The Mystery of the Canebrake

by Richard Mason

  Could he hold out till spring? I didn’t think so. I worried about that every night when I went to bed.

  But there was still other stuff that was bothering me. Every time I went back behind our barn and looked out across our back pasture at Indian Hill I thought about everything that had happened up there. Most of the time the hawk would come swooping over me, and it always screeched to high heaven just as it passed over our house. Naturally, when me and John Clayton was out in our back pasture looking up at Indian Hill, the ghost was all we could talk about, but nobody we talked to could tell us why Indian Hill was haunted. Well, ’course, nobody thought Indian Hill was haunted but us, so we didn’t get any straight answers, just mostly laughs.

  The Friday afternoon before Christmas, we were downtown by the railroad depot when the Little Rock-to-El Dorado freight train came through town. Heck, as soon as it slowed down, Mr. Perry, the cowboy hobo, jumped outta one of them boxcars and just skipped along to where we was standing.

  “Howdy, boys. What are y’all up to?”

  “Hey, Mr. Perry. Well, we were just standin’ here talkin’ ’bout what we believe is a real Indian ghost that stays around a hill behind my house,” I said.

  “You don’t say? Well, what makes you think there’s an Indian ghost around that hill?”

  Well, we told Mr. Perry about all the things that had happened, and then when we started talking about the hawk he got real interested.

  “You say that man from the college said there was a shor ’nough Indian mound, and probably an Indian cemetery up there on that hill?”

  “He sure did, Mr. Perry, and we even found a tooth up there.” Then I thought about the bones and skull that had been pulled out of the ground when the tree was uprooted and after I finished telling him about that, he started nodding his head.

  “Yep, y’all sure got an Indian ghost on your hands. That’s for sure. Boy, I done come from Indian Country, way out in West Texas, and I can tell you something about ghosts.”

  “Is that right, Mr. Perry?” questioned John Clayton. “Are there Indian ghosts out there?”

  “You bet your boots they is, and when you told me about that hawk I knew for sure that y’all had an Indian ghost. That what them Indian ghosts do. They comes back as wild animals, and hawks and eagles is the most common.”

  Gosh, we were really interested when Mr. Perry said that!

  “Well, Mr. Perry, why did that ghost start to haunt us all of a sudden? We sure ain’t done nothing to upset a ghost.”

  “Boys, it’s just as plain as the nose on your face. You see y’all didn’t do nothin’, but when that tree uprooted that old Indian’s grave y’all told me ’bout, it done let the ghost out, and it’s a-roamin’ ’round ’cause them bones done got uncovered. That hawk and the wind that blows when y’all’s ’round Indian Hill is the spirit of a long ago dead Indian, and it’s tryin’ to tell y’all something.”

  “What? What in the world could a hawk be trying to tell us?” I asked.

  “Well, Richard, ’course, I can’t know for sure, but it probably has something to do with the grave being opened when that tree blew down.”

  “Oh my gosh, Mr. Perry. What can we do ’bout that?” I said.

  “Boys, I can’t read no ghost’s mind, but if I was a ghost and my bones was a scattered all over the place, I’d sure be restless as all get out till them bones was reburied.”

  “But, I don’t understand, Mr. Perry. We didn’t uproot that tree, and it ain’t our fault them bones was uncovered,” said John Clayton.

  “Naw, it ain’t boys, but it just might be that the ghost is trying to use y’all ’cause it needs somebody to do the digging—or them bones ain’t never gonna get reburied.”

  “You mean that ghost has been trying to tell us to dig a grave for them bones by doing all that stuff?” I said. “That don’t make a lick of sense ’cause scaring us shor don’t make us wanta even go back up on Indian Hill. Shoot, I’d be scared to even touch them bones after everything that’s happened. I’m not going back up there.”

  “Boys, y’all has gotta rebury them bones, or that old ghost is gonna haunt Indian Hill forever, and it may come down to your place.”

  “Oh, my Lord in heaven above!”

  I looked at John Clayton and he looked at me, and we both knew Saturday afternoon we’d be digging a new grave up on Indian Hill for some old Indian’s bones.

