Course, that stupid Homer Ray didn’t wanta go there so he just swelled up and walked away. John Clayton came up and we laughed about Homer Ray.
The bell rang and we lined up to go into class.
The next week, winter began to really hammer South Arkansas, and the sorry paper route started to become the absolute worst job in the whole entire world. Monday morning, after a strong cold front just about ate my lunch, I felt like I had icicles hanging off my nose. Heck, I could’ve died delivering those papers! Shoot, I wondered if I froze to death would it be on the front page? ’Course not! I’m just a sorry no-account paperboy.
I got back home about 6, fed the chickens and mules, and had breakfast. Then I just sat in front of the fireplace thawing out, thinking ’bout the canebrake and Indian Hill. Heck, I know Momma and Daddy still didn’t believe me when I told ’em about something chasing us outta that durn big canebrake, and, shoot, they just laughed when I told them what happened on Indian Hill. But Momma always listened to everything I said, so I looked up at her and said, “Momma, why don’t you believe me and John Clayton ’bout that stuff in the canebrake and on Indian Hill?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Richard, maybe it’s because you and John Clayton are always coming up with some stories that are hard to believe.”
“Heck, Momma, I promise I’m telling the truth. Something almost got us, and we had to swim the bar pit twice to get away, and we heard the strangest sounds when we were up on Indian Hill. Do you think Indian Hill is haunted? You know, the man from the college said he thought there might be an Indian Cemetery on top of the hill.”
“Richard are you sure you didn’t just jump in that bar pit and make up that story ’bout something chasing y’all?”
“Oh, Momma!”
“Richard, you should know that what happened up on Indian Hill was just your imagination.”
Well, I knew right then and there that I might as well give up on Momma or Daddy believing anything was in that canebrake or up on Indian Hill. And, heck, none of our friends believed us either. I guess we’d hafta show ’em.
Shoot, I knew one thing for danged sure: Me and John Clayton were gonna find out what was in that canebrake or die trying. I thought about that for a few minutes, and I decided that maybe die trying was a little too strong, because whatever was in that canebrake might be more than we could handle. Yeah, we need to find a good time when it ain’t about to get dark and, heck, I’ll bet we’ll figure it out.
The next day in class when we were supposed to be taking a spelling test, I turned
around in my seat, looked back, and caught Connie’s eye. As I did, she winked. Gosh, I was sure surprised. Connie was kinda my girlfriend, but she’d never winked at me before. John Clayton, who sits right beside me just across the aisle, looked over at me and nodded his head toward Mrs. Smith, who was looking right at me.
“Richard, if I see you daydreaming again or looking around you’ll be staying after school.”
“Uh, yes, ma’am.” I said as the class giggled.
’Course that sorry Homer Ray cackled out the loudest of all, and Mrs. Smith had to rap a ruler on the desk to quiet him down. He shook his fist at me and gave me a sneer with his buckteeth sticking out like some old beaver. Yuck, that sorry kid was ugly as a plowed-up turnip.
I looked up at the front of the class and sitting right up by the teacher’s desk was Rosalie, the teacher’s pet, and my former girlfriend. Rosalie shook her head and turned up her nose when Mrs. Smith got on me. Boy, she’s still mad. I wonder if her daddy told her we’d been talking about her.
Heck, I’m still not sure it was the right thing to do last year when I picked Connie instead of Rosalie, because Rosalie is by far the prettiest girl in the class—and oh, my gosh, her blue eyes are something else. Yeah, it does sound like I haven’t forgotten about Rosalie. Well, shoot, you just tell me; who could just forget about them blue eyes?
Just before I looked back down at my spelling test, Freckles, Rosalie’s best friend, caught my eye and gave me a big smile, and a thumbs up.
Hummmmm, I wonder what that’s all ’bout.
Whap!
“Ow!”
Mrs. Smith’s ruler whacked the top of my hand and it hurt like heck.
“Richard, this is your last warning. Pay attention or you’re going to take a walk to the principal’s office.”
“Yes, m’am,”
Another “Ha, ha, ha,” from stupid Homer Ray and I got ready to start the spelling test.
