Once, many,
many Saturday mornings ago, long before Powerpuff and Johnny Bravo, before even
The Smurfs were born, in an obscure region of the Hanna-Barbera cartoon world,
in
a Southern county near the Georgia-Florida border, there
lived a little raccoon. He liked nothing more than to cause havoc, this
raccoon, especially for one Buford bloodhound. But not long after the Buford
Files series was cancelled, that
little raccoon’s mischief finally got him in over his head with the Dog of
Purple.
This is that story…
Part 1: Donkey Ears
"C'mon, Buford" yelled Cindy Mae. "Or we'll
be late for the Pinocchio play at Fenokee Theatre. "Oh yeah? Oh okay." mumbled Buford,
the lavender bloodhound, as he stretched lazily out on the steps of Boggs'
Landing. Woody was already in the Boggs' twins' pickup revving the engine. Both
Woody and Cindy Mae had looked after the place, when old man Boggs had passed
away a few years ago. The twins and Buford spent most of their time solving
mysteries involving local highjackings, robberies, kidnapping, scams, and other
shady activities. Cindy Mae got in and slammed shut the door. Buford gallomphed
across the dusty drive and lept into the back of the pickup. Almost as soon as
the three were on their way, Buford was asleep once more. As usual, Buford
began to dream. His head filled with thoughts of the Pinocchio play, in the
dream he became a barker for Pleasure Island. In the dream-world, Buford stood
behind a reception desk, in a gloomy corridor, flanked by deep purple vellum
curtains. Buford wore a deep blue frock coat, and a matching coachman's hat,
much like the Pleasure Island coachman in the story. A huge banner hung
overhead, advertising, in vibrant red letters:
WELCOME TO
PLEASURE ISLAND! ALL RACCOONS WELCOME,ESPECIALLY THOSE WITH SMALL BLUE HEADBANDS! ALL THE SWEETCORN AND SHOO-FLY PIE YOU CAN EAT!! WREAK ALL THE HAVOC YOU WANT!!
NOBODY HERE WILL STOP YOU!!!!
The other side of
the circular room was hung with contrasting red vellum drapes. Someone drew
these curtains apart close to the floor, and from behind them stepped Buford's
longtime nemesis, the Little Raccoon." Mu-saaaw!" the Raccoon
exclaimed, giving a low oriental bow. He approached the desk, and his masked
face peered up at Buford. The Raccoon's eyes grew wide as he read the
extravagant banner behind the desk. "Me want Pweasure Iswand!" he
piped up excitedly, and began leaping up and down in front of the desk, in an
effort to grab himself a ticket. Since
he was too small to reach the desk, Buford reached down, and with a sneer
presented the Raccoon with a red ticket with Admit One printed on it.
The Raccoon's nimble fingers snatched up the ticket."Hey! Let me tear
it." Buford mumbled, though he suppressed another sneer. The Raccoon's
eyes were now agleam with mischief. He held out the ticket for Buford to tear,
but when Buford tried to take it with his clumsy paw, a mild jolt of static,
passed through him, causing his eyes to google. His head slumped on the desk.
He shook his head to clear it, and then glowered at the Raccoon, who held out
his hand, displaying a tiny joy-buzzer on one finger. "I shut off!"
said the Raccoon quickly, as Buford began to growl at him. But as he touched a
small switch on the joy buzzer, a jet of black ink squirted from it onto
Buford, ruining his blue suit.
G-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r- Buford began
ominously, as the Raccoon fell on his belly emitting peals of shrill laughter.
But then he remembered that this time he would have the last laugh, and he
stopped growling and smiled wickedly. All at once, the Raccoon's small ears
morphed into flaring donkey-ears. The Raccoon stopped laughing immediately. He
knew something was dreadfully wrong, but he didn't know what. Buford was
starring at him, starting to snicker evilly. The Raccoon began to feel up the
sides of his masked face. When his fingers touched his ears, his eyes widened
in shock and dismay. This soon gave way to horror, as he ran his hands up the extremities
of his ears. "Bonzai!!! The Raccoon cried in terror. Buford, his face a mask of deviltry, held
out a small clear vial of pink fluid, labeled antidote, tauntingly."Give
me! Oh, pwease, pwease pweeeease!!! begged the Raccoon
pathetically. Why don't you just steal
it, you no-good pie-thief! Buford thought to himself. He snatched the vial away
with an evil chuckle as the Raccoon made a flying leap for it. But even as he
did so, the Raccoon's clever hands changed into hooves, which slammed clumsily
against the desk. Splayed on the floor, the purple dog's evil laughter in his
ears, the former Raccoon looked back to see his beautiful, banded tail shrivel
into a ratty donkey's tail. Then, even his masked face became that of a donkey,
and only his blue bow-knot remained to identify him. He opened his mouth to
plead some more, but all that came out was a bray like a donkey. Buford grasped
a golden pull-rope. At last it as pay-back time for the Raccoon.The former
raccoon then noticed that he was standing directly over a trapped door. When
Buford pulled the chord, he would slide down into the darkness to a barge where
he would be shipped away to a hard job hauling loads somewhere. No more pranks
or shoofly pie for him! But before
Buford could pull it, his dream poofed out of existence. He raised his head and
looked around. He was still in the back of the pickup, and the truck had
stopped. But they hadn't arrived at Fenokee theatre. The were still in the
swamp somewhere, and some distance away, over the side to the pickup, Buford
could see the flashing blue lights of the sheriff. "Woody, it's the Sheriff!" Cindy Mae exclaimed. "Wonder what's
wrong?"
"Let's check
it out." said Woody.
Part 2
The Stolen Heffer
As they drove closer,
they saw that the Sheriff was at Clarence Huffsteader's place. Woody turned off
the paved road, and headed to where the Sheriff was parked. In the flashing
light, they could see Sheriff Muletrain and deputy Goofer talking to Clarence
Huffsteader, and his two sons Bert and Morton Huffsteader. Goofer looked back
over his shoulder when the Boggs pickup approached. "Sheriff!" Goofer
exclaimed, "It's those pesky Boggs kids again!"
Sheriff Muletrain
looked in the same direction, as the twins and Buford got out of the pickup.
"Well, my grits and gravy. So it is!"
"What's up
Sheriff?" asked Woody
"Something
broke into the Huffsteader stockade last night, and made off with one of his
heffers. I called some animal control men to take care of it, ‘an we’re
supposed to meet ‘em here.”
"Yep."
said Clarence Huffsteader. "somethin' big. Took out one of my year old
heffers an' dragged 'im off clean as whistle."
"What do ya
reckon it was?" Cindy Mae asked.
"Well, from
the looks of them tracks," Bert Huffsteader said. "I reckon it had to
be the work of a panther!"
"A
panther!" Woody exclaimed, shocked. "No way!"
"Panther?" echoed Buford, his long purple ears going straight
up.
"Yep!"
confirmed Clarence. "'An there's only one swamp panther could make paw
prints like them. Old Woundfoot!"
"Who?"
asked Cindy Mae.
"Woundfoot.
The biggest, meanest ornriest swamp panther in Fenokee!"
"Well, by
now I think he's probably the only swamp
panther in Fenokee." replied Cindy Mae.
She knew of course, that years ago, there had been many swamp panthers
in Florida. But now, after bounty hunters had nearly whipped them out, they
were very few. The notion that one had raided the Huffsteader stockade left her
skeptical.
"Anything we
can do to help?" Woody asked.
Clarence looked
about to answer, but the Sheriff beat him to it. "Now you Boggs kids keep
your noses out of this, ya, hear?" Muletrain said. "I've already got
this whole entire situation under control!"
"Yep. that's
right!" joined in Goofer. "The Sheriff just hired the best
conservation officers in the state. Well, glory be! There they are now."
Everyone's eyes
turned toward the Huffsteader's gravel drive, where a huge, dark green van was
driving, its headlights slicing through the night. As the van pulled up, they
could see the white letters on the side which read Florida Department of Conservation and Animal Control.
The van parked, and two young men in
conservation uniform got out. One man had reddish hair, and wore an orange bill
cap. The other was darker haired, with a mustach. "Howdy folks." one
man said. "Hear you might have some kind of situation? I'm Steve Tarkins
of the Florida Department of Conservation, and this is my brother Bill."
"Please to
meet ya, and welcome to Fenokee County." the Sheriff said, pumping Steve
Tarkins’ hand. "I think you might be able to help us. Mr. Huffsteader here
swears a panther broke into his stockade and made off with a heffer, reckon
he's right?"
"Well, let's
have us a look see." Bill Tarkins said.
"Wait, hold
it." Cindy Mae said. "If you don't mind, we'd like to look at those tracks too."
The Sheriff
shrugged. "Suit yourself. But like I told you kids, I already have this
situation under control."
"That's
right." said Goofer. "You kids better listen to the Sheriff! He knows
exactly what he's talking about. He's the one knows how to deal with differcult
situations like this. Just like the last time when-"
"Shut up
Goofer!" snorted the Sheriif quickly, before Goofer could say more.
"Don't remind me!"
"Oops, sorry,
Sheriff." ammended Goofer, as all of them followed Clarence, Bert and
Morton around to the back of the barn. It certainly looked like something had
broken in, all right. Half the barn door was splintered, and hanging on its
hinges.
"Yep, think
you're right, Mr. Huffsteader." Steve Takrins said "Those do look
like puma tracks."
"Well,
Gol-lee, Sheriff!" said Goofer, bending over to look at them. "They
look peculiar small panther tracks to me! Recken he's a mighty small
feller."
"Let me
look!" said Muletrain, bending over to look himself. The Sheriff shook his
head in mild disgust. "You mellonhead, Goofer. Can't you tell panther
tracks from swamp rat tracks!"
But Buford already
had his nose to the ground, flashing bright red as he examined the prints.The
scent left by the prowler was not that of a swamprat-and neither were the
prints. It was definitely that of opossum, and Buford, who had lived all his
life in Fenokee, knew it well.
"Them's not swamp rat tracks!" he announced sleepily.
"What was
that, Buford?" Cindy Mae asked. Buford was always unintelligible to her.
"He says they
ain't swamp rat tracks!" said Woody, to whom Buford was always perfectly
clear.
"He's
right." Cindy Mae, as she examined them closely "Them's ‘possum
tracks!"
"Oh,"
said the Sheriff. “Right. I knew that."
Cindy Mae noticed
Bill and Steve Tarkins exchanged worried glances, at mention of the possum
tracks. This struck her as odd, especially since there was what appeared to be
a genuine set of puma tracks-and big ones leading in and out of the bar, with
the drag-marks of what could only be the stolen heffer carcass.
"Well, no blamed ‘possum made off with
my heffer!" said Clarence. "that was a panther for certain, an' my
boys are gittn' the hounds togather to go git 'im come sunrise! You kids and
yer dog are welcome to join us if ya like." he said to the Boggs twins.
"No you
won't, Mr. Huffsteader." said Bill Tarkins. "If this here's a genuine
swamp panther, and I'd say it is, then it's an endangered species. And if it's
really a black puma,like you say, it could be a unique specimen."
"So the
Sheriff told you, eh?" said Clarence. "Well, Woundfoot happens to be
black as midnight! My pa seen him hisself a few years back. Got 'is name from the bullet someone put in
'is right paw, 'bout four years ago. I don't think he's ever shown up in this
part of the swamp before, though. He used to live South of here-over the county
line. But I swear it's him! He's come back to raid all the livestock in
Fenokee!"
"Now don't be
like that!" said Tarkins. "often when animals get older, they take to
killin' livestock. That cat's paw does look wounded. But don't fret. We'll take
care of your panther problem. Just leave things to us."
"By the
way", said Steve "We already know about your local panther legend. We
did some checking with the locals herebouts, and an old lady name of Jenna
Crowley told us all about him. Swears it's a true story. She told us how to
catch him and everything."
"Jenna
Crowley?" asked Cindy Mae. "You mean-"
“Yep. said she's
the sister of a fellow lives round these parts name of Jebedia Crowley."
"Jeb Crowley
has a sister?" asked Woody "I never did know that!"
"Yep. Keeps
her a secret pretty much, so she says. Think the familys' ashamed of her of
somethin', sos you might not have heard of her. We met her at the Community
center when we came in, and told us she wanted to help. Says she lives out in
the swamp,and makes her living telling fortunes and stuff. If you kids want to
know more about Woundfoot yourself, I think you should look her up. You'll find
her 'bout five miles from here, just make a right turn at Moccassin Hollow,
then head due east into the deepest blackest part of this here swamp."
Buford was eyeing
the two officers with suspician. Humans didn't pay him much attention,so they
didn't notice, but there was definitely something false about the man's story,
and it caused a growl to rise in his throat. He didn't know what it was, but
somehow he didn't trust these two men.
"Well, I'll
be a horney toad, Sheriff, I never did know that either, said Goofer.
"Neither did
I, Goofer." admitted the sheriff. “But these guys must know what they're
talking about."
"What are you
going to do?" Cindy Mae asked.
"Why, we're
gonna set a baited trap for him, where he's sure to look. Them we'll set him
loose in a wildlife santuary. 'Preciate your concern, kids. Let's go Bill.
We've got us a panther to catch."
The two officers
got into the van and drove off.
"Ya know,
there's somethin' mighty peculiar about those two officers.I'm not sure they're
from the wildlife department at all!" said Cindy Mae.
"What makes
you say that?" asked Woody.
Cindy Mae
shrugged. "Well, if Jeb Crowley has a sister, how come they found out
about her, and we never even heard of her! And we've lived in Fenokee all our
lives! You sure you trust them, Sheriff?"
Sheriff Muletrain
almost jumped. "Trust them? Now look here, Cindy Mae. I hired those two
myself!"
"But--"
"No buts! I
happen to be an excellent judge of character!"
Buford groaned,
and wagged his head in disgust when he heard this . "Sheesh!" he mumbled. Sometimes he couldn't believe Muletrain's
arrogance.
"Well,
Goofer." said the Sheriff. "let's get a move on. We've got important
work to do."
"Yessir,
Sheriff." As the sheriff and Goofer were getting in their car, the others
jumped as they heard the sound of Goofers pistol go off by accident. This time
the bullet had punctured the the oil tank, and a jet of dark oil gushed out
onto the drive.
"GOOFER!!" roared the Sheriff. The twins, Buford, and the
Huffsteaders could hear the commotion from where they were. Finally, the
Sheriff's car drove off, leaving a trail of fresh oil in its wake.
"Do you mind
if we take a look around the barn, Mr. Huffsteader?"
"Can if you
want, kids." said Clarence. "But ya ain't goin to find nothun'
though."
"We'll
see." said Cindy Mae. "let's go Woody."
Buford was
already well ahead of them. His ears were up like radars, and his nose was
blinking as he sniffed around othe perimete of the door.His eyes googled as he
noticed something peculiar about the door. It had been splintered into, but the
hinges looked like they had already been loosened, with a hammer maybe, or a
crowbar. He tapped the door with his paw and it gave slightly. He was right.
there was definitely something amiss here. He them turned his attention to the
panther tracks. Yes, they did carry the scent of some kind of cat, only
magnified several times over. "Something strange is going on here!"
he muttered.
"Buford says
something strange is going on." said Woody.
"Yeah, he's
right." said Cindy Mae. "These hinges- they look like they've been
pried off!"
"By Golly,
they do! But how could that be, if an animal broke in here?"
"I don't
know. But ya know what? I think we should investigate that Jenna Crowley."
"Do you
think she could tell us who or what did this?"
"Not really.
But I'm curious to see if she's really who she says she is! And now that I
think about it, it seems I know those two Tarkins characters somewhere
before."
Meanwhile, Buford
had lain down to rest. All at once, his nose picked up another scent...his eyes
snapped open. It was a sharp pungent se smell The lanky hound got to his feet,
as his every sense went rigid. He knew by instinct that he had stumbled upon
yet another clue. He began to follow the scent.
"Hey,
Buford's on to something again!"
"He shore is!
What's up, Buford?"
Buford was poised
straight forward, red nose flashing like a traffic signal. "What's this?"
he mumbled lethargically.
Woody bent down
and picked it up. It appeared to be a cloth of some kind. "It's just an old hankerchief. One of
them conservation guys must have lost it."
"It smells
like paint." Buford pointed out.
"Buford says
it smells like paint."
Cindy Mae took
the cloth,and looked it over. "It is
paint. Spray paint of some kind. Looks like black enamel."
"What do you
make of it, Sis?"
"I'm not
sure. But we'll keep it as evidence. Right now, let's take the swamp buggy out
to Moccassin Hollow. I've a hunch we'll find more clues out there."
"Sure we
need to?" Woody asked shakily. Mocassin hollow was a dangerous place fill
ed with sinkholes, quicksand and gators-not to mention some eerie legends, of
folks who had vanished in the swamp without a trace. Perhaps someone could have
remained hidden out there.
"You guys
ain't scared are you?" Cindy Mae asked, giving them each a stern look.
"Scared?" snorted Buford "Humph!", even though a
shiver rippled up his spine.
"How 'bout
you, Woody?"
"Scared? Er,
no! But what about the play?" asked Woody.
"We can
still see it later. Our tickets are good all week. Right now we've got a
mystery to solve."
All at once, a
low, keening sound wafted over the swamp, through the cyrpess trees. But it was
very faint, and at first, only Buford heard it. His right ear sprung up like a
radar, cupped itself, and pointed due east in direction the weird sound had
issued. Buford listened intently, waiting for the sound to come again. For what
seemed a long while there was only the sighing wind through the drifts of
Spanish moss. And then....
AAAAIIIIIIOOOOWWW!!!
The cry sounded
eerily over the swamplands, at last dying away into the moaning of the wind.
Lavender goosebumps sprouted crazily all over Buford's hide. He fell into a
crouch, holding his paws over his eyes, and shuddering, his ears no tucked
securely beneath him.
Woody and Cindy
Mae had heard it too this time. "Glory be!" exclaimed Woody, once he
had found his breath. Shivers were racing up and down his spine. "That
ain't no bobcat, that's a panther for sure!"
"Well, it's
something, that's for sure!" admitted Cindy Mae. "C'mon, ya
guys."
Part 3
Jenna Crowley
They drove back
to Boggs' Landing, and set out once more, only this time, they took the swamp
buggy. it was now pitch-dark, and the moon was obscured by heavy clouds, a fact
for which the twins were grateful. They didn't want Buford alerting anyone to
their whereabouts. The cypress trees loomed stark and black in the gloom, their
drifts of Spanish moss blowing like graveshrouds. The eerie calls of night
herons and other swamp birds sounding in the darkness, causing Woody to gulp
nervously. The croaking and chirruping of bullfrogs and peepers sounded all
about them. And from the distant bayous sounded the full-throated calls of bull
gators.