  Saturday morning John Clayton came by my house and Daddy took us to the Ritz for a double-feature picture show, and after a hot dog at Woolworth’s Daddy picked us up and drove us back home. It was a clear day, but there seemed to be a haze over the top of Indian Hill. Heck, I started to back out, but then I thought about what Mr. Perry had said, and I sure didn’t want that ghost coming down and settling in our barn.

  Shoot, like it or not, we had to go bury that Indian ghost’s bones.

  “Come on, John Clayton, we’re going up on Indian Hill; we ain’t got a choice. Either we rebury them bones, or we’re gonna be haunted. Heck, our big old barn is just the perfect place for a ghost, and I sure don’t want to live with a ghost ’round here.”

  “Dang, Richard, you know how things seem to happen every time we fool ’round with them bones. What if we start picking ’em up and that dang ghost gets us?”

  “Shoot, John Clayton, it’s daylight and ghosts don’t come out at no three o’clock in the afternoon. Let’s get going. Heck, maybe that old ghost will be glad we’re gonna rebury them bones. Let me call Sniffer—Here, Sniffer! Here! Here!” Sniffer crawled out from under our back porch and trotted up to me.

  “Okay, let’s get this over with.” I said.

  We picked up a couple of shovels and headed for Indian Hill, but before we got to the bottom of the rise, I spotted the hawk, and it was coming straight at us.

  “Look out! The hawk’s dive-bombing us!” I yelled. Well, Sniffer was out front of us, and that danged hawk made a beeline for him. Wow, those hawk claws nipped old Sniffer and he nearly turned a summersault. But that hawk wasn’t through. Another pass and Sniffer took off back toward the house. The hawk made another circle, and I figured it was gonna come after us, but it didn’t. We stood there for a few minutes, and the hawk kept circling, but it wasn’t screeching or nothing.

  “Huh? Do you think the Indian’s ghost didn’t want a dog up on the hill fooling around with his grave?” I said.

  “Well, that could be it,” said John Clayton. “’Cause it sure ain’t bothering us. Come on let climb the hill.”

  In about another 15 minutes, we’d made it to the top of the hill and we were standing by the little uprooted tree looking at the old Indian bones.

  “Okay, John Clayton, you pick the place for the grave.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, pick a place and we’ll get to digging.”

  “Heck, Richard, one place looks as good to me as another.”

  Just as John Clayton said that, the hawk lit in the top of the biggest black walnut tree on Indian Hill, and let out a low kinda screech—not one of them real loud ones, but it sounded different. Then the hawk spread its wings real wide and just sat there. Shoot, then I knew for sure where that grave was gonna be, right under that big black walnut tree.

  “Come on, John Clayton, we’re gonna bury that old Indian’s bones right over here under this big black walnut tree.”

  Well, we started digging and I figured we’d dig a grave about 5 or 6 feet deep, but, shoot, digging a grave was hard as heck to do with all them danged tree roots. We finally stopped when we were about 2 feet deep. Wow, I could feel my heart beating as we went over to the uprooted tree, to start pulling out the bones to bury in the new grave. Well, then something really strange happened. Just as we were about to pull out the first of the bones, I felt a gust of wind just like I’d felt before—but it was different, a bunch different.

  I looked at John Clayton and he looked at me. The wind was warm and it was the middle of December and cold as heck.

 
“What in the world?”

  “Heck, if I know,” I said. “Come on and help me with this skull; it’s ’bout to come apart.”

  Well, for some reason that was the last word either one of us said while we were working to rebury the bones. It took us about an hour to finish, and after we threw the last shovelful of dirt on the grave, we stood there for a couple of minutes to catch our breath. I was just about to say something to John Clayton when we heard a screech. We looked up and the big hawk was circling. It circled and circled getting lower each time until it lit on a low limb right over where we had buried the old Indian bones. Then it kinda flapped its wings just a bit and made a low, soft screech that just went on and on. Heck, it didn’t seem upset or nothing.

  “Well, the hawk seems happier today. It didn’t dive-bomb us or nothin’,” said John Clayton.

  “Yeah, I think it’s telling us something.”

