The Mystery of the Canebrake Read online

  “I’m gettin’ outta here,” I said.

  “Yeah, let’s get our lights, something just made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.”

  “You to?”

  “Oh, dang, hurry.”

  “What ’bout the fire?”

  “Heck, it won’t hurt none. It’s dead calm and we’ve cleaned out ’round it real good.”

  Then what happened next depends upon who tells it, because it scared the bejesus outta me, and I still can’t decide what on earth it was. First, I swear we heard a moaning somewhere out near the big, black walnut trees.

  “Richard, did you hear that?”

  “Yeah, but what…” Just at that very moment, something whooshed the fire and not a leaf on any of the trees moved. Then we heard the drum, but heck, it sounded closer and it just went, thump, thump, and quit.

  Wow, talk about being scared. Shoot, I think I stopped breathing for a few minutes. All that stuff had us scared slap dab to death. I looked around for Sniffer, and just as I did, that dog hightailed it outta there like nothing you’ve ever seen. It was like a brown flash as that dog headed for the house. That was all it took. Shoot, I wouldn’t have stayed on Indian Hill for a million dollars!

  “Let’s get outta here,” I yelled, and we started galloping it down the hill, but before we had gotten even halfway down, near a big blackberry thicket, something snorted and crashed through the woods. Dang, it might have been some old wild hog, but John Clayton told me later he’d swear it was a person.

  ’Course, we made it back to my house in record time, and we were yelling for Daddy when we ran into the back yard. Daddy, who’d been listening to the radio, walked out the door and we started telling him all the stuff that happened. Shoot, he started grinning like, “no way I’m gonna believe that,” and then Momma walked out in the back yard because she heard us yelling our story out to Daddy.

  “Oh, Momma, you’ll never believe in a million years what happened to me and John Clayton.”

  “Richard!”

  Dang, ’nother grammar lesson.

  “Uh, to John Clayton and I, but Momma it was really something…”

  Heck, Daddy, who’s always kidding us, had gotten behind us when we started telling Momma all the stuff that happened, and all of a sudden he let out the biggest war whoop you’ve ever heard. Let me tell you something right now; if it were possible to be scared to death, then me and John Clayton would be as dead as a sack of hammers. Shoot, we jumped 3 feet in the air and let out the loudest yell you’ve ever heard.

  Well, Momma and Daddy got the biggest laugh outta that, and, heck, they didn’t believe nothing we said, but we knew something was out there, maybe deep in the Swamp or maybe lurking on Indian Hill. Heck, I’ll tell you one thing for sure, you couldn’t get me or John Clayton back on Indian Hill after dark for nothing. We started for our back door, and Sniffer stuck his head out from under the house. Heck, that dog was still shaking, and he gave us a little whine.

  “Dang, cowardly dog!” I muttered, but then I thought how fast we had skedaddled down that hill, and I figured if Sniffer was a coward, so was we.

  ’Course, all we could talk about for the next few days was whatever that was up on Indian Hill.

  “Shoot, Richard, I think it was a ghost. A tom-tom beatin’ in the Swamp, and then all that stuff that happened while we were on the hill. Heck, it’s the ghost of some old Indian that’s been dead a thousand years, and I don’t think he likes us foolin’ ’round on Indian Hill.”

  “Well, maybe you’re right, but I’ve been thinking that the drum sounds could be coming from way down in the Swamp. Heck, we could hear our drum for almost a mile away. Do you think the drum beatin’ could have been comin’ from the canebrake?”

  “Naw, it’s too far… uh, my gosh, does that mean there’s two something’s out there? One down in Flat Creek Swamp and something else up on Indian Hill?”

  “I don’t know, John Clayton, but something’s real spooky on Indian Hill. Shoot, there was something there and I know it had to be like a ghost or spirit. What could’ve whoosed that fire, made that moan and caused the hair on my neck to stand up?”

  “I don’t have a clue, Richard, but there’s something else that worries me, it was them last two drum beats. Dang, it sounded a whole lot closer than when we first heard the drum.”

  “I know, I know. Do you think it—whatever it was—was comin’ after us?”

  “Oh my good Lord in heaven above!—Yeah!”