The twins knew
practically all of Fenokee Swamp, but they were now headed into a region few
had dared to venture. Mocassin Hollow was a place very close to the deepest
part of Fenokee, that fabled part of the swamp some said could swallow a man up
forever. Buford was stretched out lazily on the prow of the swamp buggy. He had
been almost as nervous as Woody when they first started out, but as usual,
sleep took care of that pretty much. He knew they were safe as long as they
were together, or Woody or Cindy Mae would give an alarm. So he just allowed
himself to enjoy the cool rush of swamp air past his face, and the rich miasma
of marshy scents it brought with it. The myriad scents of Fenokee swamp at
night--it soothed his razzled nerves, and allowed him to drift into a
semi-comfortable sleep. But thoughts of what had pillaged the Huffsteader farm,
and what they might now be heading into, still flirted darkly through his mind.
"There it
is," Buford heard Woody say, and one of his ears shot up. "Mocassin
Hollow."
"Mocassin
Hollow?" Buford echoed drowsily, as he lifted his head, and stared ahead
through a grove of cypress trees. Someone had long ago posted a wooden sign
that read MOCASSIN HOLLOW : PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK.
"Golly!"
said Woody. "Don't ya think maybe this ain't such a good idea, Sis?"
"We have to
go on, Woody. If we want some answers, that is."
"Oh, alright,
Sis." He swerved the buggy to the right, cutting a wide swath through the
dark water, and headed on through the cypress trees. It wasn't long before
they'd left the open areas of the swamp completely behind them. The cyrpess
trees slowly closed behind them like a dark, forbidding wall. The weird croaks
of frogs ,and the bellowing of the bull gators seemed much louder here, and
more ominous. Buford no longer felt like sleeping. There was something about
the section of swamp they had entered that demanded his every sense be on the
alert. His ears were up, and pointed straight ahead, straining for the faintest
possible trace of oncoming danger. Woody gulped in fear, as he looked around in
the gloom, and even Cindy Mae looked nervous. By now they were indeed into the
deepest, blackest part of Fenokee Swamp, farther than they had ever been
before.
Then Buford's
ultra-sensitive olfactory senses snagged onto the smell of something
cooking-something that smelled like frog stew, and his nose flahsed bright red.
The sudden sound of its beeping caused Woody to jump.
"What's up,
Buford?" he asked.
Buford sprung to
his feet, and his lanky form pointed straight ahead."Somethins'
cookin'" he mumbled.
"What did he
say?" Cindy Mae asked.
"He said
something's cooking. But what is it?"
"I think he
meant something's is cooking, Woody.
I mean, someone's has a cookfire burning up ahead."
Buford, his nose
still flashing like a red lightbulb, said, "There's light over
there."
"Buford says
there's light over there, right through them trees-I see it too!" Woody
announced in a shaky voice.
Woody pulled the
swamp buggy in closer, and eased up on the engine. The soft whirring of the
blades died down, and they could all see it now. There was a soft, whitish-gold
light seeping between the trunks of the bald cypresses.
They approached
cautiously, weaving their buggy through the grove. At length,they could see
where the light was issuing. Hoisted above the water on wooden stilts, as where
most of the buildings on the edge of Fenokee, was a strange wooden dwelling.
But this building was deep in the great swamp's heart, far from any human
habitation. Woody gulped again when he saw it. The place had a peeling,
dilapidated roof, and the boards were, crusted with greenish-gray mold, and
thick with drifts of shaggy moss. But smoke curled up from a metal smoke
pipe,and the windows glowed with warm light. The dwelling was clearly
inhabitated, but by whom or what, he didn't want to guess.
"Mah grits and
gravy," Woody said. "That's one uuugly place, Cindy Mae! It shore
gives me the creeps!"
"Me too,
Woody," Cindy Mae admitted. "But we've got to check it out, after
we've come all the way out here. You guys up to it?"
"Er, uh,
yeah, right, we sure are, Cindy Mae."
"Yeah, "
agreed Buford, although he didn't sound all that convinced either.
"C'mon, then,
let's get a move on!" said Cindy Mae, sounding as confident as ever.
They parked the
buggy, and went up the wood stairs, and knocked testily on the frame door of
the bizarre dwelling. For a while, nobody answered.
"Doesn't
look like there's anybody home." Buford mumbled.
"Buford doesn't
think, there's anybody here." said Woody. "Let's go."
But just then,
the door did open up a crack. The weathered, grayish face of an elderly woman
peered out. She had a cloth like a bandanna wrapped around her head. Her eyes
glinted like black opals.
"What do you
youngn’s want?" she demanded in a sour voice.
"Excuse us,
ma'am, said Cindy Mae. But are you by any chance Jenna Crowly, Jeb's
sister?"
"That's none
of yer business. Now be off with ya!"
She started to shut the door, but to the dismay of Buford
and Woody, Cindy Mae stopped her. "It's about some kind of wild animal
that's been raiding the farms around Fenokee. Some outsider folk told us you
might know what it was."
This got the old
lady's attention. "So...you met 'em did you? Well, that's right. I did
tell some outsider folk about ol' Woundfoot. What's that to you."
"We'd like
you to tell us more about Woundfoot, ma'am."
"I told them
outsiders 'cause my powers told me what was happening at the Fenokee farms, and
that some outsider folks was a-comin' in. I didn't want that mean old panther
to be shot. He's lived to long to deserve that! So that's why I helped the
outsiders. But I can't tell you folks nuthin', ‘less you give me somethin’ in
return."
"What do you
want?" Cindy Mae asked "Money?"
"Only if
you're willing to do business. I read fortunes, and help people solve any
problem they may have. But you must be willing. Shorely, there's something I
may help you with?"
Cindy Mae didn't
believe that for an instant, but she said,"Alright, fine, how much will it
cost us for you to read our fortunes?"
"A buck
each." replied Jenna Crowley tartly, if that really was her name.
Woody started to
reach in his wallet for the money he and Cindy Mae had made at the local
grocery. But the hag held up a boney hand. "Don't bother paying-not yet!
Let me look yougn’s over first. Which of you has a problem that needs
fixing?"
"None of
us!" started Cindy Mae, "we just want--"
But the old
woman's eyes bore into her, and she fell silent. The woman's eyes panned over
each of them, one at a time. Her face didn't change when she looked at Cindy
Mae and Woody. But a strange, cold light came into her eyes when they fell upon
Buford. "You!" she hissed through her corroded teeth, pointing a
boney finger at the dog.
"Me?"
said Buford, eyes going wide.
"You have a problem."
"I do?"
Buford muttered, confused.
"Yes! A
small, saucy little problem. Tell me, isn't there someone in your life who's
your sworn enemy, someone you're out to get?
For several
seconds, Buford looked confused as ever, but then the cold light of pure rage
came into his eyes. His short fur bristled, and he growled in menace."
"What's she
talking 'bout? Old Buford ain't out to git nobody!"
"Yes he is,
Woody!" said Cindy Mae, sounding vaguely worried. "Don't you know
who?"
Woody gasped, as
suddenly he did know.
"You two stay
out here." Jenna said to the twins. "Buford and I have business
togather." She led Buford inside,and shut the door.
Buford looked
around. The inside of Jenna Crowley's house made him shudder. There were some
rude wooden furniture, including a table and some benches, in the middle of the
room, rather the same as old Jeb's place. There was a kerosene lamp burning on
the table, but there was also a large array of lighted candles packed in the
windowsills. The room was illuminated eerily, in shades of vibrant yellow and
orange. There was a stuffed 'possum, fangs abristle, on one of the tables, and
from a wood shelf on one of the far walls there were arranged rows upon rows of
tarnished glass jars and containers. Some of these held some kind of
weird-looking fluids, like potions of some kind. Others held what looked like
the mummified remains of animals of all sorts and species. One held what looked
like preserved batwings, another filled with dully staring eyeballs packed
tight as olives.
And in the rude
stone fire place there actually sizzled and bubbled a frothing iron cauldron
that looked like it really belonged to a witch!
It was all almost
enough to make Buford make a yelping run for the door. But then Jenna said,
"I know you want revenge on someone. I can give it too you."
Buford's eyes shut
suddenly, then drew open again, as Jenna peered into then. Reflected in both of
Buford's eyes was the masked, headbanded face of the Little Raccoon, his eyes
shining with mischief, a face that said You'll
never catch me, I'll always get away. I can get the better of you one hand tied
around my back!
Buford shut his eyes, then opened them
again, and the image was gone. Jenna Crowley hugged Buford's face,pinching his
lavander hide in her boney fingers. "Yes, that's right. I can see it now.
He always outwits you doesn't he? He always comes out on top. Except in your
dreams. In your dreams you always trap him, isn't that right? Well, I can make
those dreams of yours come true."
"You
can?" Buford asked skeptically. He wasn't really sure he could ever catch
the Raccoon.
"All it
takes is minor potion. A potion for revenge. Revenge on mischief-makers!"
Buford remembered
the time the Raccoon had tricked him into falling into a water trough. Could
Jenna really help him? He wasn't sure, but it was worth taking a chance. He
remembered that he hadn't always actually hated the Raccoon. It had however,
always been in him to chase raccoons, partly because he instinctively
recognized them as a natural enemy. But unlike some hounds, Buford was too lazy
and good-natured to really want to harm the Raccoon with anything more than a
nip on the tail. But that was before the incident at Jeb Crowley's. The twins
and Buford had just managed to apprehend two escaped bankrobbers named Billy
and Luke Scroggins, who had their loot buried out in the swamp. After the
adventure, Jeb had treated them to his best shoo-fly pie. Feeling generous,
Buford had offered the Little Raccoon a piece when he showed up. But the greedy
little raccoon had stolen his pie and gobbled it up, leaving Buford holding the
one piece. Having his pie flitched-and by a raccoon-was one thing Buford just
couldn't let go. Thereafter, it was as though his natural animostiy for the
raccoon was awakened, and he was out to get him. It didn't matter anymore that
the Raccoon was merely being playful, even though he relished foiling his
traditional enemy, a hound dog, or that his pranks were always harmless.
"Come, look
into my cauldron." Jenna Crowley said. Buford peered over the lip into the
greenish, churning liquid. Whatever it was he wasn't sure he wanted to know.
"Now-let me fetch the proper ingredients." Buford watched as she
gathered some glass jars from the shelf and set them on the table.
"Potion for
vengeance!" she crowed. She screwed off one cap,and extracted a preseved
batwing. "First, the wing of a swamp bat."
"Yuch!"
Buford mumbled, and stepped back, as Jenna tossed the ingredient into the
cauldron, causing it to fizz. She then retrieved the other loathsome
ingredients, and touched them in as well. "Eyeball of a gator, oil from a
river otter's fur, wart from the toe of year-old 'possum, pus squeezed from a
swamp-rat's liver, seven venomous toadstools, the newly plucked fangs of a
mocassin, and--" she looked around. "Oh, yes, there is one more
ingredient we need.I must have a possession of the party whom you desire
vengeance on."
"Possession?" Buford mumbled.
"Yes.
Something that belongs to him. Some hairs from his tail would do just fine.”
For several
seconds, Buford was stumped. He didn’t have any hairs from the Raccoon’s tail.
Then, something told him to look down at his right paw. Sandwitched between two
white toes he saw a wad of chewing gum. It had to be a wad of the hot chewing
gum the raccoon had given him for a prank, and it was still stuck between his paws.
"Here" Buford said. He held out his foot to Jenna, who looked it
over, then plucked out the wad of gum.
Jenna looked the
gum over in the candlelight, turning it between her fingers.
"Ahhhh..."
She quickly tossed
the wad into the cauldron with the other ingredients. To Buford's amazement the
liquid in the cauldron began to sizzle,and then to visibly churn, as though the
gum had caused an intense chemical reaction. Then the swirling liquid changed
from deep green to blue, to deep purple, finally fading to pale green, and
simmering down. Jenna Crowley fetched a new jar and scooped out a volume of the
contents. She screwed on the lid, and gave the weird greenish stuff a violent
shake.
"Now...." she said, "drink this, and you'll be able to
trap him next time you see him. Just like in your dreams."
Buford looked
uncertain. Likely old Jenna was merely a charlatan, and was only tricking him.
And that stuff in the jar certainly looked vile. But if there was just a chance
he could get that ornery, good-for-nothing raccoon....
Buford siezed the
jar, quickly screwed the top off, squeezed shut his eyes and forced himself to
drink. He gulped loudly until he had swallowed it all. The liquid was thick as
syrup, but very sour. Still, it didn't taste horrible. "Gee, that wasn't
so bad," Buford mumbled.
Then both his ears
sprung straight up, as he felt an itching and churning inside his stomach, as
though he had swallowed a whirlpool. Blue smoke jetted out his ears, with a low
scream like a steam whistle. Buford's eyes goggled as he suddenly turned from
lavender to bright blue. A terrible burning sensation caught in his throat. His
eyes turned carnation pink, and steam shot out of his mouth, jet-propelling him
across the floor to slam into the far wall, his hindquarters slumped a meter up
the wall, his head on the floor. His Confederate cap did a final summersault on
his head. Then the deep indigo drained from him, and his normal color returned.
Buford slumped to the floor, and shook himself. "That's some drink !"
he muttered, and laughed slightly.
Jenna had already
opened the door to let Woody and Cindy Mae in. "Buford, are you
awright?" Woody exclaimed rubbing his friend on the back.
"Yeah, yeah,
I'm fine." mumbled Buford.
"Well, here's
yer money, Ms. Crowly," said Cindy Mae. "now what can you tell us
about what broke into the Huffsteader place. You figure it really was a panther
named Woundfoot?"
"Ah shore do,
youngn's. From what I know, Woundfoot is the last of the swamp panthers in
these here parts, after the hunters killed the rest of them. But he don't come
from Fenokee originally. He came up from over the county line ' bout five years
ago. That's when a farmer by the name of Mule Johnson shot 'im, 'an that's how
'e got 'is name. He's had a bad right foot every since. You can always tell
Woundfoot from his paw print. He mostly stays away from people like you'd
expect 'im to. In fact, most folks think he's a myth 'an that Mule Johnston had
too much to drink wjen he claimed he shot a genuine black panther. But folks
over the border know he's real. The way I figure it, he thinks the farms here
in rural Fenokee are easy pickings, and he aims to make this his permenate
hunting ground."
"Well, that's
all very interesting, Ms. Crowley," said Cindy Mae."but-"
"One more
thing, " she said with a crooked smile smile. "Woundfoot always
travels with his lacky, a 'possum called Slyface. Them two is tighter then a
flee on a hounddog. Slyface cleans up on 'is kills, 'an he uses the ol' possum
to spy for him, incase hunters are around."
"Woody,"
Cindy Mae said, "You thinking what I'm thinking?'
"Yeah! Them
possum tracks, back at the Huffsteader barn. Golly! It must really have been
that panther after all."
"But why were
the hinges pried off."
"Well, I've
told you all I know." Jenna said.
Meanwhile, Buford
had slumped on the floor, and had started to dose off. But then suddenly a
strange scent came to him, and all at once he was alert. His nose beeped red, and he followed the
scent into a corner of the room, where he came upon a large, iron device.
Buford, examined it curiously at first. The he ventured to sniff at it. Just
what is was he wasn’t sure yet, but somehow it smelled suspicious….like it
didn’t belong here. He touched what looked like a lever jutting out. Then all
at once he knew, and not a second too soon. In a flash, he retracted his nose,
just as the steel jaws of the trap slammed shut. “Yikes!” he exclaimed.
“What’s that,
Buford?” asked Woody.
“A trap, a trap!”
Buford slurred, pointing at the cruel-looking device.
“Yeah,” said
Cindy Mae. “The kind they use to catch animals with.”
“I use it to
catch animals for my ingredients.” Jenna Crowly said quickly.
“Well,” said Cindy
Mae, eager to change the subject, “I guess what we need to know is if that
panther is raiding the Fenokee farms, where do you think he’s going to strike
next?”
Jenna shrugged.
“Can’t really say where he’ll strike next. But I’d say he’d keep to the same
territory around eastern Fenokee. If you ‘spect to find ‘im-e’en though ah
don’t recommend you do-you should check out that area, where I sent those
Tarkins boys.”
There seemed to
be an inordinate amount of bugs in and about the old woman’s house, especially
crickets-their chirruping came from everywhere. One cricket leaped onto
Buford’s nose, causing the hound to go cross-eyed. The little insect starred at
Buford amiably, rubbing his legs to give off his tune. “Shoo-shoo” said Buford,
flapping his right paw. The tiny green insect sprung off the dog’s nose,
causing it to vibrate. He landed on a shelf overhead. Buford gazed up after
him. The cricket’s leap dislodged a small object from the shelf, which tumbled
down in front of Buford. “What’s this?” the hound muttered. He sniffed at it,
then picked it up. It appeared to be a small whistle of some kind, so Buford
placed it in his mouth. He shut his eyes and blew down hard on it. The shriek
that barreled out of the tiny whistle, caused Buford’s ears to fly straight up
with fright. He leaped a foot up into the air, legs pinwheeling, to crash
backward into the shelf. Jars, vials, and bundles of herbs clattered over him.
Buford starred out in confusion from beneath the pile, his head ringing, still
holding the whistle in his teeth.
Jenna and the
twins looked over at him. They had been alarmed by the clatter, but hadn’t
reacted to the whistle at all.
“Hey, what’s
Buford found ?” asked Cindy Mae.
Woody went over
and Buford handed him the whistle with his teeth. “Well, I’ll be hornswaggled.
Know what? I’ll betcha this here’s a dog whistle. That’s how come Buford heard
it ‘an we didn’t. What you figure, Cindy Mae?”
“I reckon yer
right.” said Cindy Mae. “ultra- high frequency, that humans can’t hear. Only
there’s other animals can hear it too besides dogs. Animal trainers use them
sometimes to-“
“You kids have
overstayed your welcome!” snapped Jenna suddenly. “I gave you what you needed.
You paid me. You must leave now. Look what that dog of yours has done to my
collection!”
“Hey! Buford
didn’t mean it.” Said Woody.
“Thank ya all
the same, Ms. Crowly.” Said Cindy Mae. “C’mon guys.”
“Be careful, if
ya run into Woundfoot!” called Jenna after them. “Hear he don’t care too much for hounds!”
Part 4
More Threads
As the three sped
back the way they had come in the swamp buggy, Woody and Cindy Mae pondered
over the events at Crowley’s.
“I still wonder what’s up with that dog whistle, Woody.”
said Cindy Mae. “What would an old hermit lady need with one?”
“You got me,
Cindy Mae.” said Woody. “Not to mention that old trap Buford found.”
“Could be she
used it to catch her own meals, and stuff for those potions of hers.” Cindy Mae
said. “But it looked more like something trappers would use-people who sell
animals for their furs.”
“Hey!” said Woody
suddenly. “Ah found somethin’ else!”
Buford , splayed
out on the prow of the swamp buggy as
usual, was suddenly roused as Woody plucked something that had come stuck in
his collar. “What?” he said in surprise.