  In the end, I guess we did the right thing because we never saw the hawk again. A when we went back up on Indian Hill, even after dark, we never heard nothing.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A Canebrake Christmas

  I got home Tuesday afternoon after me and John Clayton had delivered Mr. Bill a sack of groceries, and Momma was getting out the Christmas decorations for a cedar tree that Daddy had set up in our living room. Well, one of my jobs every Christmas is to help Momma decorate the Christmas tree, and you know something? I usually whine about having to help, but, heck, when we finish the tree I always have a real good feeling. I guess, for me, helping Momma decorate the Christmas tree is how I get in the mood to celebrate Christmas.

  Well, when I walked in the living room Momma was pulling a strand of lights out of that old beat-up box. She’ll be after me in a few seconds to start helping, I’m thinking. Sure enough.

  “Richard, string this popcorn and when you finish, tie these painted gumballs on this fishing line.”

  “Aw, Momma, I’m tired, and that stuff takes so long. Why don’t we use store- bought decorations like the Davises use?”

  “I think you know, Richard. Money doesn’t grow on trees around here. Now get busy and stop complaining.”

  Momma finished pulling out our one set of electric lights, and plugged them in to see how many still lit up. Heck, if even half lit up, I’d be surprised, Yeah, just 10 out of 25. Maybe Momma will throw them away.

  “Richard, when you hang these lights, put the ones that aren’t burning on the back.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  No, I wasn’t surprised. We don’t ever throw anything away. So I put the good lights on the front of the tree, and the ones that weren’t burning on the back. Heck, by the time we put the popcorn and berries on it, you really didn’t know half of our one string of lights wasn’t lit up.

  After a couple of hours of work and some of Momma’s decorating, our Christmas tree begin to look really good.

  “Gosh, Momma, the tree looks great.”

  Momma stood back looking at the tree.

  “Yes, Richard, I think it’s our best tree ever. You did a wonderful job finding the perfect tree.”

  Heck, I did manage to find a pretty good tree, but not like last year’s. Oh, last year’s tree was perfect, but it came outta Old Man Odom’s front yard, and me and John Clayton got shot at. Shoot, after that I swore to god in heaven, if I lived, I’d never get another tree outta somebody’s yard again. Heck, me and Josh Clayton ran down the highway with birdshot raining all around us, dragging that cedar tree, and then we had to lie to Momma about where we found it. But not this year. I had one spotted way back in the summer. It was on a fencerow on the edge of Flat Creek Swamp. It was a perfectly shaped cedar tree, and, believe it or not, it didn’t have a bad side.

  Well, I just smiled and said, “Thanks, Momma.”

  That Friday, with Christmas just around the corner, me and John Clayton were scurrying around trying to buy everybody at least a little something. My $3.50 per week paper route money didn’t go very far, and as Christmas Eve arrived I was running outta money. ‘Course, that’s what happens nearly every Christmas, and my presents are always kinda cheap.

  Me and John Clayton were standing on the corner by the Red Star Drug store counting out the last bit of change we had left for Christmas presents.

  “Heck, I’ve only got a little over two dollars,” John Clayton said, “and I haven’t got you or Connie nothin’.”

  “Well, you’re better off than I am. Look, less than a dollar. Oh, wait a minute, look, five dollars.”

  “Hah, yeah, but that’s Mr. Bill’s grocery money, and you ain’t ’bout to spend it.”

  “I know. Let’s go buy his groceries and get them delivered before it gets dark.”

  “Okay—hey what ’bout, Mr. Bill?”

  “What ’bout, Mr. Bill?”

  “You know, what ’bout a Christmas present for him? Don’t you think we outta get him a present?”

  “Oh, dang, he’s not gonna get nothing for Christmas if we don’t get him something. What are we gonna do?” said John Clayton.

  “I don’t know, but I can’t stand to think of him freezing down there in that canebrake without a Christmas present.”

  “Naw, I can’t either. Heck, it’s bad enough just living down there in the Swamp, and I can’t imagine how it would feel to be down there by yourself and not even have a Christmas present.”

  “Whata you think he needs?”

  “He needs something to keep him warm. You know the Farmers’ Almanac said this was gonna be the coldest winter in a long while, and you know how he sits there rubbing his hands together to keep them warm. If we get him anything, it should be to warm him up.”

  While we were talking, we had walked down to the end of the block and were standing in front of Camel’s Dry Goods.