  Well, we talked about all that stuff for the next few days, and even though it had scared the wa-doodle outta us, we still wanted to slip back down in Flat Creek Swamp to check out the thicket. But heck, we wouldn’t be going down to Flat Creek Swamp for the next few days because I’d be in the back yard cracking black walnuts every afternoon after school for the rest of the week. I told John Clayton not to plan nothing until we got back from the picture show next Saturday.

  “Shoot, Richard, by the time we get outta the show, eat a hot dog at Woolworth’s and your daddy drives up back to Norphlet it is gonna be gettin’ late. What are you tryin’ to do, get down in that danged Swamp and have it get dark on us again?”

  “Naw, I ain’t, but it don’t get dark at four o’clock, and we can just head for the Swamp as soon as we get outta the car. Heck, we can be down at the canebrake by at least 5 and scout it out. You know Daddy told me our family had some Indian blood, and I know I can sneak up to that canebrake without makin’ a sound.”

  “Bull, and bull again, liar. You ain’t got no Indian blood, and I can sneak as good as you can. And ’nother thing, it’s gettin’ dark earlier and earlier every day, and if you think you can get down to the canebrake, check it out and be back here ’fore it gets dark your dumber than a fence post.”

  Well, I kinda figured John Clayton was at least a little bit right, but I really wanted to go down to the Swamp. Heck, it was really exciting exploring down in the Swamp even if we didn’t check out the canebrake.

  “Okay, you’re probably just to chicken anyway. Why don’t we go down to that ridge near the second beaver pond and get a sack full of hicker-nuts? Momma said she’d like to add some to her fudge.”

  “All right, but I ain’t hangin’ ’round if it starts gettin’ dark.”

  Daddy was right on time to pick us up from the picture show, and I figured we’d get back to Norphlet a little early. Shoot, we’d have plenty of time to check out the canebrake. However, I didn’t count on Daddy stopping at Alley’s Grocery and then when we finally left and headed for Norphlet, he pulled over at the Old Hickory Bar-be-Que and had a beer.

  We pulled into my yard at 4:15, and I looked at John Clayton.

  “Too late, Richard.”

  “Naw, it ain’t, not if we take off right now and run most of the way. Heck, we can be there in 15 minutes.” Well, I knew that was a fib, but, shoot, I couldn’t wait to get back in that Swamp, and I sure as heck wasn’t gonna pick up no hicker-nuts. Canebrake here we come.

  We left my house at a run and started down the road to Flat Creek Swamp with Sniffer trotting out in front of us. We made better time than I’d thought and after not finding any hicker-nuts, we were ready to head back to my house. ’Course, I’d been just slipping in little hints about going by the canebrake ever since we started down to the Swamp, and I knew John Clayton was sure enough interested.

  We were walking back when he said, “Say, Richard, let’s go by the canebrake. Heck, it ain’t gonna get dark while we’re down here in the Swamp today.”

  “You really want to go there? I’ve never been as scared as I was Thanksgiving night when that hairy hand, or paw, or whatever it was reached around that tree and brushed my face.”

  “Dang, Richard, we won’t go in the stupid canebrake. We’ll just scout it out real quick like you said. We’ll be Indian scouts. Maybe we can sneak up on the back side and see something.”

  We talked and talked about scouting out the canebrake, and I could tell John Clayton was just like
I was—dying to sneak in there and find out what was living there.

  Heck, I thought maybe we’d find the drum we heard when we were up on Indian Hill.

  I called Sniffer and we trudged down the little dim trail heading for home, passing through big tall pin-oak flats, and as we nearer the creek, we began to see the edges of the big canebrake.

  “Listen, John Clayton, the Indian scout idea sounds like it’d work. Let’s slip up on the back side of the canebrake and creep along to see if we can see anything. But remember, we gotta be totally silent. Not a sound, okay? I’ll hold Sniffer and keep him from going into the canebrake and howling.”

  “Yeah, but you’re forgetting one thing.”

  “What?”

  “If we go around to the back side and that thing comes out of the canebrake again, we’ll we trapped with the big bar pit behind us, and we’ll hafta jump in the bar pit again to get away.”