“What are these?”
Woody asked. “They must have gotten themselves stuck in Buford’s collar when
that stuff fell on him. They looked like playing cards. But they’re
double-sided! They must be trick cards, like the ones magicians use.”
Cindy Mae took the
cards and looked at them. They were larger than normal cards, one with
7-of-diamonds on each side, the other with 8 –of-clubs.
“Maybe she uses
them to tell fortunes or something.” Woody said.
“Could be.” said
Cindy Mae. “But fortune-tellers usually use Tarot cards. These look more like
something a professional magician would use. Strange they’d be in a place like
that!”
“Hey, look
there!” Woody said. “It’s some kind of boat.”
“Where?”
“Over there,
parked over by that there island.”
“Let’s get
closer.”
Woody slowed
the buggy down as they approached the other boat. It was much larger than
theirs, and had four search-lights attached. But the lights were off, and the
boat appeared to be abandoned. On the side were the words Florida Department of Conservation.
“Hoppin’
horntoads!” Woody exclaimed. “It must belong to them Tarkins boys.”
“Ya know Woody,”
said Cindy Mae. “There’s somethin’ mighty fishy ‘bout that.”
“What makes you
say that, Sis?”
“Well, the
Tarkins boys were headed in the other direction when they left Huffsteaders.
And not only that, Jenna Crowely said that Woundfoot would still be in that
area. She said she told Bill and Steve Tarkins the same thing.”
“So what’s their
boat doing here?”
“Right!” said
Cindy Mae. “Let’s check it out!”
At the Fenokee
County Sheriff’s office, Deputy Goofer McGee lounged back in his chair,
enjoying the latest issue of Captain
Good. The Captain’s winning smile and gleaming white teeth were displayed
prominately on the cover.
“Goofer!” yelled
Sheriff Muletrain, as he entered from the front door. “Ah told you to finish up
on those reports. Git back to work.”
“But Golly,
Sheriff, this is important. This here’s the issue ah’ve been a-waitn’ for. The
one where Captain good is on the planet of no-goodnicks ‘an-“
“Goofer! Go git me
a cup of coffee. ‘An be careful while yer at it! I’ll
handle the paper work for now!”
As Goofer went to
the coffee machine, Sheriff Muletrain squeezed his overweight body into the
chair. He cast one eye at Goofer then picked up the comic, and started reading
where Goofer had left off.
There was a
sudden knock at the door. Muletrain quickly shoved the comic under a pile of
documents. “See who that is, Goofer.”
“Rawt away,
Sheriff”, Goofer, who was just returning with a cup of coffee, quickly turned
toward the door, accidently throwing the entire contents of the cup onto the
sheriff, drenching his uniform, and ruining some of the documents.
“Goofer!”
“Oops. Sorry ‘bout
thet, Sheriff!” Goofer opened the door and gasped to see that it was Tom
Jenkins. Jenkins, like the Huffsteaders owned a stockade near Fenokee swamp.
“Well, if it aint
‘ol Mr. Jenkins from over Sassafras Creek. How ya doin’ Mr. Jenkins? Anything
we lawmen can help ya with?”
Tom Jenkins didn’t
seem at all pleased. “Howdy, Goofer. Yep, I got some trouble all right.”
“What kind of
trouble?” asked the sheriff.
“Same kind other
folks is having. I’ll be straight with you, sheriff. Somethin’ made off with
one of my hogs tonight. ‘An ah thought you had this situation under control!”
“He does have it
under control!” said Goofer. “Why, the sheriff hired the best animal control
officers in the state!”
“That’s right, I
did. They should have captured the critter by now.”
“Well, they’re not
doing it fast enough.” said Jenkins. “The way I figure, there’s two dangerous critters on the loose. I’d
‘preciate it if you’d investigate.”
“We’ll be right
on it, sir. Don’t you fret. C’mon Goofer.”
“Just follow me
in my pickup.” said Jenkins.
“Goll-ee
Sheriff!” exclaimed Goofer. “Think there really are two critters?”
“I’m not sure,
Goofer. But I think maybe those kids were right. There’s too many animals going
missing. ‘An Jenkins’ place is a long way from Huffsteader’s. Something strange
is going on here.”
Back in the
swamp, the kids and Buford landed their buggy on the island, some distance from
the Tarkins’ boat They landed on a bar surrounded by tall reeds they hoped
would hide them from suspicious characters. Buford got off the prow, and jumped
onto the bar. At once he began sniffing for more clues.
“We’ll backtrack
around to that boat,” said Cindy Mae. “and try to find out where those men
went.”
Before long,
Buford struck onto a trail. It was the scent of two men, and it was fresh. The
men had passed this way not more than an hour ago. The scent grew stronger
until Buford hit on a fresh set of footprints.
“Hey! Buford’s
found a set of tracks. Must be them Tarkins’ characters.”
“Bet you’re right,
Woody. Let’s see where they lead.”
Buford was well
ahead of them. He shuffled along through the darkness of the swamptrees,
sniffing the prints, until his nose detected the scent of corroded metal.
Following the odor, he pulled back a thick cluster of swamp-weeds to find an
array of steel traps, just like the one at Jenna Crowley’s! But these traps
looked far older, and were partially rusted, like they had been set out for
some time. They also looked as though they had not been set to catch animals,
but that someone was trying to hide them.
“”Buford’s found some
more of them traps!” said Woody, bending over Buford, to give them a look.
‘An look here,
Woody.” Said Cindy Mae, who was standing some distance from them, pointing to
the ground. “There’s another set of
prints here. And look at this! Those are the tracks of a big cat, like the ones
at Huffsteaders.”
“By gum yore
right, Sis,” said Woody as he joined her to gaze at the ground. “That means
there’s three men! An’ they must have caught the panther. But what are they
doing, leading him on a lease?”
“But lookee
here! These panther prints are different!”
“They are?”
“Take a look.
This cat’s paw doesn’t look damaged, like the one at Huffsteaders!”
Buford, meanwhile
was still examining the rusted tangle of traps when someone handed him a short,
cylindrical object. It looked like some kind of small, plastic spyglass. Almost
without thinking Buford put it to his right eye to better examine the clues.
Shrill, mischievous laughter erupted behind him. Buford looked at his face in a
nearby pool of swamp water. The spyglass had left a black circle around his
right eye. Angerly, Buford splashed water from the pool onto the black ring,
washing it away. He glared behind him, growling in menace.
Not more than
three feet away from him, snickering like a Japanese imp, was the Little
Raccoon.
Part 5
Lightening
Strikes
As Buford glared
at him, preparing to spring, the Little Raccoon stuck his thumbs in his ears,
and waved his clever little hands mockingly. “Naw-na-naw-na-naw-naw!” the Raccoon taunted, wagging his tiny pink
tongue.
Buford was
scarcely able to control himself. He charged the Raccoon in a lavender blurr.
The Raccoon zipped away, still snickering, with the hound’s breath hot on his
tail. Buford snapped his jaws but the quick-witted little ‘coon managed to stay
just beyond his reach. Buford was so intent on quashing the little headbanded
hooligan, that, as usual, he didn’t realize until it was too late that he was
heading for a trap.
A grove of bushes
lay ahead, directly in their path.The Raccoon, being very small, managed to zip
under and through the grove with ease. Buford, however, though he realized the
trap in the last instant, was unable to stop in time and crashed headlong into
them. Then he realized the bushes were chok-full of burrs, which now clung all
over him.
That infuriating,
impish look still on his face, the Raccoon made a low martial-arts style bow,
as though to some unseen audience. It was a self-congratulatory gesture, one
that said, Aren’t I something?! I can
outwit any hound dog five times my size! Then he was gone, with a wide
flourish of his magnificent tail.
Buford heard
Woody and Cindy Mae calling him. Ordinary, he would have forgotten about the
Raccoon, and gone back to sniffing clues. But then he remembered Jenna
Crowley’s words: Next time you will be able to trap him.
“Humph!” Buford
said to himself, thinking that Jenna must be only a charlatan after all. But
maybe not….if could just catch up with the Raccoon this time. Of course, the
Raccoon’s prank had not backfired, at least not yet.
He could get back
to the mystery later, he decided. Buford squeezed free of the brambles, and
shook the burrs loose. Very quickly, he picked up the Little Raccoon’s trail.
Nose flashing with the leafy scent of the Raccoon’s fur, the hound set off.
Before long, he again set eyes on his small quarry. The saucy little Raccoon
was sitting smartly upon a log,
fastidiously grooming his overlarge tail.
When Buford snarled
at him, the Little Raccoon’s tail went straight up, every individual hair on it
going stiff with fright. “OOO
-Saw!” he exclaimed in fright, and forgot about
fussing with his tail. It was clear that he hadn’t expected Buford to follow
him, and Buford noted this with a gleam of malicious triumph.
Once again, the
Raccoon streaked away, Buford in hot pursuit. He still managed to stay ahead of
his pursuer with ease, as he scampered around tree trunks, under bushes and
through logs. Buford, however, managed to remain on his trail this time, in
spite of all the Raccoon’s efforts to throw him off. No opening or orfice was
too narrow for the hound to pass through as well. Every once and a while, the
Raccoon would glance over his shoulder in shocked fright, to see Buford still
ready to pounce on him.
The chase led
deeper and deeper into the island. The swamp trees grew black and thick here,
but always Buford managed to stay on his
ringtailed, headbanded prey, guided at times by only the scent of his
quarry.
Suddenly, they
burst out into a clearing. The Raccoon dashed out across the clearing through
the tall grasses, having been unable to loose the hound in the trees. Buford
streaked after him. Then the dog heard a sudden crashing off to his left, and
one ear went up. Buford slid to a halt in the marsh grasses to see a deer-a
young buck with two knobby growths that would bud into antlers-bounding off
toward the trees. Somehow, the sight of the deer filled him with apprehension,
though he didn’t know why. He shook his head to clear it, then sniffed around
for the Raccoon’s scent. For a moment, he feared that he had lost it. But there
it was again, and Buford renewed the chase.
The woods grew
deep and thick on the other side of the clearing, but before long, Buford was
hot on the Raccoon’s trail again, and could see the bushy tail of his small
nemesis flashing through the boles of the trees ahead of him. Again he tried to snag that vulnerable tail,
but still the raccoon was able to outmanuver him.
Then the Raccoon
seemed to have disappeared. Buford looked around through the gloom, but saw no
sign of him. Then he realized that his scent stopped at the bole of a large
cottonwood. His ears pointed above him, and he looked up.
There, with his
tail curled protectively about his small body, the little masked hooligan
crouched, flinging some unintelliglble, Japanese taunts at him. Buford snarled
up at the treed ‘coon, realizing that the little mischief-maker had outfoxed
him once more.
Then something
unbelievable happened.
There was a
tremendous crash, as a bolt of white-hot Southern lightening cleft the humid
air, and split the tree in which the Raccoon was perched perfectly in twain.
Buford leaped back in shock, as the wood splintered, and one half of the entire
cottonwood-the one in which the Raccoon still clung-came crashing down. For
several seconds the dog did nothing. The pungent scent of burnt wood was sharp
in the air.
Then he realized
what this meant. Old Jenna was right! He could get that #@*///^!#@*!// raccoon
after all! Whether or not that potion had caused this, he didn’t care. All he
cared was that the Raccoon was where he wanted him. He felt suddenly very sure
that the Raccoon was his this time.
Buford needed no
urging to run up the length of the downed tree. He found his prey lying dazed
and stunned on the branch where he thought he was safe, eyes rolling in his
masked face. Buford noticed a number of vines and creepers lying about, and
these gave him an idea. Snickering in wicked triumph, he seized the vines with
his paws. Paws working with fiendish speed, he bound the Little Raccoon with
them to the base of a thick branch that had broken off. He made sure to tie them very tight, so his
captive couldn’t get away.
Then he jabbed
the Raccoon with a fiendish giggle. All at once, the Raccoon snapped out of his
stupor and the eyes in the little masked face went wide in shock and horror, as
it dawned on him that he was trapped. He realized he was bound so tightly that
he couldn’t even move, and that the hound he had so relished playing pranks on
was looming over him, sneering at him horribly.
“Oh, spare me pwease!” cried the Little Raccoon,
trembling with fright.
Buford pondered what he should do with the little
good-for-nothing now that he’d captured him. He could end the Raccoon’s life
right now, with a swipe of his paw. Then maybe Clarence Huffsteader could make
a ‘coon pie out of him. The thought made Buford grin. That would be a fitting
reward for a pie-snitcher.
“No ‘coon-pie!”
cried the Raccoon in terror, as though reading Buford’s thoughts. Buford
whipped back his right paw with a fiendish sneer, ready to finish the Raccoon
for good.
The Raccoon hung
his head and shut his eyes, whining in a misery of fright, as he waited for the
end.
Then someone tapped
Buford on the shoulder. The dog’s eyes went wide. He whirled around. And his
every nerve went stiff with fright.
Crouched on a
thick limb directly above them was a perfectly enormous swamp puma. Buford knew
without guessing exactly who it was, for his glossy black coat shone like
midnight oil. The cat’s emerald-green eyes bore into his, paralyzing him.
And on the same
limb in front of the puma, crouched the largest ugliest, mangiest opossum
Buford had every seen. “Is that him, Slyface?” the cat said, not taking his
eyes off Buford.
“Yep, that’s him,
my lord.” answered the ‘possum. “He
did it! He frightened off our week’s worth of venison!”
Part 6
Woundfoot
Sheriff
Muletrain and Deputy Goofer drove down the dirt road east of Sassafras Creek,
toward the Jenkins hog farm. Jenkins’ headlights shone on a broken beer bottle
in the center of the road, and his truck swerved to avoid it.
The sheriff had
made the mistake of allowing Goofer to do the driving, and Goofer didn’t have as much foresight. The sheriff’s car ran
clean over the bottle, with a crunch of broken glass followed by the gunshot
sound of the vehicle’s right front tire being punctured. The car ground to a
halt as the air escaped like a steam whistle.
“Goofer!” roared
Sheriff Muletrain. “You peanut- brain! Can’t you watch where you’re driving!”
“Golly, sheriff,
I’m just following Jenkins.”
“Didn’t you see
him make a swerve? Never mind. Just get out, and put on the spare. Jenkins is
stopping I think he knows we got an emergency here.”
“We do?”
“’Course we do
you-‘GOOOOOOFER!!!!”
Goofer pressed the
emergency button on the stearing wheel, releasing the airbags. The bags
ballooned out, filling the front seats, pushing Goofer back against the
upholstery, and cutting off Sheriff Muletrain’s words entirely. Goofer squeezed
out the door. “Don’t worry, sheriff, I’ll git you out.” He unholstered his
pistol, and aimed it at the airbag. The Sheriff tried to yell frantically for
him to stop, but Goofer didn’t hear and fired anyway. The air went out and the
bag deflated. Muletrain angerly threw the bag off and got out of the car. He
nearly turned crimson for an instant, then said “Git the spare-‘an be quick
about.”
“Yes sir.”
Just then Jenkins
walked up. “Got a flat? I can help you with that later if you like, sheriff.
But can you take a look at my hogshed first? We’re almost there.”
“Well,” said the
sheriff. “Ah ‘spose we could at that. Come on, Goofer. We’ll change the flat
later.”
Then from the
sheriff’s radio came the staticy voice of Stu Willard, the chief dispatcher.
The Sheriff reached into the car, and picked it up. “Sheriff Muletrain here.
What’s up?”
“It’s them
Tarkins boys.” Said Stu. “They just said they got that panther that’s been
raiding the Fenokee stockades. He’s a real black panther, sure enough!”
“Yeah?” asked
the sheriff, confused.
“That’s what
they say.”
“Well, not a
second too soon. I’m calling from the Jenkins place. Says that panther just
made off with one of his hogs not more than an hour ago.”
“Huh?”
“Listen. You
tell them Tarkins boys to meet me at Jenkins farm. “An bring the panther with
‘em. Somthin’ peculiar is going on here”.
“Right sheriff.”
“What’s that,
sheriff”.
“It’s Tarkins. Says
they got the panther”.
“Really sheriff?”
“Told ‘em to meet
us here. Let’s go.”
Goofer slammed
down the lid of the trunk, and the three of them walked the rest of the way to
the Jenkins farm. As with the Huffsteader stockade, the Jenkins hog shed had
been broken into earlier in the night, and in almost the precise same manner,
with the hinges on the doors hanging loose.
“Humph! Well, it
shore looks like something got in here awright. Possibly the same critter as
robbed Huffsteaders. But we’re a long way from there.”
“What do you make
of these tracks, sheriff?” said Jenkins, shining his lantern on them.
“Well I’ll be!
They do look like some kind of big cat tracks. But they’re not as big as ones
we saw before. Maybe there are two
big cats runnin’ loose in this county.”
“Well, if those
guys you hired are gonna meet us here with that varmint in tow, care to step
inside fer a spell?” Jenkins asked. “Marlete can whip us up some swell
flapjacks while we wait.”
“Gol-lee” said
Goofer “that shore sounds swell to me. Ya’ no my Aunt Grace used to make the
best flapjacks in Fenokee County. Used to visat her all the time up at Pike
road. She’d get ‘em just right, ‘an thet maple syrup she used to pour on ‘em.
Ummm-ummm! I remember the time that-“
“Shut up Goofer.”
said the sheriff. “Yeah we’d be rightly honored by yer hospitality, sir. Come
on, Goofer.”
Buford crouched
on the branch, as the eyes of the huge cat continued to bore into him. There
wasn’t any room for doubt in his mind. These were the raiders who had stolen
from the Huffsteader farm! “Who’re you?” He managed once he had found his
voice, though he knew perfectly well who it was.
“My name”, the
puma said, “is Woundfoot. And these are my hunting grounds from now on. I won’t
tolerate any no-account hounds on my territory!”
Buford remembered
the deer he had frightened during the chase through the island, and realized
that had caused the puma to miss his kill. As he stood staring goggle-eyes,
unable to even move, the cat swept back one enormous paw, claws unsheathed. In
less than a second, the cat would tear into him.
But the blow never
fell. The cat’s paws resheathed. For the first time, Woundfoot took notice of
the Little Raccoon, still bound and helpless, eyes tightly shut, whining for whatever
Japanese spirits protected mischief-makers to save him.
The cat flicked
his paw in the direction of the Raccoon. “Let him go.”
Buford couldn’t
believe what he’d just heard. “What?”
“The raccoon. Let
him go. You heard what I said.”
Let the Raccoon go?
Buford wasn’t about to do that. The words made him bristle in anger, and all at
once he was fearless, even confronted by the puma. He glared straight into the
cat’s eyes, growling in threat. “Now listen here!” he snarled.