  “Look in the window, John Clayton, there’s a bunch of gloves. A pair of gloves would be a great gift, ’cause Mr. Bill is always sayin’ how cold his hands are.”

  “Yeah, let’s go inside and buy a pair.”

  We walked in the door and Mose Camel walked up to us.

  “Ahaaa, my boys, what can I do for you today.” Mose smiled and gave us a big hug.

  Well, Mose is a funny looking man, ’cause he’s from one of them countries over near Egypt. He’s kinda short and built like a barrel, bald as a doorknob, and he’s always taking his hand and rubbing it across his bald head. Mose always wears a tie and a short- sleeved sweater over a white shirt. It’s his uniform.

  Buying something from Mose is always a little tricky. His prices are just suggestions, and I think Mose would really be upset if someone just plopped down the money without bargaining with him. Heck, $3 wasn’t much to bargain with. But we were sure gonna try.

  “Mose, we want to buy one of them pair of gloves in the window for a Christmas present,” I said.

  “Well, sure, Richard, let me get a pair out for you. They are the finest and warmest gloves I’ve ever had in the store.”

  Mose reached in the store window and pulled out a pair of gloves, and started to tell us that this particular pair of gloves was of a very highest quality. They were the best of the best, according to Mose. I could see a big price coming.

  “Richard, these gloves were imported, and the manufacture said the regular price is fifteen dollars…”

  “Uh, wait Mose, we only have three dollars,” I said.

  Mose stopped talking and started to put the gloves back in the window.

  “Boys, I could let you have them for ten dollars, but that’s my bottom line. These are fur-lined gloves and at ten dollars, I’m losing money, but since I really like you boys, I’m going to take the loss.”

  “Mose, we can’t get to ten dollars. We really don’t have but three.”

  “Boys, that too bad, because these gloves are so warm, you could almost just put the gloves on and not wear a coat. Here, feel the quality.”

  Mose handed me the gloves, which I tried on. Wow, they were lined with rabbit fur, and they were so warm
you wouldn’t believe it. Heck, you didn’t need to tell me how much Mr. Bill needed them.

  “Mose, we’d really like to buy them gloves. Could we charge it?” I said.

  Mose acted as if I had slapped him us alongside his head. Then he mumbled something, and said, “Listen, boys, I like both of you a lot, but I’m having enough trouble collecting from your daddies on old charge tickets. I can’t do it. Are you sure you can’t come up with seven dollars and fifty cents?”

  “Oh, Mose, please, I’ll wash your windows every week this next month and sweep the sidewalk besides,” said John Clayton.

  “Yeah, Mose and I’ll sweep out the store every day for two whole weeks, and we’ll give you our three dollars.”

  Mose smiled and nodded his head. “This must be a special present for someone. I’ll tell you what: If you promise to polish all the brass on my door and get Doc to give me a free paper every Sunday for a month, and I’ll let you have the gloves.”

  “Dang, Mose, I’ll polish the brass on the door, but Doc’ll take that Sunday paper out of my measly salary. I can let you have a daily paper. They only cost a nickel.”

  ”Okay, it’s a deal. But don’t make me call your daddies about you not showing up. You hear me?”

  “Yes sir, we promise,” we both said .

  Mose wrapped the gloves, and then we handed him our $3, and headed over to Echols Grocery to buy Mr. Bill’s groceries.

  As we walked over to the grocery store, I looked at John Clayton and said, “I guess you know you’re not gonna get a Christmas present from me.”

  “Yeah, you ain’t gettin’ nothin’ neither.”

  We both knew that the last of our Christmas money had just gone to buy the gloves for Mr. Bill. But you know something? That didn’t bother us one bit.

  We got Mr. Bill’s groceries, stopped by my house and called Sniffer, and headed for Flat Creek Swamp. After we got to know Mr. Bill, we started bringing Sniffer with us when we brought the groceries. Of course, the first few times Sniffer saw Mr. Bill, he got all bent outta shape. I guess old Sniffer remembered those first times when Mr. Bill was trying to scare us to get us to leave him alone. But, after a few visits and Mr. Bill feeding Sniffer some bones and other stuff, Mr. Bill and Sniffer got to be real good friends. Heck, when we got even close to the canebrake, Sniffer would run ahead and he’d be sitting there beside Mr. Bill when we got there.