  “Oh my gosh, John Clayton, you don’t understand, do you? Indians slip up so silently that nobody knows they’re even ’round. Heck, we may find that thing sleeping and walk right up to it, and anyway it’s still daylight.”

  ’Course, most of that was just lying because it was getting dark, and I’d decided that by going the back side of the canebrake we could surprise whatever was in there. Well, John Clayton wasn’t totally convinced, but he agreed, and we started slipping through the woods, sometimes crawling along on all fours.

  “Shusss, come on, this way,” I whispered as I slipped along, pulling Sniffer close to me and holding his mouth so he couldn’t howl. Wow, we were just like a couple of Indians, as we silently crawled along the bank of the bar pit and peered into the canebrake.

  “Listen,” I whispered in John Clayton’s ear, “I hear something rustlin’.”

  “Yeah, come on, just a little farther and we can see what it is. Hold that stupid dog a little tighter. He’s gettin’ nervous.”

  Just a few more feet and we’d be looking into the center of the thicket.

  Then, crack! John Clayton stepped on a limb and the crack just echoed through the woods.

  Sniffer made a muffled howl, and we both looked at each other in panic.

  “Oh my gosh, you little idiot. You’ve done it now,” I whispered.

  There was more rustling and cane started snapping as something started moving through the cane.

  “Get outta here—run!” I said as I turned loose of Sniffer. Wow, that dog immediately howled at the top of his lungs.

  Hoooooooo! Hooooooooo!

  “Oh, my god in Heaven above, we’re goners!” I yelled.

  We struggled through the cane and cattails near the bar pit, frantically trying to get around the end of the big mass of cane.

  Until suddenly, right in front of us, a dark shape inside the canebrake moved to cut us off from escaping.

  Roaaaaaaaaa! Roaraaaaaaaaa!

  Two ear-splitting screams echoed through the woods as the thing in the canebrake moved directly toward us.

  Hooooooooooo! Hoooooooo! Sniffer bellowed as he turned around and nearly ran over us.

  “Richard, we can’t go this way! Turn back!”

  We broke and ran down the edge of the bar pit, with Sniffer right in front of us, until we faced a thicket of cane that we had to go into if we were to escape.

  “I’m not going in the canebrake with that thing roamin’ ’round in there!” hollered John Clayton.

  “Me neither!”

  Well, I guess we spoke too soon because something big and black grunted right behind us, and we darted into the cane like nothing you’ve ever seen.

  Wow, was that a dumb thing to do. Heck, when we got into the middle of the thicket, it was almost completely dark and with us crashing along and Sniffer howling, a blind man could have found us. And, sure enough, that something was just plowing through the cane like nothing you’ve ever heard. We had started to scream now, and with Sniffer howling like some crazy stupid dog and the thing coming up behind us, there was the durnest racket you ever did hear.

  Well, I had just about given up hope when I saw daylight ahead.

  “Look, daylight, we’re out! Come on—we made it!” I yelled. Then I pushed through the last bit of cane and, oh my god.

  “No, no, not the bar pit!” But it was, and with something moving like a runaway bull through the cane I yelled, turned, jumped in the bar pit and started swimming.

  John Clayton and Sniffer hit the water right behind me, and after another desperate freezing swim, we made it back to the road. As we ran to my house, naturally John Clayton was trying to blame me for another narrow escape.

  “Dang you, Richard, you almost got us killed again with that stupid Indian scout stuff. I’m wet, cold, and scared to death. And look at Sniffer. He’s shakin’ all over.”“Blame me? Blame me? Why you clumsy, big-footed moron. If you hadn’t stepped on that limb, we could’ve sneaked right up on whatever that was. Anyway, our family has some Indian blood, so I know I can slip better than you can.” We walked up the road toward my house while we argued about who was to blame, and then we decided not to even tell our folks about our latest encounter. Heck, they wouldn’t believe us anyway.

  I went to sleep that night still thinking about the canebrake and trying to figure out if there was any connection between all that stuff that happened up on Indian Hill and whatever was living in the Swamp. Heck, I was sound asleep before I knew it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Papers and School

  “Dang it, five o’clock and I’ve gotta go deliver some sorry papers,” I thought. I rolled outta bed, dressed, and started for the newsstand. Doc was puttering around in the back of the newsstand as I cut the strap holding the bundle of papers and began rolling them.