But the green fire
of Woundfoot’s eyes glared back with an anger that was even more intense. “No, you listen, hound-dog!” demanded the
puma. “What did he do to you? Play you some harmless prank? Steal your master’s
pie?” Buford gulped with the realization of just how close that was to the
truth. “Well, I trailed that buck for more than a mile on my bad paw,”
Woundfoot continued, “before your ‘coon chasing Frightened him off! I’ve had my
fill of the likes of you and your masters coming into our swamp, killing us, and
stealing our game! You cost me a week’s worth of fresh venison, and I demand
that you pay for it! You will let the
little ‘coon go, or I’ll tear your face off!”
“Tear your face off!” echoed Slyface from
beneath him.
To make certain
the puma meant what he said, Buford reached one paw toward the Little Raccoon.
Again, the cat’s
paw whipped back, sprouting sickle-like claws as it did so. Woundfoot was
serious. Quickly, Buford retracted his paw.
The puma resheathed
his claws. Then he swiped his huge paw out and under Buford’s feet, knocking
him clean out of the tree. He crashed through broken branches, and fell slumped
on the side of felled cottonwood.
Buford shuddered,
and shook his head to clear it. He sprang to his feet and looked up, half-expecting
the puma to come barreling down upon him.
But the Swamp
Phantom was gone, and Slyface was gone with him. They had vanished without a
trace.
No…not quite. The
cat had been down wind of him before, but now Buford caught his scent, and that
of the ‘possum. His nose flashed, and there were their tracks, where they had
come upon the fallen tree just moments before.
“Buford! Hey
Buford!”
Buford recognized
the voices of Woody and Cindy Mae calling him in the distance. The beams of
their flashlight pierced through the darkness of the trees. Buford howled to
alert them.
Before long, his
two friends came crashing through the thickets. “Where you been, Buford?” Woody
asked.
“The panther!”
explained Buford “Ah seen him!”
“You saw him?”
asked Woody, stunned.
“He-he almost-“
Buford shuddered.
“Hey, take it
easy, Buford.”
“But I found his
tracks!”
Woody shone his
flashlight on the puma’s tracks. “Well, glory be!”
“What did I tell,
you Woody? These here tracks ain’t the same as the ones with the men’s tracks.
They look like the one at Huffsteaders! See how that right paw print is softer
than the others.”
“Yeah, Sis. But
where’d he go?”
“Maybe you should
ask Buford that.”
Buford only shook
his head “Huh-huh.” He could probably pick up Woundfoot’s trail, but he’d had
enough of him for one night.
“I guess our
flashlights must’ve scared ‘im away.” Cindy Mae said. “Let’s go find the
sheriff and tell him what we’ve found.”
The started in the
direction of the swamp buggy. Buford made one fearful backward glance into the
surrounding trees before they moved off.
On the limb of the
downed cottonwood, the Little Raccoon realized suddenly that he had somehow
been saved. The hound that had been playing with him was gone. And not only
that, the vines the dog had tied him up with had been slashed clean through.
Whatever had done that had left deep claw-marks in the wood.
The Raccoon
leaped to the ground. And immediately saw the huge pawprints left by the puma.
The Raccoon knew then who his rescuer had been, and he fell on his masked face
and kissed the indentation Woundfoot’s injured paw had made in the sandy loam.
He knew now that he was honor-bound to repay the cat for saving him from the hound.
But he also knew that pumas sometimes ate raccoons. His life might be imperiled
once more if he sought the puma out. But then he realized that if the puma had
wanted to do that, he could certainly have taken him. He began following the
tracks.
Part 7
Trouble at
Jenkins’
Sheriff Muletrain
and Deputy Goofer sat at the kitchen table in Jenkins farm house scarfing down
syrup-covered flapjacks. “My-my Ms. Jenkins” ,said Goofer, licking slurping the
stickiness off his mouth. “Yah shore do make the finest flapjacks this side of
Pike road.”
“Why thank ya
kindly, Goofer.” Said Marlete Jenkins.”Care for another plate?”
“Ah shore would,
Ms. Jenkins”, Goofer said, as he tightened his bib. “This shore brings back
some mighty fond memories.”
“Don’t ferget
we’re on business, Goofer,” Muletrain snapped, as he stuffed his mouth with
another syrup-rich forkful.
Just then the
telephone rang. “Hmm.” Said the sheriff “that could be for us. Answer it
Goofer.”
Goofer answered.
“Well it shore is, sheriff, he said after a minute. “It’s the Boggs boy.”
“Oh, those pesky
kids” grumbled the sheriff, as he got up and took the phone. “Hello? Woody?
What’s goin’ on.”
“Sheriff!” said
Woody’s voice. “I think we found some stuff you might be interested in.”
“Where you at?”
asked the sheriff.
“I’m callin’ from
a payphone outside the Drummond caffee. The dispacther said you were at the Tom
Jenkins’ place.”
“That’s right,”
said the sheriff “It ain’t too far from where you are. Tell you what. You kids
meet us at the Jenkins farm. I think I got some stuff you’d be interested in too!”
The sheriff hung
up and returned to the table. “The Boggs kids are goin’ to meet us here.”,he
said.
“What’d they find,
sheriff?”
“I figure we’ll
know soon enough, Goofer. When the Tarkins boys git here, maybe we can finally
start to sort all this stuff out.”
It wasn’t long
before a pair of intensely white headlights cut trough the night outside the
kitchen. The sheriff, deputy, and Tom Jenkins went outside to see the Tarkins’
van pull up the drive. Bill and Steve Tarkins got out.
“Well, we got
‘im.” Steve Tarkins announced.
“Ya, did, huh?”
said Muletrain, with a slight note of suspicion in his voice.
“Yup.” Said Bill.
“Care to take a gander at ‘im.”
“Don’t mind if we
do, sir.” Said Steve. He unlocked the back of the van and slid open the door.
There, right enough was a full-grown swamp puma, pacing nervously in his cage.
The animal’s fur was black as night.
“Well glory be!”
Goofer exclaimed “A fer-real black panther! Ah never seen in these here parts
before!”
”Humph!” said the
sheriff. “Well, looks like you boys been right all along. I must admit I was
having some doubts. But looks like yah got ‘im.”
“Told ya we’d
take care of him for you, sheriff.” Steve said. “No more worrys, Mr. Jenkins.
This here cat won’t be breaking into your stock no more. Now all’s we got to do
is set him free in a wildlife refuge far from here. Take it easy, sheriff.”
Steve and Bill were about to get into their van and drive off when another set
of headlights came up the road. They all looked to see the Boggs’ pickup come
up the drive.
“What’s up, sheriff?”
asked Woody.
“What’s up? These
two guys got the panther, that’s what.”
“Yeah, that’s
right kids.” Said Goofer. “An’ he’s one mean-looking rascal, too!”
The kids and
Buford went up to the cage and examined the panther. “See for yerselves, kids.”
Said Steve.
“Well, shore looks
like yah got ’im.” said Woody. “So thet there’s ‘ol Woundfoot hisself!”
Buford, however,
was far from convinced. He had had a run-in with Woundfoot, and this didn’t
look like the same cat at all. He was smaller for one thing. And not only was
his scent different, there was another, stronger scent about him that did not
smell like anything natural. But he couldn’t quite place what it was. When
Steve Tarkins’ saw the hound’s nose flash red, he quickly shut the doors.
“Well, thank ya
much fer yer concern, kids. Time we this animal to where he belongs.” The
Tarkins got in their van and drove off.
And suddenly
Buford realized what the smell was, and where he’d smelled it before. “Paint!”
he exclaimed “Ah smelled paint!”
“Paint!” exclaimed
Woody “You mean on the cat?”
“Uh-huh! Uh-huh!”
“Well, I’ll be
hogtied!” exclaimed Woody.
“Ya’all know what
this means, don’t ya?” asked Cindy Mae.
“Ah think so, Sis.”
“What do you mean?”
demanded the sheriff.
“Ah mean,” said
Cindy Mae. “That their cat ain’t the real Woundfoot!”
“What makes you
say that?”
“Well, we found
the Tarkins boat parked not far from here, on an island. ‘An the panthers
prints were there too. But they were smaller than the ones at Huffsteader’s.
And now Buford says he smells paint on the cat. I reckon it’s the same paint he
found back at the Huffsteader place.”
She took out the
rag one of the Tarkins boys had left at Huffsteader’s. “Sniff this, Buford.”
Buford sniffed at
it, and his ears went straight up. “Yup!” he said.
“Well I’ll be!”
said the sheriff. “You reckon that cat’s not fer real?”
“Ah do, sheriff.”
said Cindy Mae. “I think them scalywags spraypainted an ordinary panther, to
use as a distraction, while they try to catch the real one. C’mon, ya guys.”
She said to Buford and Woody. “It’s time to make sense of this mystery. I
reckon we’ll find some more clues ‘round this farm.”
They began by
searching around the Jenkins hog shed. Cindy Mae examined the hinges. Sure
enough, they appeared to have been loosened, just as with the Huffsteader barn.
There were the tracks of the puma, with the expected drag-marks of his kill.
But there were no possum tracks this time. Buford sniffed around and detected
no sign of Slyface. The cat’s scent, while faint, was not that of Woundfoot, and appeared to be like that of
the cat the Tarkins officers had supposedly captured.
“Let’s see where
the tracks lead, Woody,” Cindy Mae said. They followed the puma’s tracks up the
dirt path from the shed, to where they became lost in the wide, grassy field
which spread out east of the Jenkins place. Buford however, quickly discovered
the cat’s scent. His lanky legs tilted forward, nose beeping, his tail forming
an arrow that pointed straight ahead.
“Buford says he
went that way”. said Woody. “C’mon.”
The twins
followed the hound through the tall, dew-wet grass, Buford shuffling along with
his nose to the ground beeping loudly, still hot on the panther’s trail. He led
them across the field, and into the thick trees on the other side. They knew
the woods on this side of Jenkins’ field eventually merged into Fenokee Swamp.
It wasn’t far from the island where they had found the men’s tracks. Buford
continued following the trail until it led them to a thick screen of
vegetation. Buford looked up, suddenly confused by a new scent. “What’s goin’
on” he mumbled. Then he realized. It was the scent of the Tarkins van!
He squeezed in
and under the branches, and the twins followed him. “Look!” said Cindy Mae,
switching on her flashlight.The paw prints ended here, and the booted prints of
the three men were visible in loamy soil as well. But what astonished them all
the most were the broad set of tire tracks.
“By glory, Sis!”
said Woody. “Yore right! I think someone staged that raid on Jenkins’ hog farm.
I’ll betcha it’s the Tarkins’ van.”
“Let’s where they
went.”
Buford sniffed
the tire tracks, and they followed him through the woods, and out to a road.
“Wow!” said Cindy
Mae. “Let’s head back to the farm and tell the sheriff.”
They circled back
to Jenkins place, but by then, the sheriff and Goofer were gone. The twins and
Buford got back in their pickup, and headed back towards Boggs’ landing. “Ah
think we’ve got this mystery ‘bout sown up, Cindy Mae.” Said Woody. “If we can
just find a way to prove them Tarkins characters are phonies. They may be
longone by now”.
“Ah don’t think
so, Woody.” replied Cindy Mae. “They’re staging these attacks on the Fenokee
farms for a reason. ‘An since they shorely aren’t really conservation guys, I
think they could be locals.”
“You think maybe
they’re really trying to catch the real panther.”
“I sure do. But
there’s some things that don’t make since. Like Jenna Crowely, ‘an those cards
Buford found at her house. How does she fit into this?”
“Wish ah knew,
Sis. I think we should take another look at that swamp.”
“We’ll take the
swamp buggy once we get back home. If we could have followed that third man’s
tracks before Buford started chasing that raccoon he’s always after-“
“Wait! What’s
that up ahead?”
They were nearing
the Fenokee fairgrounds. In the field which served as the parking lot, a number
of cars, vans, and one large semi were parked. The lights were on, and field
blazed with light. They could also see a number of people moving about.
“Glory be! What’s
gonin’ on.”
“Let’s find out.”
Woody drove
closer, and to his astonishment recognized one of the cars-a long, white
limosine. “Holy mackeral!” Woody exclaimed. “Ain’t thet Duchess’ car?”
“Why I do believe
it is, Woody!” exclaimed Cindy Mae. “But what’s it doin’ here? I thought
Duchess was in New York!”
In the back of the
truck, Buford’s sensitive ears shot straight up. “Duchess?” he exclaimed.
Duchess was a famous showdog Buford had fallen in love with ever since the
first time he’d seen her photograph. She had visited Fenokee two times before,
once during a movie shoot, and another time for a guest appearance at a circus.
Both times Buford had come to her aide against crooks.The first time, he’d
helped Duchess escape from dognappers. At the circus, Buford had risked his life to capture the criminals
who had stolen her diamond-studded collar.
Duchess was very grateful, and had returned Buford’s love. Buford and
Duchess had remained penpals ever since, and every once in a while Buford would
receive an autographed movie photo of her. But it always saddened him that
Duchess had to be away most of the time.
But Buford was
terribly excited by the suggestion that she might be right here in Fenokee, at
this very minute. At once, all thoughts of the current mystery evaportated for
him. Just the thought of her caused Buford to feel woozy with love. He scrambled
madly to his feet, and hung his paws over the front of the Boggs’ truck.
“Duchess? She’s
here?” he asked, excitedly.
“Ah think she
might be, Buford.” Woody said. “And we’re gonna find out!”
Part 8
A Strange
Bargain
The Little
Raccoon followed the tracks he believed belonged to whomever it was that had
liberated him. He believed in his procyonid soul that he was on a constant
quest to cause as much mischief and mayhem as possible, especially for
bloodhounds and coon dogs, and most especially for the purple hound with a
Confederate cap who was out to get him more than any other hound. And also to claim as many pies and sweets as
possible for himself and to eat them. The thing was, he could never cause
enough mayhem, or eat enough pies, so his quest never ended. But this time his
quest had almost ended, when
lightening struck the tree he was in, and the hound captured him. If it hadn’t been for whoever had come along…
The trail
belonged to huge cat with a damaged foot. It led the small mischief-maker into
the very deepest part of the swamp-ringed island. Here the trees formed a dense
screen overhead, shutting out any available light. When he entered a
particularly dense thicket, the sounds of fangs tearing flesh come to his small
ears.
Taking care not
to snag his bushy tail on a briar, he crept through the thickets, until his
eyes peered out at a sight that caused his tail hairs to stiffen, and his small
body to tremble.
In a small space,
roofed by impenetrable thorn barrier, lay the carcass of a year-old heffer-the
same one that had gone missing from the Huffsteader stockade. Woundfoot and
Slyface were busily munching on it. The Raccoon nearly turned tail and fled at
the sight of them. But the ‘possum sensed his presence.
“Well, lookee
who’s here.” Slyface grinned. “The little masked ninja who bit off more pie
than he could chew. Can we eat him, my lord? Ah here tell ‘coons is mighty good
eatn’, especially if they’ve stuffed themselves full of shoo-fly pie. Ah here
thet makes their meat all firm ‘an juicy sos-“
“Shut up, Slyface,
you idiot!” said the puma, even though the ‘possums words had already caused
the Raccoon’s eyes to widen terribly. “He doesn’t have half as much meat on him
as you do!”
That shut Slyface
up. The ‘possum resumed feeding on the stolen heffer.
Woundfoot turned
a cold glare on the Little Raccoon. “What do you want?” he demanded.
Though intimidated
by the cat’s stare, the Raccoon crept forward and sat before Woundfoot, then
threw himself down in kow-tow position. “You save me!” he cried. “Much thanks!”
His face to the ground, the Raccoon squealed a few high-pitched Japanese
phrases for servitude. “Arigato! Arigato!”
“You think you
owe me something?” the puma asked with scorn.
The Raccoon
looked up, nodding vigorously.
“I didn’t do it
for you. I did it because I can’t
allow hound dogs on my hunting grounds! Now go away and wreck havoc somewhere
else, before I change my mind and take Slyface up on his suggestion. GO!”
The Raccoon looked
up pathetically, then turned to leave.
“Wait.” said the
puma. The Raccoon turned around and looked at him expectantly. “I just might
have use for you after all. Slyface, remember the bakery we found yesterday
when we were hunting?”
“Well, yeah, yer
lawdship, but-“
“Go there now, and
fetch the best shoo-fly pie for our small guest. Take the causeway to the
mainland, and be quick about it! Don’t mention where it is, or he’ll follow
you.”
“But my lord-“
“Move it!” The
‘possum was off. Woundfoot turned his cold stare back to the Little Raccoon.
The Raccoon perked up at the mere mention of shoo-fly pie. He wished he could
eat it right now.
“Now, small one,”
said the puma, ”here is how I want for you to serve me.”
The Raccoon looked
up at him, all ears. “Slyface tells me that the farmer called Clarence
Huffsteader is coming after me tonight with his hounds. Before they can pick up
my trail, I want you create a diversion. Those hounds will chase a raccoon over
anything else. Meanwhile, Slyface and I will head in the other direction, and
cover our scent by swimming Mocassin Creek. Do you think you can manage that?”
The Raccoon, eyes
now gleaming with mischief, nodded swiftly. He made a low bow to his new
master.
“Very good.”
replied Woundfoot. “And another thing- meet us at the edge of the woods near
the fairground when you are done. There you shall have your reward. But don’t
paint yourself in a corner again. We’ll
be too far away to intervene this time, and we will be too busy saving our hides to bother with yours. And
remember to serve me faithfully-no double crossing.”
“Honor!” the
Raccoon piped up, bowing again, but as he straightened, he crossed his fingers
behind his back.
Woundfoot eyed him
carefully. Briefly, he considered what it would be like if he made the Raccoon
replace Slyface as his servant. It was clear he had a barrel full of more wits
about him then the ‘possum ever had. He
doubted the hound could ever have gotten the upper paw on him if lightening
hadn’t happened to strike the tree he was in. But he quickly dismissed the
notion. For all his martial-arts pretense, he could tell just by looking at him
that the Raccoon was far too unruly to be his servant, and was really only
loyal to himself and to no one else. There was no way he could be trusted for
long. Grateful he undoubtedly was. But the puma could tell just by the look on
that little masked face, that his “honor” would only last until he discovered
some new way to create havoc, or until his craving for sweets got the better of
him.
Still, he was
counting on his mischievous nature for him to lead the hounds away.
As the Little
Raccoon gazed up at Woundfoot, he felt safer than he ever had before. The
purple hound dog might have nearly gotten him, but now that he was under
Woundfoot’s protection, no hound
would ever bother him again-they’d better not! His mind already starting to
fizzle with naughty, mischievous thoughts, he imagined how much fun it would be
if he got that silly hound to chase him now, and watch his face when the dog
came racing at him, only to see him standing smugly next to the sleeping puma.
He would have almost given up a shoo-fly pie to have seen the look on ’ol
Buford’s face when he first encountered Woundfoot back there in the swamp.