“Catalogue,” said Mrs. Smith.
Oh, my good Lord in Heaven above, how on earth do you spell that?
Well, it didn’t get much better, and I made another D. Heck, spelling is my worst subject, but who cares? I can spell close enough for everybody to tell what the word is.
Gosh, school was so danged boring that Monday. I sat there daydreaming about everything from what in the heck was in the canebrake to Rosalie’s blue eyes. Finally, the bell rang and we trudged outta class heading for the breadbox to talk and fool around.
’Course, me and John Clayton had thought about going back to check out the canebrake ever since we got ran out that last time, but with it getting dark so soon after school let out we were afraid that we might get way down in the woods and have it get dark on us. Heck, we’d gone through almost getting grabbed twice by whatever was in that canebrake, and we didn’t want it to happen again. We weren’t about to go back to Indian Hill any time after dark, either, and going up there in the daytime wasn’t the same.
It was too cold to sit on the breadbox so we went into the Red Star Drug store and bought a Coke Cola that we took a long time to drink.
I guess we tossed out about everything you could imagine trying to come up with what was in the canebrake, and if what we heard up on Indian Hill had anything to do with it.
“It’s not a panther,” I said. “Heck, in fact, I don’t believe it’s no animal. Shoot, maybe some burglar is hidin’ out in that canebrake, and he’s robbed a bank somewheres, and he’s gonna just shoot us the next time we poke ’round in there.”
“Well, maybe you’re right, and if he’s hidin’ out he may be running from the police. Shoot, we may wanta stay away from that canebrake.”
“Yeah, maybe, but I don’t know, I just can’t stand it knowin’ something mysterious is livin’ in there, and we don’t know what it is.”
“Uh, Richard, what if it’s not alive, you know, what if it’s some old Indian’s ghost that comes up outta the canebrake and ends up on Indian Hill?”
“Well, I can’t stand it not knowin’.”
“Uh, huh, I can’t either. We’re goin’ back, aren’t we?”
“You know it. This Saturday after the picture show, when it’s plenty of daylight,” I said.
Saturday morning rolled around before we knew it, , as usual, John Clayton came by my house to ride to the picture show.
“Richard, Richard!”
“Daddy, it’s John Clayton, let’s go.”
Daddy put down his coffee cup and started for the car. Me and John Clayton were already there waiting on him when he walked up.
Things were pretty calm at the Ritz and even old man Slater, the theater manager, was surprised there were no tricks. All we could think about was going back into the Swamp to the canebrake and trying to find out what in the world was living in there. ‘Course, sorry Homer Ray and his bunch of worthless friends were at the movies, too, and when the picture show was over, I stood by old man Slater waiting for worthless Homer Ray to come out of the theater. Pretty soon I saw Homer Ray walking out, pushing little kids outta the way. I nudged old man Slater and pointed to Homer Ray.
“That’s the boy who caused all the ruckus down near the front.”
’Course, that was just a bald-faced lie, because me and John Clayton had acted like rats were running over our feet and a bunch of girls had screamed like crazy.
“Come here, boy, I’m gonna teach you how to act in a theater!”
; Wow, did stupid Homer Ray look shocked, and he started yelling, “No, no, Mr. Slater, I didn’t do nothin’. I promise!”
Shoot, old man Slater has a bad temper, and when he’s all riled up there ain’t no stopping him. He whipped off that big belt of his and lit into Homer Ray till a fly wouldn’t light on ’em. I gave Homer Ray a little wave and walked away. Shoot, I could hear him yelling all the way down the block. Well, I know I shouldn’t keep getting Homer Ray in trouble knowing he ain’t about to touch me, but there are some things you just can’t help doing.
Heck, I laughed all afternoon every time I remembered the look on his stupid face.
Daddy had some stuff for me to do when I got home from the Ritz and it was a whole bunch later when we were ready to head for the Swamp.
“Richard put that dang hound in the dog pen. He’ll howl and give us away.”