  “Hummm, this is gonna be quick today.” I looked at the small pile of thin papers, stuffed them in my bag, and draped it around my neck. Then I thought about how light the papers were.

  “Check the clock, Doc, I’m goin’ for the record!”

  Shoot, I was outta that newsstand in a flash. Heck, I ran the downhill part, finished the west side of town, and turned by First Baptist Church heading into the home stretch. I chunked paper at the Davis’s house—uh, well, not exactly at their house, but I’m pretty good paper thrower so it landed right where I threw it—in Mrs. Davis’s rose garden. That’ll teach Rosalie, I thought. I was just fixing to turn on the gas and head for the newsstand when a voice rang out: “Richard! Richard Mason! Come here! I want to have a little talk with you.”Whoa, hold your horses; it was Mr. Davis, who was standing on the edge of the rose garden looking at the paper. ’Course, I put on the brakes and slowly walked back to where he was standing. Dang, I had about two heart attacks before I got to his fence.

  “Uh, Mr. Davis, sir, I’m sure sorry the paper slipped and landed in the rose garden. Here, let me get it out for you.”

  “Richard, that paper didn’t slip. Hell, son, it’s been right in the middle of those roses every day for the past week. Now, what’s going on?”

  How do you tell someone you’re throwing his paper in the rose garden just because his daughter is mad at you? Well, in the entire history of the world, no boy has ever told the truth at a time like that, and I sure wasn’t gonna be the first one.

  “Uh, Mr. Davis, I sure don’t have any idea on earth how that keeps happenin’. Maybe it’s when I turn the corner I’m kinda runnin’ sideways, and I’m throwin’ right for your front porch, but I guess I don’t take into account the turn or the wind. Yeah, that must be it. Don’t worry, I’ll allow for the wind next time!”

  Mr. Davis cracked a very small smile. ’Course, he didn’t believe a word I said, and then he looked back toward his house, smiled again, and said, “Sure it doesn’t have something to do with Rosalie?”

  Have you ever had someone say something that just struck you dumb as a fence post? You know, you’re supposed to come back with some sort of a denial, but, heck, he’d hit the nail right on the head, and I started goin’, “Uh, uh,” as my face tu
rned red.

  Mr. Davis kinda chuckled because he sure knew he’d nailed me, and then he said, “Richard, Rosalie never reads the paper, and she never comes out in the yard to pick it up.”

  Now, I could feel little beads of sweat popping out on my forehead, and I was having a little trouble breathing.

  Finally, I got my breath back, and I blurted out, “Mr. Davis, I swear on a stack of Bibles a mile high, your paper will never, never, never—in my whole entire life, be in the rose garden again!”

  Mr. Davis walked over and patted me on the back.

  “Fine, Richard, I was sure if we had a little talk we could straighten out this matter, and, oh yes, I’ll tell Rosalie we’ve been talking about her.”

  Mr. Davis took his paper and walked back toward his house, and I stood there shocked again. Tell Rosalie we’ve been taking about her? Oh my gosh, what’ll she think? Why will, she think I’ve been talking to her daddy about her? Dang, now I had something else to worry about.

  ’Course, after that little talk, and the delay, I wasn’t even close to breaking the record that day.

  Later that morning, I walked onto the playground about 15 minutes before the bell, and sure enough, worthless Homer Ray came over to give me trouble. Shoot, he could only mouth off at me, so I wasn’t worried a bit.

  “Hello, Mr. Stupid, you skinny little rat.”

  “Go to hell, Homer Ray, you dumb pig!”

  “Don’t you tell me to go to hell, you punk.”

  “Hah, you’re all mouth Homer Ray. Go ahead and hit me.”

  “I ain’t gonna hit you, Richard. We made a deal that if you wouldn’t shoot me with that slingshot of yours, I wouldn’t hit you. Right?”

  “Yeah, so what?”

  “Well, that didn’t include nobody but me. Better watch your sorry ass, Richard. I’ve just got a feeling you are gonna have your sorry butt knocked every which a-way.”

  “You full of it, Homer Ray! Get your worthless hide outta my sight, or I might just rethink that deal I made with you!”