He turned to go
waylay the Huffsteader hounds, already starting to conceive what pranks he
should use. Then realized he was pinned. He huddled in sudden fright, stared up
into the puma’s gaze. The cat’s face was directly above him, and those emerald
orbs bore into his. Like Buford, he was unable to move. The cat had placed one
paw down on his tail, anchoring him. “Remember,” said Woundfoot, “you wouldn’t
be here if I hadn’t come along. Don’t do anything except lead away the hounds.
If you betray me, you don’t want to know what will happen”.
“What?” the
Raccoon squeaked, chained by the smoldering eyes.
“Well,” the puma
smiled slyly. “I could always do what Slyface wanted. But I prefer to handle
things differently. This tail of yours, for instance. Oh, I wonder how long it
would take for it to grow back if it were shredded
to pieces!!” Woundfoot released the Raccoon’s tail, and held up his paw,
claws flashing out.
The Raccoon jumped
back with a sharp squeal, terrified by the very thought of having his
extravagant tail damaged.
“Just some extra
assurance.” The puma smiled. “Now off be with you!”
The Raccoon was
about to dash off on his new quest, then he remembered what Woundfoot had said
to the ‘possum “Shoo-fwy pie?” he inquired.
“Ah, yes.” Said
Woundfoot. “Slyface will be returning soon. You may wait here is you wish”.
The Raccoon curled
up and dozed for a few moments, before the opossum returned, dragging a pie he
had stolen from the bakery at the Fenokee fairgrounds. Likely it had been baked
by Jeb Crowley himself, who was always a contributer to the Fenokee County
Fair. “Got it, yer worship. Cen we eat it now?”
“It’s for him, you marsupial moron.” Woundfoot
snarled, indicating the Raccoon. He pushed the pie with his paw in the Little
Raccoon’s direction.
At once, the
Raccoon fell to. He began scarfing down the pie, getting his masked face all
sticky and stained in the bargain. Shoo-fly pie was one thing he would
practically sell his soul for, that is, if couldn’t steal one first.
“I did all the
work!” complained Slyface to his master. “Why can’t I have my share? Ya jest
gonna let little knot- head here have it all?”
“No.” said
Woundfoot, “I’m not. Just be patient, Slyface.”
The Raccoon had
finished nearly a fourth of his pie, when Woundfoot swatted the pie away with
his paw. “You’ve had enough. Eat anymore, and you’ll never get your job done.”
The Raccoon looked
up pleadingly, but the puma was unfazed. “Lead the hounds away from us. Then
meet us outside the fairground, and we’ll show you where you can have all the
pie you want. Think how good it will taste then.”
The Raccoon
whined, but Woundfoot only glared at him. “Now, go! Off with you!”
The Raccoon was
off. Slyface snirked as only ‘possum
could and burrowed his muzzle into the pie. “Ya shore you trust ‘im, yor
worship?” Slyface asked through his full mouth.
“Not entirely,
Slyface.” The puma answered. “But I think we’ve given him all the motivation he
needs. Now hurry up with that pie! It’s time we were well gone from here!”
Part 9
The Wonder
Dog
As the Boggs
twins and Buford approached the fairgrounds, it became clear that Duchess was
here after all. The large van read Duchess:
Wonder Dog of the Movies.
“Well, Holy
Moses!” exclaimed Woody. “What do ya think of thet, eh, Buford?”
Buford, his heart
thumping wildy, let out a long howl of pure, lovesick joy. The howl lasted a
full minute before fading into the night. Then Buford’s eyes bulged, as his
pupils became two throbbing red valentines. A garland of canine cupids spun
round his woozy head, making him even more dizzy.
“Why, thet crazy
‘ol lovesick hound.” Said Cindy Mae. “Guess ‘ol Buford ‘ain’t gonna be quite
himself fer awhile.”
“That’s fer sure.”
said Woody. “But what is Duchess doing back here in Fenokee?”
“Search me, Woody.
Well, there’s only one way to find out.”
The twins parked in the grass lot and got out. As the three
of them approached, they could see that some of the men were the same ones that
had been to Fenokee before when they were shooting one of Duchess’ movies. Then
Woody recognized Duchess’ agent, Mr. Martin. He busily talking to one of the
camera men.
“Pardon us, Mr.
Martin,” said Woody.
Mr. Martin looked
at the two teens in surprise, and then especially took note of Buford. “Say,
aren’t you kids the some folks that saved Duchess’ diamond collar at the
circus?”
“Well,” said
Woody, “Ah’d say it was Buford done thet.”
“Hey, right.” said
Mr. Martin. “I know. Got to give the credit where credit’s due, eh Buford?”
“Ah, shucks, it
weren’t nuthin” replied Buford modestly.
“How come
ya’all’s back?” asked Cindy Mae.
“Well, it’s kind
of freaky,” said Mr. Martin, scratching his balding head. “I don’t know quite
how to say it.You see, we had Duchess New York tour booked, but she was all
depressed, and got so she didn’t want to perform when we got there. Oh, a
couple nights were okay, but then we had to cancel the rest of her appearances.
It was like she was sick.”
“Sick?’ asked
Buford, ears shooting straight up in alarm.
“Golly-gee!” said
Woody. “is Duchess okay?”
Mr. Martin
chuckled. “No need to worry kids. Duchess is fine now. Her condition really
improved once we agreed to fly her back to Fenokee. It’s her career I’m more
worried about. You see, the reason Duchess wouldn’t perform is she kept on
thinking about Buford here. She tried to act, but she just wasn’t her old self.
I figure the love bug had bitten her something fierce. I talked my boss about
the possibility of flying back to Fenokee. He said the tour was prearranged of
course, and even if we had cause to come back here, we’d just have to leave
again. Well, maybe that’s so, but I talked to some producers I know, and I told
them Fenokee county is a swell place to shoot one of them adventure flicks
they’re making. I told them that I thought there was a part in it just right
for Duchess. And since she’s so madly in love with Buford, I thought maybe
might be able to work him into the movie too. It took a while, alright, but
finally everybody agreed, and that’s how come we’re here.”
Buford’s ears
were up like radars. He could scarcely credit his good fortune. Duchess was
back, and they were making another movie? Duchess was madly in love with him?
They might even be able to star in the same movie together? The thoughts caused
his head to spin crazily.
“Well, can we see
her, Mr. Martin?” asked Cindy Mae. “Ah bet Buford’s jest dying to!”
“Surely!” said
Mr.Martin “Step right this way, folks.” He opened the back of the limosene, and
there was Duchess the Wonder Dog, lying curled on a nest of pink silken
pillows.
“Duchess!”
exclaimed Buford.
Duchess raised her
head. “Buford?” she murmured dreamily.
“Buford!” she
exclaimed with a rush of sudden overjoyed excitement. Duchess sprang out of the
back of the limasine and into Buford’s arms.
“Oooooh,
Duchess.” Buford said. Paws around each other, Buford and his sweetheart began
kissing and licking each other in a flurry f joy.
“They shore do
like each other,” said Cindy Mae.
“It’s great you
and Duchess bein’ back ‘an all,” said Woody. “But rawt now we’ve got us another
mystery to solve.”
“Yeah,” said Cindy
Mae. “Something’s been raiding the Fenokee livestock, ‘an we think some rather
shady characters are in on it.”
“C’mon, Buford,”
said Woody.
But Buford and
Duchess just looked at him with pleading expressions on their faces. Then they
looked at each other.
“Buford,” said
Duchess, “Don’t let me keep you from
sloving your mystery. But can I come with you?”
Buford was
confused at first. He felt worried for Duchess’ safety if she went with them.
But at the same time, to have Duchess at his side-and to maybe get a chance to
protect her if any danger should threaten
them. It anyone tried to harm Duchess in any way, he would be there. They both
looked up at Woody again, and then at Mr. Martin.
“Do you think she
can, Mr. Martin?” Woody asked. “It might be even better with two hounds on the trail.”
Mr. Martin scratched
his head again, through his sparse gray hair “Wellllll, kids, I really don’t
know. I know how much Buford means to her, and Buford’s done a great job
helping her before. But I can’t risk Duchess, even if Buford is with her. If
you kids are going back into that swamp-“
“We ‘bout have to,
Mr. Martin.” Said Cindy Mae. “it’s the only way we can find more clues.”
Mr. Martin was
silent for a few moments, as he looked at the kids, and then at the two dogs.
Then he said, “Tell you what. I’ll have a chat with some of the producers here,
and I’ll see if they can’t work something out.”
Mr. Martin walked
away, then returned after five minutes. Buford, Duchess and the kids remained
where they were. “Well, Mr. Martin?” asked Woody.
“We’ve agreed
it’s okay if Duchess goes with Buford into Fenokee swamp,” he said. “As long as
we have two camera men in another boat behind you. The producer of this film
says we just might shoot something we could use for this here movie.”
“Can you stay far
enough behind us sos you won’t alert the crooks?” asked Cindy Mae.
Mr. Martin
nodded. “We’ll just stay close enough to keep an eye on Duchess. And we’ll move
in if anything exciting happens.”
“Great,” said
Woody. “You guys and Duchess meet us at Boggs Landing. C’mon, Buford.”
As he climbed
back in the twins’ pickup, Buford thought suddenly of Woundfoot, the Swamp
Phantom, and of the time he’d met him before. He remembered how the puma had
thrashed him, and how embarrassed he’d be if Duchess knew. And what if he were
to meet up with Woundfoot again? And suppose Duchess were there? But then the
thought of Duchess in possible danger from the cat, caused Buford to bristle in
sudden rage. He had been terrified before upon meeting Woundfoot, perhaps rightly
so. But with Duchess there for him to protect, Buford’s fear diminished. If he
and Woundfoot did cross paths again, this time he felt he would be ready.
Part 10
The Poaching Camp
At Boggs’
Landing, the four of them set out to solve the mystery once and for all. Buford
and Duchess were perched on the prow of the buggy, as they headed out into the
black waters of Fenokee.
The cameramen and Mr. Martin took a larger boat they had
rented, equipped with headlights. They started out after the twins once their
swamp buggy was far enough ahead, keeping their lights dim.
“Let’s head back
to that island first.” said Cindy Mae.
“Good idea.” Agreed
Woody.
By the time they
reached the island, they noticed that the Tarkins’ boat was gone. Again, they
parked the buggy and got out. Woody looked back where the cameramen’s boat was.
“Think they’re still back there?” he asked.
“They’ll catch up
with us before long.” said Cindy Mae. “Let’s get a move on. There’s something I
want to check out. Buford, d’ya think you can find them tracks again?”
“Uh-huh.” Buford
immediately began sniffing. The scent of the two men had gone rather stale by
now, but still his ultra-keen senses picked it up. He began following the
tracks of the two men. Duchess followed Buford’s lead, her own nose to the
ground. Her city-bred senses weren’t as keen as Buford’s, but being a
bloodhound, they were keen enough, and soon she picked up the scent as well.
The hounds followed the trail until they came to the place where the two men’s
tracks were joined by the tracks of another man, along with the tracks of a
puma. And even though the scent was faint, Buford could tell it was same cat
the Tarkins had shown them at Jenkins farm, and not the real Woundfoot.
He followed the
tracks of the tree men and the cat, expecting them to lead back out to where
their boat had been parked. Instead the trail made a swerve deeper inland. The
trail was leading them deeper, into the core of the island, and Buford began
secretly to get nervous.
And then he
picked up an even stranger scent-or rather a curious mixture of different
scents very close by. Buford’s nose flashed bright red, sirening loudly as it
did so.
“Sound’s like
Buford’s really onto something this time, Sis.” said Woody. Buford’s ears went
straight up, he followed the scent of the men, and strange mixture of smells
grew stronger until it stopped by a large grove of cypresses. The miasma of
scents carried with it the scents of different species of animals, along with
that of men, mixed with an assortment of sharp, unnatural odors. Buford noted
that the grove had been purposefully screened off with branches and clippings,
as though whoever had done that was attempting to hide what ever lay within.
He turned to the
twins and pointed with one paw toward the grove. “In here! In here!”
“We’re raht behind
ya, Buford!” said Cindy Mae.
Buford poked his
head into the grove. Duchess craned her head around him too, sniffing curiously
in the gloom. To the showdog, all the scents were unfamiliar and frightening.
To Buford, who had grown up in Fenokee, most of the scents were familiar, but
in much concentration. Woody and Cindy Mae stuck their heads in as well.
scanning the place with their flashlights.
“Glory be!”
exclaimed Woody. “This here’s a poaching camp!”
“No doubt about
that, Woody.” said Cindy Mae, her voice trembling.
Their flashlights
fell on stretched gator hides, some of them looking freshly skinned. There was
a canvas tent and some rude wooden tables. On these tables were skinning
utensils. There were the hides of other animals as well, two river otters, and
no less than four bobcats. There were rifles, bullets, and also assorted
cooking materials. There were several cages with trap-spring doors. As Buford
and Duchess were sniffing around at the
assortment of material, Duchess began sniffing some corroded steal. When Buford
saw her do this he flashed to her side and pushed her away. “Stay back!” he
mumbled.
Duchess looked at
him in surprise, though she realized Buford must have a reason for doing that.
“What?” she asked.
“A trap.” mumbled
Buford. “See here!”
He picked up a stick and jammed it into the steel jaws of
the poaching trap. The jaws smashed themselves together, snapping stick, and
causing Duchess to jump in fright.
“Oh, Buford,”
sighed Duchess.
“Never fear, my
dear.” said Buford. Then an even stronger scent reached Buford’s nose, and it
went off flashing unexpectedly. It was the scent of men—and they were very
close by! Maybe this camp wasn’t deserted after all!
He followed the
scent until it stopped at large canvas screen. Buford hesitated at first, then
pulled it back. His eyes went wide in shock at what the canvas revealed.
Two men sat tied
and gagged uncomfortably. Woody and Cindy Mae came over to take a look at them.
“Well, holy jumpn’
tree toads!” Woody exclaimed. “Are they who I think they are?”
“They are, Woody,”
answered Cindy. “Them’s the Tarkins’ boys!”
Sheriff Muletrain
and Deputy Goofer drove up the dirt road to Jeb Crowley’s hut deep in the
Fenokee swamp. “You sure ‘ol Jeb cen tell us anything sheriff?” Goofer asked.
“Well, he ought
to,” said the Sheriff. “If Jenna Crowleys’ really his sister, like Steve
Tarkins said. They went up to Jeb’s porch and knocked on the door. For several
minutes, no one answered.
“Looks like no
one’s here, Goofer.” The sheriff said. “ol Jeb musta gone frog hunting. We’ll
check back later.” He turned to leave when the door opened a crack. The sheriff
and deputy looked around to see Jeb’s face peering out.
“Well hallo,
sheriff, Goofer.” Said Jeb Crowley. “Fancy seen’ you this time of night. Care
to come in for some conrpone and shoo-fly pie?”
Goofer was
about to answer, but Muletrain said, “No, thet won’t be necessary, thank you
all the same. Don’t mean to disturb you, Jeb, but we’re working on a case, and
we thought you might be able to help us out. See there’s this critter been
plundering the Fenokee stockades. Yesterday I hired some conservation guys to
take care of it. Well, them Boggs kids stuck their noses in again, and they
think they might not really be conservation guys at all! What’s bothern’ me is
how they said thet an old hermit lady told them where to find the ornery
critter.”
Jeb shrugged.
“Sos what do you think I know about it?”
“Well, it just so
happens,” said Muletrain. “That they mentioned that this old lady was your
sister!”
“Mah sister!” Jeb
exclaimed. “Pre-posterous! Them boys must have swamp fever or somethin’”
“Gol-lee!”
exclaimed Goofer “You sayin’ ya ain’t got no sister, Jeb?’
“Ah didn’t say
thet.”
“Well, do ya, or
don’t ya?”
For the first time,
Jeb Crowley looked visibly angered. “I ain’t saying no more.” He turned his
back on the sheriff, but didn’t close the door yet.
“Jeb,” said
Muletrain,” Ah know you may not like talkin’ ‘bout yer sister. But we think
this may be important. Them kids went into the swamp tonight lookin’ for clues,
‘an likely as not they’ve gone back. They could be in real trouble. They
already had a talk with this sister of yours ‘an-“
Jeb turned around
and starred at the sheriff wide-eyed. “huh?”
“I said the Boggs
twins were at your sisters’ tonight, an-“
“Then there’
pullin’ yer leg, sheriff. Or somethins’ mighty peculiar gonin’ on.”
“How’s that?”
Jeb still seemed
reluctant to talk. “Now’s it’s not like I’m ashamed of her myself.” Jeb said
finally. “But folks used to give us trouble all the time ‘saying how Jenna was
a witch ‘an stuff. Ah suppose she came across as one, reading folks’ fortunes,
and stuff, but she always kept much herself, even more then me.”
“Is that’s what’s
peculiar?” asked Goofer.
“Uh-uh.” Answered
Jeb “What’s peculiar is thet ‘ol Jenna’s dead. Been dead last ten years. Ah
buried her myself out behind the smoke house!”
Part 11
The
Chase
Cindy Mae
removed the gags from the two men, and she and Woody untied them. The two
Tarkins’ brothers got to their feet. “Much obliged, kids.”
“You the Tarkins’
boys?” Cindy Mae asked.
“Why, yes. I’m
Steve Tarkins, and this is my brother Bill. We’re form the Florida Department
of Conservation. How did you know?”
“You mean we
haven’t met before?” asked Woody. He was dumbfounded at first, then realized
that the man’s voice wasn’t the same.
“I don’t believe
we have.” said Bill, equally puzzled.
“Well, don’t tell
me.” said Cindy Mae pertly. “Sheriff Muletrain hired you to take care of some
large animal raiding the Fenokee stockades. But some guys jumped you, ‘an stole
your van and yer uniforms. Then they tied you here. Is that about right?”
“That’s the
story, right enough.” said Bill. They captured us in our boat out here in the
swamp, and then they took us to this camp and tied us up. They must’ve stolen
our van after that.”
“An’ we happen to
know they’ve already pulled the wool over the sheriff’s eyes.” Cindy Mae added.
“Those two are
poachers, just like we figured.” said Woody. “But how-“ he started, still
wondering how the poachers and the real Tarkins’ boys looked identical.
“Don’t you know,
Woody?” said Cindy Mae. “They’re wearing latex masks, just like them scallywags
tried to rob the Fenokee bank!”
“Glory be!”
exclaimed Woody.
“An ah reckon,
they’re really locals. Just look at is place. They’ve been at it fer a long
time. ‘An look at this.” She picked up a small object off one of the tables. It
was a small whistle, just like the one Buford had found at Jenna Crowley’s.
Cindy Mae blew on it sharply. Almost at once, Buford and Duchess looked in her
direction.
“Yep that’s a dog
whistle awright.” Said Woody.
“Ah bet they use
these whistles to train the cat that broke in at Jenkins.” Cindy Mae said.