“Okay. Sniffer, Sniffer, here, here,” Sniffer trotted over to the dog pen and I had to grab his collar and pull him in the pen. He protested with a bunch of howls as me and John Clayton left for the Swamp.
“Dang it, John Clayton, run. We need to get to the canebrake and back before dark.”
“Yeah, Mrs. Smith said this was just about the shortest day of the year.”
It had rained that morning and the ground was still muddy and wet. The trees looked kinda like tall ghosts in the late afternoon light against the December sky. You know, spooky. We made it to the edge of the Swamp in good time, and in a few minutes we were slipping along trying not to make any noise as we sneaked along through the wet leaves toward the canebrake.
“There it is,” I whispered. I pointed ahead to a huge bunch of cane, which even in the winter had a greenish brown, leafy mass of growth. It looked especially dark today and the closer we got, the slower we were until we were just creeping along.
“Shoot, Richard, this is a bad idea. I don’t like being here even if it is daylight,” whispered John Clayton.
“Shussss, you idiot; if whatever’s in that canebrake hears you, you’re gonna be sorry you mouthed off,” I whispered back. “Come on let go ’round toward the bar pit side and see if we can find any clues that might tell us what’s livin’ in there.”
We crept along, looking at the ground for tracks until we were almost to the bar pit.
“Look, tracks,” I whispered.
“Yeah, but what kinda tracks?” said John Clayton.
We stared down at the muddy ground where some wide long tracks came from the canebrake to the edge of the bar pit. They were about a foot long and about half that wide.
“Heck, nothing makes tracks like that. It can’t be no animal, but those sure ain’t shoe tracks.”
“Yeah, Richard, whata you think?”
“Well, it’s gotta be a person. Maybe he has something tied on his feet to keep from makin’ tracks.”
We continued to circle the canebrake still looking for clues until we came to the backside away from the bar pit.
“Look, over here, John Clayton.”
There in a small pile were pieces of bones, papers, a couple of tin cans, and, crumbled up over at the edge, a piece of a cardboard poster. I reached down and picked it up.
“Look at this, John Clayton, it’s a piece of circus poster. This came from the circus that was in El Dorado last summer.”
“Yeah, but why would a circus poster be down here in Flat Creek Swamp?”
“Shoot, whoever’s stayin’ in the canebrake must have had something to do with the circus.”
We continued to slip around the canebrake until it was almost dark and then just before we started home, the sound of someone coughing echoed from the canebrake. We could see a swirl of smoke coming from deep inside the thicket.
“Richard, it’s gotta be a person!” whispered John Clayton.
“Come on, let’s get outta here. I don’t wanta be here when it gets dark. Whoever is livin’ in there may not be friendly.”
“Yeah, let’s go.”
We walked slowly back to my house talking about who was living in the canebrake and why was the circus poster there.
“Why don’t we go out to the fairgrounds next Saturday and talk with the caretaker? He might know something ’bout the circus. Heck, he lives there and he was there all the time the circus was in town,” I said.
“Yeah, good idea,” said John Clayton.
So the plan to find out who was living in the canebrake started to take shape.
The next Monday we were standing on the schoolyard talking about our plan to stake out the canebrake when John Clayton nudged me.
“Dang, Richard, here comes Homer Ray, and he looks just wild.”
“Let ’em come, he ain’t gonna do nothin’.”
“Well, I’m getting outta here ’cause he might decide to whip up on me.”
John Clayton lit out just as Homer Ray gave me a shove.
“You sorry, worthless, little skinny rat!”
“Hey, stupid, you push me again, and your ass is mud. How would you like that?””
Well, Homer Ray just stood there and fumed. Finally, he got up real close and whispered to me, “Richard, nobody is gonna have me whipped twice and then laugh ’bout it. I’ll get you back so bad some day you won’t know what hit you.”
Course, I just laughed, gave him a shove, and walked away.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mr. Perry, the Cowboy Hobo
We were downtown hanging around the train station the next afternoon when the freight train from Little Rock slowed down as it passed the Norphlet depot, and a man jumped outta one of the boxcars when it was right in front of us. He was really good at jumping from a moving train, and he just kinda skipped along, stopping right by us.
