn’t stop that sorry kid from mouthing and harassing me—especially my friends.
“Well, if it ain’t the whole bunch of dummies all in one pile,” laughed Homer Ray.
“Leave us alone, Homer Ray,” said Ears. Poor Ears had started getting all the picking on since Homer Ray figured picking on me would get him hammered with rocks. Homer Ray didn’t pay a bit of attention to what Ears said. He walked up to the breadbox, spun around, and grabbed Ears.
“Hey, Ears, do these come off.”
He grabbed one of Ears’s big ears and gave it a hard yank.
“Oh dang you, Homer Ray. That hurt.”
“Leave him alone, Homer Ray,” I said.
“Or what? What are you gonna do ’bout it, Mr. Skinny?”
I got down from the breadbox and stood between Homer Ray and Ears.
“Go ahead and hit me, Homer Ray, you chicken.” Heck, I knowed he wasn’t about to hit me. Man, he’d have hell to pay, ’cause he knew I’d trap him again and really bang him up with my slingshot.
“Damn you, Richard, one of these days I’ll get you so bad you won’t believe it,” he yelled as he walked away.
“Ah, you, chicken, yellow-belly coward!” I yelled.
“Dang, Richard, he won’t beat you
up none, but if you keep on gettin’ after him, he’s gonna take it out on me,” said Ears.
“Naw, he’s just talk, ’cause he knows I’ll thump his ass with my slingshot like a sorry yard dog if he hits me. Y’all just hang ’round me and everything will be okay.”
We grumbled about worthless Homer Ray for a while and then started taking about what we were gonna do on Saturday.
’Course, the talk about what to do on Saturday was mostly about going to the picture show at the Ritz Theater over in El Dorado.
“Richard, I’ll bet you can’t wait till tomorrow. Tarzan of the Apes is on at the Ritz,” said John Clayton. John Clayton knew the Tarzan funny books were my very favorite.
“Yeah, you’re durn right I’m gonna see that Tarzan picture show. Heck, I wouldn’t miss it for nothin’.”
Last week the trailers had been about the new Tarzan picture show, Tarzan of the Apes. Wow, Tarzan in a picture show! ’Course, I have every one of the Tarzan funny books, and me and John Clayton play Tarzan when we’re deep in the woods swinging from wild grapevines, but tomorrow we’d be seeing the real thing.
We were still sitting there talking about Tarzan when Joe Rel and Billy Ray Henry walked up. The Henry brothers are two colored boys ’bout my age, and we spend a lot of time fishing and playing together.
“Hey, Joe Rel, Billy Ray, are y’all gonna see the Tarzan picture show at the Ritz?”
“Yeah, Richard,” said Joe Rel, “and don’t even ask to sit with us in the balcony. Shoot, old man Slater’s still mad ’bout that.”
Last summer after Joe Rel and Billy Ray bragged so much about how their balcony seats were so much better than our seats downstairs, I decided I’d sneak in and sit with them. Everything was going okay until I threw a cup of ice down on the white kids on the first floor, and sorry Homer Ray told old man Slater, the theater manager, there was a white kid in the balcony. Shoot, old man Slater looked and looked for me, but I managed to slip out without being caught.
The Mystery of the Canebrake Page 2