“While all the time, they’ve been after the real Woundfoot!”
“They’re poachers
all right.” agreed Steve Tarkins. “And they said there’s a genuine black puma
in Fenokee swamp, like we’d heard. They’re out to catch him, and when they do,
they’re gonna bring his carcass back to this camp to skin and sell his hide on
the black market, like they’ve been doing all along with these other critters.
There’s no telling how much the hide of a cat like that will bring!”
“Gosh sakes!”
exclaimed Cindy Mae.
Buford’s left
ear went up at the mention of Woundfoot. As embarrassed as he felt about his
last encounter with the cat, he really didn’t want the poachers to skin him.
Part of him wanted to get even with the puma, but he wasn’t angry enough to
want the cat dead. After all, Woundfoot, at least, wasn’t a raccoon, and no animal could irritate him the way a
raccoon could!
But still, the
thought of running into him again filled him with dread. Would he be able to
stand up to him this time, especially with Duchess around?
“You’ll protect
me, Buford.” he heard Duchess say beside him, she rubbed against him. Once
more, Buford felt renewed confidence. But now, here in the deep swamp, he still
felt a twinge of fear. The puma seemed to consider Fenokee swamp his own
territory now, and Buford had never met anyone so arrogant. Not even Sheriff
Muletrain could approach the supreme arrogance he had seen in those smoldering
orbs. But arrogant or not, there must be some way to get the better of the cat,
if he met him again. If there was, Buford determined to find it.
“Let’s get a move
on ‘afore them poacher guys get back.” said Woody.
“Raht.” Said
Cindy Mae. “We’ll walk you guys back to our swamp buggy, then we’ll go find the
sheriff ‘an tell him the real story.”
The all started in
the swamp buggy’s direction. When they got there, Steve Tarkins said “look-
what’s that yonder?”
Lights blazed out
over the swamp. Lights from a large swamp boat. But it wasn’t Mr. Martin’s
boat, as Woody first thought.
“It’s our boat,
kids,” said Bill. “It’s them poachers.”
“Quick, let’s
hide!” said Cindy Mae. They all took cover among some bulrushes and cattails.
But just then
the full moon drifted out from behind a cloud.
“Uh-oh” said
Cindy Mae. “The moon’s coming out. ‘An ‘ya know how the moon affects Buford.”
“Doncha do it,
Buford.” Cautioned Woody.
But the hound was
already mesmerized by the scintillating beam of frosty moonlight that engulfed
him. Caught in its silvery glow, Buford’s eyes spireled crazily. A long howl
was threatening to burst from his throat. Entranced though he was, Buford
realized the presence of the poachers, and reflexively clapped both paws over
his mouth. But the dizzying effect of the moon was relentless. At last, eyes
bugging out of his head from his own efforts to contain himself, Buford let
loose with a long, full-throated howl at the shining disk above.
And out on the
moon-bathed bayou, the poacher’s boat swerved in their direction.
Then, slowly, the
moon crept back beneath the thick veil of clouds. But it was too late. “They’ve
seen us!” said Woody.
“In the swamp
buggy, everyone!” yelled Cindy Mae.
They all
clammered into the buggy. Buford, still shaking the effects of the moon from
him, was the last to get in. Woody pulled the lever, as the engine and propeler
roared to life. They cut away from the island heading for the open bayous.
Cindy Mae looked back to see the larger craft also swerve. “Step on it, Woody.”
They sliced
through the black waters of Fenokee swamp, cutting a wide swath of water in
their wake. The poachers also increased their speed. “They’re gaining on us.”
said Buford.
“Buford says
they’re gaining.” said Woody. “Maybe I can head ‘em off!” He cut back toward
the island, then swerved widely around its eastern flank.
“They’re still
coming, Woody.” said Cindy Mae.
Woody them zoomed
down a narrow channel, around a sand bar, and out into another bayou. Still,
the poachers were in hot pursuit. Woody tore across the bayou, then raced down
another channel. He knew his way around Fenokee swamp as well as anyone and
better than most, but the poachers were still flagging them. In fact, they
seemed to be catching up.
“It’s no use,
Woody,” Cindy Mae said. “They’re still raht on our tail.”
“They’ve got a
more powerful engine then us. “ said Woody. “I don’t know how much longer we
can keep ahead of them.”
Then, suddenly
the swamp buggy was yanked to a halt. “What’s wrong!” Woody exclaimed.
“They’ve got a
grappling hook.” mumbled Buford.
It was true. The
kids’ buggy was held fast by a long steel cable attached to a metal hook.
“They’ve got us,
alright.” Said Bill Tarkins. “And thy’re reeling us in.”
“’Friad yore
right.” Said Cindy Mae, wishing fervently that Buford could have kept his mouth
shut. The buggy was reeled in until it was flank to flank with the poachers’
craft. They could see two shadowy figures on board, but there was no trace of
the mysterious fourth man whose tracks they had come upon in the woods. The
shadowy forms raised a huge net and hurled it over the Tarkins brothers, Woody,
Cindy Mae, Buford and Duchess.
A few minutes
later, the six prisoners found themselves being hoisted in the net by the
boat’s crane. One of the poachers bound the ends of the net’s rope to the over
hanging branch of a cypress tree, so that the net and its captives were
suspended just over the dark bayou water. As the captives peered down through
the net, they could now see the faces of the two poachers clearly. They weren’t
wearing rubber masks this time.
They were both
young men, like the real Tarkins brothers, but one was bald on top, and other
had dark hair and a beard.
“Ah do know them two scallywags, Woody.”
said Cindy Mae.
“Ya do, Sis?”
“Ah seen ‘em
around before. But ah didn’t know they was poachers! They’s Mitch Crathers ‘an Lou Danielson. They used to
see ‘m at the Drummond cafe, last time we worked there. Remember, Woody?’
“Yeah, ‘ah shore
do. Mitch used to into some kind of illegal gambling over at the old Foggart
place. Ah wasn’t shore ‘bout thet till now. Looks like he and Lou were into
some real shady business all along.”
“Thet’s raht,
son,” laughed Mitch Crathers. “We been poaching these waters some time now.
It’s always been worth the pay. But this time, we mean to git ourselves a
panther!”
“Right.”
agreed Lou. “ This time we’re in for
some real cash dollars, the kind you won’t see in a lifetime. You can’t imagine
how easy it was to fool that sheriff and his pickle-brained deputy. But we
always heard the stories around town how it was you Boggs kids who were really
solving the cases. Sos we were prepared ‘case you meddlesome brats and thet
hound-dog of yers ever caught onto us.”
“And now that
you’ve done it, congrats!” said Mitch. “Only we’ll bag that ornery painter ‘an
be long gone afore you can git out of thet there net. Thet is, if you get out. I’ll bet some good cash
on Lou here that them gators’al git ya’all first.” The two men laughed and
drove off in the stolen conservation boat.
“Thanks again for
saving us, kids.” said Steve Tarkins. “But looks like we’re in for it now.”
“Maybe the
sheriff’ll find us first.” Woody offered.
“I hope so Woody.”
said Cindy Mae. But she didn’t sound very hopeful.
Just then, the
moon slipped out behind the clouds once more. And once more Buford went google-
eyed as the moon’s radience hit him square in the face.
“Oh no!”
exclaimed Woody. “Not again!”
“Wait!” said
Cindy Mae, “Maybe someone’ll hear him!”
Buford, making no
effort to stifle himself this time turned his muzzle to the sky and howled long
and loud. The howling lasted for several more moments, until the moon once
again vanished behind the cloud bank. The night once again fell into eerie
silence. There was only the sound of the chirruping crickets and peepers.
“I think we’re
still stuck here, Cindy Mae.” said Woody.
Then they heard it.
A churning and splashing some distance away near a grove of gaunt cypresses,
Spanish moss waving like strands of gossamer.
“What was that,
Woody?” asked Cindy Mae. “Ah cant’ see-“
“Gators!” Buford
exclaimed suddenly, ears flying up in alarm.
“Gators!” said
Woody “Buford says its gators! Sorry ‘ol buddy, but looks like thet howling of
yours has done it again!”
Sure enough, they
could all now make out dark, ominous shapes churning through the stagnant bayou
water—coming in their direction. There were three of them at least—maybe four!
“Glory!” exclaimed
Cindy Mae. “Looks like this could be the end, Woody.”
The long sinister
shapes glided ever closer. Now they could see the elongated jaws rear out of the
water to sniff the air, and white teeth flash in the starlight. The alligators
swam nearer, until they were right beneath them. Their savage heads peered up
at the enshared humans and canines. But somehow, the attitude of gators seemed
to be more one of friendly curiousity then hunger. Then they noticed that these
alligators were small, not yet full grown.
“Sis!” exclaimed
Woody. “Ah know these gators!”
“You do?” Cindy
Mae asked confused.
“Ah sure do, and
so does Buford!”
“Huh?” asked Buford.
“Don’t ya
recognize ‘em, ‘ol buddy?” asked Woody. “Thems ‘ol Gertrude’ babies, all growed
up.”
Cindy Mae gasped
in surprise. It was true. Buford looked down without at the four half-grown
alligators, all looking up at him with fondness. “Awwww, shucks!” said Buford,
peering back at them. “The ‘lil fellas remember me.”
The twins and
Buford remembered the time that Jeb Crowley’s pet gator, Gertrude, had gone
missing, and they had helped track her down. It turned out she had gone off to
lay her eggs, and when the babys had hatched they took to Buford immediantly,
and Buford had served as a surregate father to the hatchlings. Or maybe an
uncle, since the little gators referred to him as their “Uncle Buford”.
And now the
hatchlings, nearly grown, had returned to get their uncle Buford out of the
poachers trap. The young gators raised their muzzles and began chomping at the
ropes of the net, taking care not to harm any of the captives. Their toothy
jaws snapped and rended, until the twins, the hounds, and the Tarkins brothers
were free. Buford leaped onto the back of one of the young alligators. Duchess,
still clinging to the torn net, looked at Buford, fearful and unsure. But
Buford nodded to her that everything was fine. At length assured, Duchess
followed Buford’s lead, and jumped down onto the back of another of the gators.
There weren’t enough gators for all of them, though, and the humans grasped
hold of the other two gators tails, and allowed the reptiles to lead them to
the kids’ swamp buggy, which was still parked nearby.
When they had
climbed in. They all waved farewell to the gators who had rescued them.
Gertrude’s heirs
smiled appreciatively back at them toothily before swimming away.
“Well I’ll be a
horny toad.” Said Woody “Guess that howling of your saved us after all,
Buford!”
“Awww, it weren’t
nothin’” said Buford.
“Buuuford.”
sighed Duchess, and planted a big wet one on Buford’s right jowl, causing the
hound blush from lavander to deep violet, and his eyes to spin crazily in a
dilirium of lovesickness.
“Well,” said Cindy
Mae. “It’s time we all got moving. Them boys said they was goin’ to bag the
panther, and ah wouldn’t count on the sheriff this time!”
Part 12
A
Debt Repaid
Miles away, at
the Huffsteader farm and commune, Clarence, Bert, and Morton Huffsteader had
gathered their hounds for the chase. “Ready boys?” asked Clarence.
“Yeah, pa.” Said
Bert. “Ah figure we can tree that cat afore sunrise.”
“Sure pa.” Morton
said. “The hounds sure are raring to go!”
“Now don’t be too
sure.” cautioned the senior Huffsteader. “Ol’ Woundfoot’s one mean critter. ‘An
plenty smart, too, ah hear tell from folks in Tecusah. He jest might git the
better of the dogs if we let’im.”
The hounds, who
had been yelping for the chase to begin, now growled in anger at Clarences’s
words. No critter, no matter how mean was gonna make fools of them!
“Don’t you be too
sure, either, Bruiser,” Clarence told the leader of the dogs. “You ain’t never
hunted nuthin’ like ‘ol Woundfoot before”.
Bruiser still
growled, and muttered “we’ll git ‘im”. Under his breath.
“Ah reckon we
will”. agreed Bert. “At least, ah figure we got a better chance then that
Sheriff and Deputy. By the way, you heard from hired two guys from the
government caught the cat yet? Don’t think so!”
Clarence laughed.
“Ya know, ‘ah think yous right son. Ah been
thinking, ‘an ah bet them Boggs kids was right all along, an those two
conservation guys probly ain’t conservation guys at all. Or least ways mighty
poor ones. Get things done, ya gots to do ‘em ourselves.”
“Rawt, pa!” said
Bert and Morton. Hoisting their rifles, they released the hounds and set off.
“Stay with ‘em
boys.” Hollered Clarence. “Figure we’ll git thet ornery panther before sunup!”
The tracks from
the barn had long since grown stale, but Clarence was right; it wasn’t long
before the hounds struck onto the fresh trail of the cat, and Bruiser gave the
men and dogs a long, howling signal. Bert whistled and called Bruiser and pack
to a halt as the men examined the tracks. “That’s him.” said Morton.
“Yep, it’s our boy.
Just look at the size ‘o them prints, ‘an this here paw’s damaged. Oh, thet’s
Woundfoot alright.”
“An look here’s
thet ‘ol possum’s tracks. Figure its the same one the kids found at the barn.
Let’s go!”
The hounds renewed
their chase. The men followed as the baying pack led them deeper and deeper
into Fenokee swamp.
At length, they
came to the south side of Mocassin Creek, where the puma’s trail seemed to have
stopped. Bruiser and his hounds sniffed around for it but found that the cat’s
scent, as well as that of the ‘possum, had utterly vanished. There was,
however, a fresher, more recent scent, that was clearly that of a raccoon. Then
they noticed the little hand and footprints by the water’s edge. Bruiser
growled deeply. Even the scent of raccoon was enough to drive any of the hounds’
rage. And this one, it seemed, had not only been here recently, but was still
nearby! The pack looked about questing the air with their nostrils.
A short distance
from the bank lay a fallen tree. From behind this tree peered a little masked,
bow-knotted face, grinning mischeivously. The Little Raccoon had lain in wait
here, after cleansing the shoo-fly molasses from his face in the creek. The
hounds had yet to take notice of him, but he didn’t care to wait. He leaped
onto the log and mouthed a shrill barrage of taunts at the dogs. Bruiser and
others looked in his direction. The Raccoon needed nothing more than that. He
pulled back a thick rubber band with his small fingers, and let it fly straight
at Bruiser’s face. The band struck the pack leader squarely between his eyes,
causing him to yelp, then growl with rage at the little ‘coon who stood on the
log waving his hands at them.
“Get him!”
ordered Bruiser. He charged the Little Raccoon, the rest of the pack in tow.
The Raccoon snickered heeheehee and dashed.
After a few
minutes, Clarence and his boys arrived at the creek. “Something’s fishy here.”
Said Bert. “The cat’s tracks stop here at the creek.”
“Right,” said
Clarence. “I’d say he’d swum it.”
“So how come them
hounds are going the other way?”
“Look here!” cried
Morton “Take a look at these.”
The other men
joined him and examined the tracks. “’Coon tracks!” exclaimed Bert. “Them crazy
hounds is chasing a ‘coon! And a mighty small one at that!”
They whistled to
call the hounds back, but Bruiser and his pack were beyond listening. They were
hot on the trail of the rascally little varmint who’d had the audacity to flick
their leader with a rubber band. They were bent on tearing him to pieces once
they caught him.
Ahead of them, the Little Raccoon raced for
his life. He was confident though that he could outmanuver them. The flung
himself forward, racing over and through logs, over stumps and around trees. He
ran on and on, a small, ringtailed blurr, leading the Huffsteader pack further
and further away from Woundfoot’s trail. The pack raced on, but never managed
to keep up. Their quarry stopped only once to secure a thin vine across the
trail, using it as a tripwire. The Raccoon knew he should race on but peered
around a tree some distance ahead to watch as Bruiser fell over the trip-vine
followed by the remainder of his pack, who lay in stunned heep.
The Raccoon flung
some more taunts at them, before zipping off once more. The pack was onto his
trail again in no time.
The chase now
led out of the swampy area of the woods, toward the higher country near the
Fenokee farms. Directly ahead of the Raccoon was the Samuels farm. Samuels
raised sweetcorn and potatos, as well sheep and rabbits, which he took to the
Fenokee County fair each year. The Raccoon raced around the perimeter of the
homestead, to the back gate. He sat before it and looked up. There was a lock
on it that Merv Samuels had made certain was raccoon-proof, so that his
sweetcorn patch would not be ravaged.
The Little
Raccoon reached up, stuck one finger in
the lock and picked it with ease.
He pulled open
the gate door, and carefully entered, taking care to pushed the door wide, so
that the dogs chasing him could enter as well. Any other night, he would have
loved to lay siege to all that lovely sweetcorn, gorging himself with relish
until his belly was stuffed full, but he
remembered his mission, and made at once for the rabbit hutches.
There were row
upon row of these confining wire enclosures, at least one rabbit in each of
them. They were all white, fluffy, albino bunnys with bright pink eyes, each of
them roughly the Raccoon’s own small size. Looking at them in their tight
little cages made the Little Raccoon feel sorry for them. But he needn’t for
long, he reminded himself. That was why he was here. He leaped on the first of
the hutches, reached down and quickly picked the lock and through the door
wide. He then picked the locks of each of the other hutches, until rabbits were
leaping out in droves.
“Hey, chums!”
cried one of the rabbits, pointing up at the Raccoon. It was the first rabbit
he had let out. “Look who’s set us free! Let’s hear it for him!
Yiiiiipeeeee!!!”
The Raccoon shut
his eyes, and bowed once to the hordes
of rabbits gazing up at him in reverence. “You free now.” He piped up. “But
hounds are chasing me. When they catch me, I will torn to pieces. You stop
them!”
“Tear you to
pieces, will they?” sneered the rabbit. “We’ll see about that! C’mon guys!”
Already the baying of Bruiser’s pack had reached the open gate. Ordinarily, the
rabbits would have scattered before the hounds, but this time they had the
Huffsteader dogs outnumbered six to one. The charged leaping and hoping toward
the hounds, who scudded to a stunned halt, as the white, furry battalion
barraged over them, cover the dogs in their sheer weight of numbers. The dogs
snapped at them, but the rabbits kicked and pummeled them with their feet. At
length the white horde streaked for the door and freedom. “Lets go guys!” cried
the leader of the rabbits, as they made for the woods. The hounds sniffed
around, but the place was so infiltrated with the scent of rabbit, that the
‘coon scent had been completely covered. Finally, Bruiser gave it up, and led
his confused pack in the direction of Huffsteader’s.
In the woods that
resumed east of Samuel’s, the Raccoon lost himself. He was certain he had given
those silly old dogs the slip, but he made for a nearby creek, and swam it for
good measure.