“Howdy, boys.”
“Uh, hi, sir,” I said. Heck, I started backing away. You never know what one of them hobos is gonna do.
“Heck, boys, y’all don’t need to run off. I ain’t gonna hurt ya. I just didn’t want to wait around while that freight switches cars at the refinery. I’m thirsty and hungry. Y’all know where I can get a little something to eat and drink?”
John Clayton’s house was just about two blocks from the station, and his mother will give hobos and tramps stuff any time they come by. Heck, she has one come by nearly every week. Someone told me the hobos mark the house so the next hobo will know it’s an easy touch, and I guess John Clayton’s house must be marked good.
“Well, Momma’ll make you a sandwich, and I’ll bet Richard can talk Doc out of a Coke Cola,” said John Clayton.
“Boys, if y’all could just do that I’d be much obliged. I shor am hungry.”
“Sure, Mr. uh, what’s your name?” I said.
“Just call me Perry. I’m from out in West Texas.”
“Okay, Mr. Perry, we’ll be right back. Oh yeah, you better get over behind the station ’cause old Curly, the town constable, will run you outta town if he sees you.”
“I’ll be right behind the station,” he said.
As I walked up to Doc’s, I thought about the guy; he was probably the most unusual hobo I’d ever seen. He was tall and kinda old, with a reddish, scraggly beard and handlebar moustache. He was wearing a beat-up old cowboy hat, some old boots that one of his toes was sticking through, and a old brown jacket.
Uh, a cowboy hobo.
When I got to the newsstand, I managed to convince Doc that there really was a man down at the depot that was thirsty and hungry. Doc gave me one of the old colas that had lost its fizzle, and I walked back down to the depot.
John Clayton got there about the same time with two big peanut butter sandwiches, and we went around back of the depot to look for Mr. Perry.
“Hey, boys, over here.”
We looked around and there was Mr. Perry hiding in some bushes.
“Hell, I almost got beat up by your old, drunk constable. If he hadn’t been so drunk, he’d a knocked my ass off.”
“Yeah, Mr. Perry, Curly’s real mean when he’s drinkin’, and since he drink
s all the time, I guess you could say he always mean.”
We gave Mr. Perry the Coca-Cola and sandwiches and sat there and talked with him while he ate.
“Do you ride the freight that comes through here a lot?” said John Clayton.
“You bet, but I usually wait to get off at El Dorado. Today, I was real hungry. You boys really helped me out, and I sure enough thanks you. That freight goes to El Dorado today and tonight it heads back to Little Rock. It’s as regular as clockwork, to Little Rock at night and back to El Dorado the next morning.”
Mr. Perry told us some of the best stories about riding trains all over the country as we sat there and listened intently. For the next several days, we’d stand down by the depot and when the freight from Little Rock would come by we’d watch for Mr. Perry. Sometimes he’d just wave and other times he’d jump off and eat one of John Clayton’s Momma’s sandwiches as we sat around and talked.
The weekend after we met Mr. Perry, me and John Clayton planned to see if we could find any more clues about the person living in the canebrake. Since the wadded up piece of circus poster was the best clue we had, the El Dorado fairgrounds— where the circus was held last year—was the only place we could think of that might tell us anything. ’Course, the fairgrounds would be empty, but the caretaker who lived there might have seen something.
Saturday finally rolled around and Daddy let us out at the Ritz. We waited a few minutes for him to leave, and then we walked out on the edge of town to the fairgrounds.
There was a little white house sitting on the back of the fairgrounds surrounded by a wire fence, and a sign that said, “Ring bell for attendant.” I looked at John Clayton and said, “Well, whata you think?”
“Shoot, Richard, we’ve walked almost a mile to get here and missed a good picture show. Ring that dang bell.”
I reached out and rattled the bell a couple of times and nothing happened.
“Shoot, Richard, you weenie, give me that stupid bell.”
John Clayton grabbed the little rope and hammered that bell until it echoed off the tin buildings in the background.
The Mystery of the Canebrake Page 5