Then he made for
the Fenokee fairgrounds to wait for Woundfoot. A slight rain had begun to fall,
and he found a hollow log in the woods at the edge of the fairgrounds, and
crawled in. He shook the wetness from his fur, and sat huddled there, waiting
for the puma and his cowardly cohort to arrive. And as he did, his thoughts
drifted back to when the dog of purple had captured him. Unbeleivably, it had
actually happened! Once, the Raccoon had thought he could outwit any hound,
especially that one. But the dog had
gotten the upper paw, and the Raccoon remembered how powerless and terrified he
had felt. And all once a wave of gratitude like nothing he had felt up to that
moment washed over him. True, he had led the Huffsteader hounds away from
Woundfoot, but he knew suddenly that all that time he’d really just enjoyed
causing mischief, just like always. But now, maybe for the first time in his
self-centered life, he realized just how much he wanted to show the cat how
grateful he was. The puma only saved him to spite the hound, of course, but
what did that matter to him? His life had been spared, and that meant more to
him even than the reward he had been promised. If only there was some way to
show his gratitude….
Suddenly, the
sound of voices reached his small ears, and the Raccoon perked up. The voices
were human, and they were coming from the trees deeper into the woods. Though
he wasn’t sure why, he decided to follow them.
In the woods
close to the Fenokee fairgrounds, Mitch Crathers and Lou Danielson were
stalking the puma. They had come across his trail on the narrow bridge of land
connect the mainland to the island where the cat dragged his kills. They
followed the tracks until they led here, close to the fairgrounds.
“What do you think
that cat’s doing here?” Mitch asked.
Lou shrugged.
“Dunno, Mitch. Could be he’s after some of the stock they have at the fair.
They’re already getting stuff ready. 4H started setting up stuff the other day,
‘an Jeb Crowley sent some of this pies over for the bake sale”.
“Not to mention
the Fenokee annual pie ‘eatn’ contest.” Laughed Mitch. “Remember the time-”
“Not now!” said
Lou. “We got to git us that varmint. Sos be quiet sos he don’t hear us comin’
“Right.” Mitch
amended, but then he said. “What about them nosey kids, and their snooper
hound?”
“Forget ‘em,” said
Lou. “They’re probably makin’ a fine meal for the gators right now!” He
chuckled evilly at the thought.
But Mitch wasn’t
convinced. “Ah think we should have snuffed ‘em, just to make sure”.
“Oh, shut up. Them
pesky brats won’t give us any more trouble. Even if they get away, we’ll be
long gone by then. With a quarter-million dollar panther hide!”
“What about the
sheriff?”
“Sheriff!”
snorted Lou. “Thet dumb sheriff couldn’t catch a flea on his ear. Now be
quiet—ah thinks I hear something!’
“The panther?”
Mitch had a note of fear in his voice.
“I don’t
know—shhh!’
Both men
listened intently into the pre-dawn darkness. They heard what sounded like a
low coughing some distance ahead. “I think it’s him.” Said Lou. They crept
through the thicket, rifles at the ready. They went ten more paces into the
brambles, but still they saw nothing. The noise did not sound again. Then they
came clearing.
“Look, Lou.” Said Mitch. “I don’t think the
cat’s here. Why would a panther come this close to the fairgrounds? He must
have doubled back.”
“He’s here, ah
tell you!”
“Yeah, right.”
said Mitch. He sat down on a log, and
lay down his rifle. “I don’t know ‘bout you, Lou, but ah need me a
drink.” Mitch undid the leather pouch around his waist, unstrapping his flask
of beer. He unscrewed the cap, and took one sip before Lou stormed over, and
angerly snatched his bottle away.
“You as plumb
crazy as a mad hog!” said Lou. “Drinkin’ booze when we’re trackn’ thet
animal?”
“Shucks, Lou, ah
was only—“
“Shet yer trap!
Fine time you picked to git liquered up!”
Neither of the
men noticed the small, clever hands that flipped open the cartridge of Mitch’s
air rifle, and took out the bullets.
“Hey, take a
gander et this!” Lou exclaimed. “The painter’s tracks. “Found ‘em again. Told
yah he was here!” They bent down over the panther’s trail. Mitch retrieved his
rifle and joined him. “Looks like yer right.” He agreed.
“’Course ah am!
Jest look at the size ‘o them prints! “An this paw’s damaged. He did come this
way!” As the men were examining the print’s, Lou’s rifle fell victim to the
same vandal.
“Well, where is he now?”
Lou frowned in confusion. “They look like
he’s going toward the fairgrounds again. What the hay!”
They got to their
feet and began following the tracks. “Keep quiet, Mitch”. Lou warned. “He’s
‘round here somewheres, you mark my words”.
“Same to you”.
Mitch grumbled under his breath.
They crept
stealthily forward through the trees, their every sense on the alert. Not more
than ten paces in front Lou and Mitch, Woundfoot and Slyface were approaching
fairgrounds. Lights were visible from the parking grounds on the other side of
the ampitheater. These were of the remaining people who were arranging a movie
shoot for Duchess the Wonder Dog. The lights were a long way off, but they made
Woundfoot and his companion nervous, since they indicated the presence of
humans. The rest of the fairgrounds were dark.
“I don’t think
that ‘lil ringtail ruffian’s here.” said Slyface. “Little hooligan probably
figured out where them pies were, and made off with them hisself!”
“I wouldn’t put
that past him, Slyface.” Woundfoot purred. “But he did lead the hounds from us,
just as promised. Whatever his motivations, he’s entitled to his reward”.
“But you already
saved his skin, my lord.” Answered Slyface. “Ah think we should just—“
“Silence!” Woundfoot
commanded suddenly. “We’re being hunted.” The cat suddenly became intensely
alert.
“Who’s hunting
us?”
“Men, you fool.”
Woundfoot hissed. “They must have been trailing us ever since we swam Mocassin
creek!” Slyface peered fearfully into the trees, and edged closer to his master
for protection.
“Where are they?”
the ‘possum asked.
“I don’t know,
but I heard them. They’re very close, somewhere through those trees”.
“What do we do,
lordship?”
“Just keep
moving. And don’t make a sound. Once we’re far enough away, make a run for it.”
But the poachers
were already peering at them from a screen of foliage, not more than ten feet
away.
“Glory, ain’t he a
beaut!” whispered Mitch Crathers as he stared through the brambles at the puma.
“Fetch a mighty
fine price, ‘e will”. Lou aimed his rifle at Woundfoot dead-center and squeezed
the trigger.
Nothing happened.
“This danged
rifle’s clean out of bullets!” Lou cursed under his breath. “What did you do
with ‘em, Mitch?”
“Me? It’s yer
gosh-danged rifle!” Mitch shot back. “Never mind. I’ll take car of ‘im.” He
aimed at the cat and fired.
No bullet exploded
from the gun. Instead there was a burst of reddish pink fluid that looked like
berry juice from the barrel. It exploded out with a pop and splattered back on
the two poachers, as the recoil from the sabatoged rifle threw Mitch Crathers
back into some thorny brambles. He got to his feet cursing loudly.
“Someone
sabatoged our rifles!” Mitch complained.
“Ah cen see
thet, ya idgit!” said Lou. “better not have been-“
Then peals of
shrill laughter alerted both men to the real culprit. There, perched on a tree
limb a short distance away, the Little Raccoon sat jeering at them.
“A ‘coon!” said
Mitch. “Rawt over there with the blue headband! He did it! He let that danged painter git away!”
“Glory, yer
right!” said Lou. “Musta sabotaged our rifles!”
“I’ll git’im!”
said Mitch, raising his rifle without thinking. He squeezed the trigger. Again,
there was a explosion of the pink berry juice, with which the Raccoon had
stuffed the empty cartridge of the air rifle. Chittering in mischievous mirth,
the Raccoon whirled and vanished with a wave of his tail, his debt to Woundfoot
paid in full.
From a short
distance away, Woundfoot and Slyface witnessed the commotion through the trees.
They heard the Little Raccoon’s laughter, and the shouts of the two men, and
knew at once who their deliverer had been.
“Why, thet
ringtailed scallywag saved us!” Slyface gaped in surprise. “Ah’d never thought
he’d had it in him!” He was careful to say “us” rather than “you”; Slyface knew
his master would never verbally admit that his life had been saved by a smidgy
raccoon.
But Woundfoot
said, “I must admit, he has more capacity for gratitude than I gave him credit
for.”
“What do we do
now?” Slyface asked.
“We leave.”
Answered the puma. “He may have his reward later. Come!”
Part 13
The Final
Confrontation
Sheriff Muletrain
and Deputy Goofer were in their swamp buggy, searching for the Boggs kids and
Buford. Already, they were venturing into the deepest part of the swamp. Goofer
stood on the prow, aiming his searchlight through the gloom. “Woooody! Cindy
Mae!” he hollered.
“They probly can’t
hear you, Goofer.” said Muletrain,”but keep searching. I’m certain those kids
went this way. They said the island they found those tracks on was right about
here someplace.”
“Hey sheriff!”
yelled Goofer. “Ah see something!”
“Where?”
“Over there, by
them cypresses.” He shone the brilliant beam in that direction.
Sheriff Muletrain
looked, and saw that, for this once at least, the deputy was right. A large net
hung suspended from one of the cypresses, and he could see struggling figures
within. He couldn’t make them out very clearly, but there seemed to be four of
them. There was an empty swamp buggy nearby, but it looked like one of the
rentals from the Fenokee Recreation Department.
“Think it’s them
kids, sheriff? Looks like they got two other fellas with’em”.
“I ain’t sure,
Goofer. Let’s take a closer look.”
“Rawt, Sheriff”.
As they neared
the net , they soon saw that the captives were four men. The Boggs kids were no
where in sight. These people didn’t even look like locals. Then the sheriff
recognized one of them. It was Mr. Martin, the agent of Duchess the Wonder Dog.
“Holy
crabapples!” exclaimed Goofer “Ain’t thet Mr. Martin, the showman?”
“I cen see thet,
Goofer. C’mon, ya lunkhead, let’s get ’em down”.
“We’re sure glad
you guys showed up.” said Mr. Martin, once he and the camera men had been
freed. “Some poachers snagged our boat, and captured us”.
“Poachers, eh?”
snorted the sheriff. “Just like ah figured”.
“Yeah,” said
Goofer “like Cindy Mae said—“
“Never mind that,
Goofer!” reprimended the sheriff, “Mr. Martin, mind telling us why yore back in
Fenokee in the first place, ‘an out here in this swamp?”
Mr. Martin told
the story of how they had flown Duchess back to Fenokee after her New York tour
was cancelled, and how they had agreed to follow the Boggs kids and Buford out
here in the swamp, hoping to get some shots for their new movie.
“Holy cow! So
Duchess is with Buford and the Boggs kids right now”?
“That’s what we
hope. We promised to keep an eye on her, but then those poachers nabbed us, and
we think they might have gotten those kids as well”.
“Then there’s no
time loose. Goofer, let’s go. Mr. Martin, you and the rest of you, come with
us”.
A few miles
distant, Woody, Cindy Mae, Buford, Duchess, and the Tarkins Brothers had landed
the swamp buggy, and were heading inland through Fenokee. They had seen the
direction the poachers had taken, and before long, had located the stolen
conservation buggy. Buford and Duchess, had no difficulty picking up the men’s
trail.
They continued to
follow the men’s tracks deep into the swamp, when at last they heard the men’s
voices.
“Everyone, down!”
said Cindy Mae. They all ducked behind a screen of thorny briars. And peered
out. The voices grew louder. Before long, the two poachers stepped into the
clearing beyond. Sure enough, it was Mitch Crathers, and Lou Danielson. They
had backtracked, and apparently had not been able to bag the panther, as they
had so recently boasted. Cindy Mae breathed a sigh of relief at this.
The two men came
to a halt in the clearing. “Well, what do we do now, Lou?”
“Right now we
wait for Mando to show up. I know he wants his payment, but we’ll have to tell
him we didn’t get the cat”.
It was just then
that they heard someone else coming through the woods in their direction. The
group crouching behind horn barrier almost drew a collective gasp as none other
than Jenna Crowley stepped out of the bushes.
“It’s Jenna!”
whispered Woody. “What does she want with those guys?”
“Just keep
watching Woody”, smiled Cindy Mae. “Ah think we’re all about to find out”.
The old swamp hag
paused in the middle of the clearing. “Well?” she asked. But her voice was
deep, sly, oily—and though the sinister secretive tone was not lost, the voice
was this time definitely that of a man—just as Cindy had expected. And they saw
that s/he was carrying a rifle too.
“Well, we didn’t
git ‘im Mando.” Lou explained. “We had the varmint in our sight, but someone
sabotaged our bullets.”
“What?” replied
Jenna/Mando “How? Never mind ---I’ve done my part, leading those nosey kids and
their hound away. They just had to get involved, just like you said they would.
But remember you promised me a third of the loot you get from that panther’s
hide, and I mean to collect! Here, take this rifle. Then meet me at Jenna
Crowley’s shed if the sheriff doesn’t catch you first! Then we can make our
escape. But next time, be sure you bring the cat’s hide with you.”
Mando took the
men’s rifles, and gave the poachers his. Mando had a strange accent that
sounded almost foreign. Lou Tarkins gazed at the man disguised as a hag sourly.
“We’ll git ‘im this time. Count on it.”
“Make certain!”
snapped Mando, before he turned and disappeared into the trees.
“Think we can pick
up that panther’s tracks?” said Mitch
“Shore we cen!
You heard the man! C’mon!” They turned back the way they had come.
The group behind
the briars remained in hushed silence for several minutes, before Cindy Mae
spoke.
“Gosh sakes!” You
know what this means?”
“Ah think so,
Cindy Mae.” Said Woody.
“We’ve got to find
thet panther before they do!”
“We’ll come with
you,” said Steve Tarkins.
“But what about
those poachers?” asked Bill
“Ah think maybe we
can lay a trap fer them scallywags”. Woody said.
“Right!” said
Cindy Mae. “ But first, we got a special job for Buford.”
“You do?” asked
Buford, puzzled.
“We’ll circle
around them guys”, explained Cindy Mae, “An see if we can’t find that panther’s
trail first. Think you cen do thet, Buford”.
“Uuuuh. Ah think
ah can.” mumbled the hound.
“Ooooh, sure ya
can, Buford.” Duchess nuzzled Buford’s jowl.
“Awwwwww.” said
Buford. But then his canine brain snapped full alert. Here it was, the moment
he had been anticipating and dreading. Following Woundfoot’s trail meant that
he might end up face to face with the puma once again. It wasn’t likely, he
reminded himself, but it was possible nonetheless. And with Duchess near him he
would have to be very brave—after all, both her life and his might actually
depend on it!
“Get goin’ Buford.”
Woody said. “Sniff ‘ol Woundfoot out”.
Buford began
sniffing. And as he had both hoped and feared, Duchess began sniffing too,
right along side. The others seemed to think that was right swell, having the
two of them onto the trail, but it did not relieve his initial worry any.
About a half-mile
distant Woundfoot and Slyface were heading back toward the center of Fenokee,
but neither one had guessed that the poachers were back onto their trail again.
“Where do we go
now, my lord?” Slyface asked.
“We keep going
until we reach the bayou”. his lord answered. “Then we follow the water’s edge
back to where we can reach the bridge to the island”.
Then they heard
the unmistakable sounds of men back in the woods. The two poachers had found
the cat’s tracks again, and figured where he was headed. But this time they
hurried onto his trail, and were a bit careless at first, snapping twigs and
branches as they came.
“It’s them men
with guns!” said Slyface. “They must have figured where we were!”
“Those fools are
back!” snarled Woundfoot. “Come on, let’s move it!’
They made in the
direction of the nearest bayou. They were headed toward a narrow triangle of
land at the tip of the forested peninsula they were on, flanked on either side
by wide banks.
As the trees
thinned out, the poachers got a glimpse of Woundfoot as he dashed across a
grassy clearing. “There ‘e is!” Lou hollered.
“Shoot ‘im!”
yelled Mitch.
Lou aimed in the
cat’s direction fired. It was along way off, and the shot wasn’t clear, but the
shot managed to graze the puma’s left shoulder. Woundfoot screamed.
“Got ‘im!”
The men crashed
in cat’s direction certain of an easy kill.
“Lawdship!”
cried Slyface, terrified of his master winding up marketable skin. “They got
you! Oh, they got you!”
Woundfoot only
hissed at him. Blood was streaming down his side, as ran, the ‘possum
scampering to keep up.
But hot onto his
trail in the other direction were Buford and Duchess, followed by the twins and
the Tarkins boys. Buford had struck the cat’s scent a while back. It was still
faint, but the scent was most definitely that the same cat which had accosted
him on the fallen tree. He could barely make out the scent of ‘possum as well. Woundfoot
was close by. His nose began flashing loudly. “This way.” he said to Duchess.
Duchess caught
onto Woundfoot’s scent as well. She began following it eagerly, right beside
Buford. Then one of Buford’s ears went up as he detected the sounds of men. He
turned his nose in their direction, and again his nose flashed with a new
scent. It was men, all right, and he could tell they were the two poachers.
They must be closing in on the cat. Buford threw up his muzzle and howled,
hoping to warn Mith and Lou.
In a nearby grove
of trees, Mitch and Lou stopped. “A bloodhound!” exclaimed Mitch. “Someone’s
onto us!”
“You fool! We
ain’t turning back now! We’re bagging that feline!”
“It could be them
kids ‘an their dog! Ah told you they’d escape!”
“So we’ll go a little slower. But thet
panther can’t go far now! Ah got ‘im good, ‘an I ain’t lettin’ ‘im go!”
Buford and
Duchess continued in the cat’s direction. At last, Buford happened onto the
puma’s fresh tracks. From the scent, he’d been through here not more then five
minutes earlier. And something else. Buford smelled fresh blood. The cat had
been wounded! At that meant he could be very dangerous. He realized that they
dared go no further.
Buford sat down
on the path next to tracks to wait for the others. “We’ll wait here.” he
mumbled to Duchess. “Too dangerous to follow ‘im”. Then with shock he realized
that Duchess was no longer beside him.
She was dashing
up the path, straight in Woundfoot’s direction. Upon smelling the puma’s tracks,
she had gotten excited, had rushed in a headlong chase. Buford looked after her
in horror. Did she think Woundfoot was just some overgown alley cat? It
occurred to him that Duchess had lived all her life as a city-bred hound
surrounded by showbiz people. She probably had never heard of a bobcat, let
alone a swamp panther! Maybe she had seen the lions and tigers at the circus,
but they were safely under control. Here in Fenokee swamp---
Buford wasted no further thoughts. In a lavander blurr he
dashed after his canine sweetheart. “Duchess! Wait! Come back!”
Buford galumphed
down the path in Duchess’ direction, calling to her. But she was already far
ahead of her. Buford increased his speed. Then, in the trees ahead, came the
drawn-out scream of a wounded panther! Followed by a yelping, fear-choked cry
from Duchess. The sounds combined to cause Buford’s heart to freeze in sudden
horror. He sped down the path and crashed out into a loamy bank looking out
over the bayou. The first rays of the new sun were already streaming through
the drifts of Spanish moss across the glimmering water.
And before him,
Buford saw Woundfoot, coat glistening blue-black in the dawn’s fresh light. The
puma had been wounded, plain enough, grazed by a bullet on his left shoulder,
from which fresh crimson streamed. The cat’s lips were drawn back snarling and
spitting with insane fury. Slyface was there too, a few feet away, cringing on
the sandbar. And straight in Woundfoot’s path was Duchess starring wide-eyed in
helpless terror at the cat, backed up against a tree. Starring into the cat’s
gaze, she was unable even to move.
Buford felt as
another of his dreams had sprung to vivid life—this time the one where he had
imagined himself as the World’s Strongest Dog, and had saved Duchess from a
hungry lion. Only now he wasn’t the World’s Strongest Dog, and there was no way
he could pull Woundfoot inside out like he had that lion in his dream. But he
had to do something, and fast.
Duchess whined in
terror, as Woundfoot crept upon her, the look of madness in his eyes. The cat
sprang for Duchess. In another moment, he would sink his fangs into her throat.
Buford wasn’t even
fully aware of what happened next. Like a flash of enraged purple lightening he
exploded into the cat, catching Woundfoot in midleap. Duchess gasped in fright, as Woundfoot was
knocked off balance and thrown back by the sheer force of the hound’s assault.
The puma landed stunned on his back on the sandbar, Buford standing over him,
snarling in fury.
Dazed, the puma
blinked in confusion. Then he registered who it was that had dared attack him.
Woundfoot was astonished. When he had found Buford before, terrorizing the
hopelessly outmatched little raccoon, he had thought him something of a coward.
Now he wasn’t so sure. Never before had anyone attacked him with such ferocity.
But the puma
recovered quickly. With a savage swipe, he threw the hound off. Buford yelped
in pain, as Woundfoot’s talons raked furrows down his flank. The cat regained
his feet, hissing savagely at the hound.
“You…you dare lay your paws on me!?!” Woundfoot screamed. “This time I’m going to tear you
limb from limb!” He charged Buford in fury, hissing and spitting with rage. But
this time Buford returned his attack, barking savagely, and rushing in to tear
at the cat’s hide. He was even more maddened than the wounded puma had been.The
sight of Duchess in peril had driven all concern for his own safety from him.
He only knew he had to defeat this cat who was threatening her.
The combatants
circled each other in a raging blurr of purple and black. Woundfoot slashed and
tore at Buford with his claws, and the hound returned the favor with his teeth,
fighting with a fury he had never known before, while Duchess watched the
battle in stunned awe.
As the sun rose
pink and golden over Fenokee swamp, the cries of herons and egrets signaled the
dawn of a new day. Sheriff Muletrain and Deputy Goofer, along with Mr. Martin
and the other showmen, following in their own buggy, had heard Buford howling
in the nearby cypresses.
“That’s Buford”,
the sheriff said. “Ah bet them kids is right over there. Ah think this could
mean trouble. Step on it, Goofer!”
“Right, sheriff.”
Goofer yanked the lever with such force that Muletrain was knocked clean over
on his back. “GOOOOOFER!!!!!” he yelled.
“Sorry, sheriff.
But ya told me to hurry.”
They were off
across the bayou at a furious pace. “Awright, awright, sos ah did!” grumbled
the sheriff. “make fer that land”.
Buford was
fighting more furiously than he ever had in his life. But Woundfoot outweighed
him by several pounds, and the cat was slowly winning. Duchess, though still
terrified of the puma, realized that Buford was fighting for her very life, and
that she had to do something and now! Growling in threat she rushed the puma’s
flank, and barreled into him, knocking him off balance.
Buford, though
weakened, renewed his attack, and slammed into the confused cat from the other
side. The puma, too, has weak from battle, and the two hounds were together
able to back him to the edge of the sandbar.
Buford and Duchess
snarled at him. Woundfoot snarled back, the pure light of hate shining from
those firey green orbs. Though cornered, he hissed at them shrilly “You think
you can defeat me? This swamp is my hunting grounds from this day
foreward! I take whatever I want, whenever I want it! Every stockade in Fenokee
will be my larder!! And no hound-dog will ever stop me! Do you hear?!!”
Buford heard, but
he wasn’t listening. He snarled over at Duchess, “Let’s finish him.”
He saw in Duchess
eyes that she was still somewhat intimidated by the cat’s words, but the look
in Buford’s eyes gave her the confidence to do what they did next. Both hounds
looked back at the cat. And for the first time, the light of uncertainty came
into those supremely arrogant eyes.
The threw
themselves into the cornered puma with all the strength they had, propelling
him back and into the bayou with a splash. The cat rose to the surface hissing
and spitting. Like most cats Woundfoot despised the water.
Through the trees
behind them came the shouts of Woody and Cindy Mae. “Buford!” they cried.
“Buford!” The hounds turned and ran weakly to them.
And then a
blinding white light shot through the trees in their direction. Woundfoot,
realizing the humans and hounds had him outnumbered, spat once more in protest,
then began swimming toward the far shore.
Right before
Sheriff Muletrain’s buggy came tearing through the trees!
Part 14
The
Last Knots are Tied
Goofer, pulling
the lever back as far as it would reach, made no effort to stop on the shore.
Sheriff Muletrain was shouting frantically for him to hurry, so he simply kept
on going until the buggy careened out of the water and into the woods. Goofer
then tried to halt the craft, but the buggy kept on crashing over shrubs and
saplings.
“Goooooofer!!!”
hollered the sheriff, holding on to his hat, barely able to contain himself,
before they came crashing to halt into the bole of large cypress tree. The
Tarkins, the Boggs kids and the two hounds threw them selves out of the way.
“It’s Goofer!”
yelled Woody.
“And the sheriif!”
yelled Cindy Mae.
Goofer had
managed to hold onto the lever when they had crashed. “Howdy, kids.” Said
Goofer, getting out of the swamp buggy. Mr. Martin and the two cameramen got
out of their own buggy, and came through the trees.
“Where’s the
sheriff?” Cindy Mae asked.
Goofer looked
around, but there seemed to be no sign of him. “Yoo-hoo!” Goofer called.
“Sheriff Muuuuletrain! Where in tarnation did you get to?”
“Up here, Goofer,
you pimple-brain!” said an angry voice from somewhere above them. They all
looked up. Goofer shone his searchlight up in the cypress. There was the
sheriif, his overweight body slung over one branch.
“Oops, sheriff.
Sorry ‘bout that”.
“Not as sorry as
you’e gonna be, if ya don’t git me down from here, Goofer! Yer gonna be pullin’
desk duty for a month!”
As usual, the
sheriff had spoken without thinking. “Don’t worry, sheriff,” said Goofer. “I’ll
git ya in no time rawt away.” He aimed his revolver at rotten place near the
base of the branch and fired.
Muletrain started
to protest, but it was too late. As the wood cracked, the sheriff fell into the
brambles below. “Gooooofer!!!!” he shouted again.
“But ya jest told
me to—“
“Never mind!” said
the sheriff, getting up, and dusting himself off. “What in tarnation is going
on here.”
“I’ll tell you
what, sheriff.” Said Cindy Mae. “Take a look there.”
They all did.
Pinned under a sapling, a few feet away, were the two poachers, Mitch Crathers
and Lou Danielson, trapped under a small tree, that the sheriff’s buggy had
uprooted when it had crashed. They were still wearing the conservation uniforms
they had stolen.
Those are the
poachers, been trying to catch the real Woundfoot, sheriff”. Cindy Mae
explained. “And these are the real
Tarkins brothers!” She introduced the two men who had been captured.
“That’s right,
sheriff.” Said Steve Tarkins. He explained as best he could what had happened.
“You cant’ prove
nuthin’ “ yelled Steve.
“Oh, yes we can,”
said Cindy Mae pertly. “Buford, take a look a sniff in their pockets.”
Buford did, red
nose flashing. Sure enough he scented the sharp odor of latex. The hound pulled
a rubber mask from Lou’ s pocket, and then did the same with Mitch. He brought
both to Cindy Mae, who showed them to the sheriff.
“Well, mah grits
and gravy.” Said Multrain. “So that’s how they fooled us”.
“Right.” Said
Cindy Mae. “After they kidnapped the real Tarkins brothers, they stole their
boat, and then their van. They already had a trained panther they’d sprayed
black to make him look like the real Woundfoot. They staged the raid on the
Jenkins farm, by prying the doors open. Then they used a dog whistle to get the
cat to steal into the shed and make off with one of Jenkins’ hogs. They’d tried
to do the same thing at Huffsteaders, but before they could get back to their
van and get the trained panther, the real
Woundfoot struck!”
“Golly!” said
Goofer. “Yah mean thar really is a
swamp panther runnin’ loose?”
Cindy Mae nodded.
“Uh-huh. It was him that was responsible for raiding the other Fenokee farms.
These poachers wanted to catch him and sell his hide, sos they just took
advantage of the situation. They impersonated the Tarkins brothers so they
could get the real panther, an bring him back to their camp in the swamp we
found. They was gonna skin him right there. They’ve got all kinds of poacher
stuff and aimal hides. Ah figure they’ve been at it fer along time!”
“An we would have
gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for you meddlesome brats!” snorted
Mitch.
“Aw, shet up!”
said Lou.
“But what about
old Jenna Crowley?” Woody asked. “How does she fit in with all this?”
There was the
sound of snapping branches as someone approached. “Ah believe we all’re gonna
find out, sheriff.”
All heads turned
in the direction of the sound, as Jenna Crowley stepped from the woods. “What’s
going on here?” Jenna demanded in a masculine voice. “I heard the commotion,
and headed—holy god!”
Jenna—or whoever he
truly was—turned to run. “Sic ‘im Buford!” said Woody.
Buford, though
weakened with his fight with the puma, dashed across the clearing, easily
overtaking the man in drag as he made a cluimsy effort to escape. With a single
pounce, Buford had him pinned to the ground. “Get off me, you crazy dog!” Jenna
yelled.
“Now—“ said Cindy
Mae. “Let’s see who ‘ol Jenna really
is!”
She reached down
and pulled off the rubber mask she knew was there. Every drew a collective
gasp. The face beneath the mask was that of a slickly handsome,
aristocratic-looking man. He had somewhat swarthy complextion, a small trimmed
mustash, and slicked-back, oily looking blue-black hair. He retained Jenna’s
piercing black eyes that had so mesmerized Buford.
The sheriff gave
him a good long look. “Ah know this rascal. This here’s Boris Mando, ‘an he’s
been wanted in four states for years.”
“Boris who?” asked
Woody.
“Mando. An ex-
professional magician.” explained the sheriff. “Claims he could really read
folks minds. But then he got into some real shady activities. Charging people
money saying he could change their futures.”
“Ah-hah!” said
Cindy Mae. “So Mando here musta been financing those two crooks for their
poaching operation. They was probably gonna pay him half the profit in return.
‘An he tried to distract u ine we got involved, by impersonating Jenna Crowley.
That explains the playing cards Buford found in her hut.”
“That’s correct.”
snapped Mando. “They wanted me to get you kids off their trail if you ever got
involved. And we nearly pulled it off too!”
“Well, Mando.”
said the sheriff “Ah got you a new place fer your tricks. Mah jail!” Buford
stepped off Mando, as the sheriff hauled him to his feet and snapped on the
handcuffs. “Same goes fer you two scallywags!” he told the poachers. Goofer and
Muletrain ushered the three crooks into their buggy, once they had managed to
push it off shore.
“Sheriff! There’s
one more thing ah think you should know!” said Woody.
“An what might
that be?”
“Duchess! Buford
saved Duchess, sheriff! He fought ‘ol Woundfoot hisself jest ‘afore you showed
up, ‘an plumb saved Duchess life”.
“Buford saved
Duchess life?” Mr. Martin asked. He and the camera men were standing nearby.
“He shore did,
Mr. Martin.”
“That so
Duchess?” Mr. Martin asked. Duchess nodded eagerly. He looked at Buford, and
with shock noticed the long red furrows marking his flank. “Well I’ll be---It
looks like we really owe dog of yours this time kids! Look at those scratches.
You better get our hero to a vet –and fast!”
Buford was
slumped on the ground still weak and dizzy with the effort of fighting. The
rage he had felt when defending Duchess from the cat had now all but vanished,
replaced by a lazy kind of inner peace. Duchess came over and kissed him.
“Mah hero,
Buford,” she whispered. “You really are my hero. More now than ever.’
“Awww, shucks, it
weren’t nuthin’” Buford said, very weakly, before his head sank back to the
loam. As badly as the cat had torn him, Buford couldn’t have been happier at
that moment.
Suddenly, his nose
flashed red. Buford blinked rapidly, and saw a smallish, furry object lying not
more than a few feet away. Curious, he got to his feet, wobbling slightly, and
shuffled toward the object. He saw then that it Slyface. During the heat of
battle, the ‘possum had fainted dead away. Only Buford knew ‘possums well
enough to know that Slyface was far from dead. He sniffed at the “corpse” and
growled slightly. But Slyface didn’t twitch.
Goofer looked over
his shoulder at them. “Well, whatcha got there, Buford.” He came over to take a
look. “If it isn’t some ornery ‘ol possum. Looks dead to me, sheriff. Ya know
‘possum ‘an sweet taters is mighty good eatin’. Did ah ever tll you ‘bout the
time when—‘
That was enough
for Slyface! He sprang to life at the sound of Goofer’s words, causing Buford
to yelp in astonishment, as the ‘possum raced for the shore. He dived in and
began paddling across the bayou in the direction his master had gone.
“Well I’ll be a
three-toed tree frog, sheriff.” said Goofer “Thet there ‘possum wasn’t dead,
after all.”
Buford slid off
his feet again, feeling like nothing but sleeping.
“Golly!” Woody
said. “We do gots to get him to the vet, Sis.”
“You can take our
buggy, kids.” said Mr. Martin. “Come with us.”
But then Buford
remembered something. The sheriff and Goofer were already getting in their
buggy, Mando and the poachers in tow.
He raced toward the buggy and threw his front paws onto
Mando, growled ominously.
“Get off me, you
cursed dog!” shouted Mando. But Buford’s eyes bore into his. Mando was supposed
to be a charlatan, but what did Multrain know? Buford wasn’t so sure. How could
he have known about him and the Raccoon, back at Jenna’s hut? The thought of
his first encounter with Woundfoot made the hound bristle with anger was he
starred into Mando’s eyes.
“You said I’d git
thet raccoon!” Buford growled.
Then a strange
light came into Mando’s eyes making them shine with black luster. “Well, so I
did.” He smiled. Mando gazed into Buford’s eyes with his glinting black ones.
“Ah, I see. You did get him, didn’t
you? Just like in your dreams.”
Buford gulped
suddenly, realizing that in his dreams he always captured the Raccoon, but he
woke before he could do him any harm.
“Of course I said
you’d get the raccoon.” said Mando with oily mirth. “I never said what would happen
after you got him!” Mando through
back his head and laughed in his darkily haunting voice. As the buggy sped away
over the bayou in the morning light, the dark laughter continued to ring n
Buford’s ears, long after he collapsed to the ground again, and his friends had
loaded him into Mr. Martin’s buggy.
The next night,
Woundfoot and Slyface had circled back, and were now approaching the east end
of the Fenokee fairgrounds. “Ya think he’ll be here, my lord?” the ‘possum
asked.
“I don’t know,
Slyface. Be careful, while we check the bakery. Then we’ll both be gone from
this place. You are certain there are no humans?”
“No, my lord. I
searched the entire perimeter. But I found no sign of the little head-banded
one either.”
When they examined
the bakery, they found that the shoo-fly pies for the local bake-sale had been
totally pilfered and gobbled up. The Little Raccoon, his debt repaid, had not
waited for them. He had located the pies himself, and had eaten was many as he
could hold. Then he had doubtless found a hollow stump or log somewhere, and
spent the day sleeping it off.
“There’s nothing
further to keep us in this swamp”. Woundfoot said, as they departed the
fairgrounds. “We must find fresh hunting grounds elsewhere.”
“But my lord—“
“There’s too many
humans here. That swamp was swarming with them. They know about us, and will
hunt us down. There are other communities we can steal from safely. And another
thing. The hound I fought with did so bravely. I could still have killed him,
if the humans hadn’t shown up, but he wants us gone from these parts, then I
believe he has earned that right. Come.”
That very night,
on the porch at Boggs landing, the kids, Buford, Duchess, the Tarkins brothers
had gathered, along with Mr. Martin, and some of his crew. Buford had just
spent a whole day at the Fenokee veterinary clinic getting a dozen stitches for
the gashes Woundfoot had put on him. It was an ordeal to say the least, but
Duchess had been there all the time telling him how brave he was. He knew it
could have been much worse.
“Ah tell you
again, we’re very much obliged to you kids.” said Steve Tarkins.
“We’ll still track
that panther down ‘an catch, if he’s still in Fenokee.”
“He isn’t.”
mumbled Buford.
“What’s thet,
Buford?” Cindy Mae asked.
“He said,” Woody
informed her. “That ‘ol Woundfoot ain’t comin’ back!”
And somehow Buford
knew he wasn’t. He knew the swamp panther had left Fenokee for good. Maybe it
was because the sheriff and Goofer had frightened him off, but deep down,
Buford knew the reason. He had fought so ferociously with the cat, that
Woundfoot had allowed a special truce to pass between them. In Woundfoot’s
mind, Fenokee swamp now rightfully belonged to Buford—a right the hound had
earned. But really, it now belonged to him and Duchess. At least, that was how
Buford wanted to think of it.
“Well, ah guess our business here is over.”
said Steve. “But keep in touch, ‘an let us know if he shows his face in this
swamp”.
The Tarkins
brothers got in their truck. “’Bye, kids! ‘An thinks again!”
“’Bye!” Woody and
Cindy Mae called.
“Well kids,” said
Mr. Martin. “We’re all very obliged to you too. And Buford especially”.
“Hey, where thet
crazy hound-dog get to anyway?” Cindy Mae aaked. They all looked around, but
Buford seemed to have vanished. Then a long mournful howl cut through the
night. No—it wasn’t really mournful. They all knew it was meant to be happy.
Then it was joined by another.
A full moon had
risen over the waving cypresses. Together,Woody Cindy Mae, and Mr. Martin
walked across the law to where they
could see a small knoll, not far from their pickup.
Buford and Duchess
were perched on it each taking their turn howling at the moon, their outlines
clearly visible.
“Ya have to
admit,’ said Cindy Mae, “They really are beautiful together. “’specially after
all Buford and Duchess have been through.”
“You shore got thet
right Sis.”
All of them stood
listening to the love-chorus of the two hound dogs, as it played through the
cypresses, over the moon-drenched bayous, and away into the night.
FIN